The Barn Coat

I have discovered that while we horse owners converse or write at length about our favorite ponies, our trailers, our tack, our show clothes, even our long-suffering spouses, we have blatently ignored that most important item each and every one of us owns...the item completely taken for granted that nonetheless completes every equine enthusiast's wardrobe: The Barn Coat.

It comes in a variety of weights and colors (depending upon local weather conditions, owner preferences, and whatever was cheapest, free or inherited from someone else), and it may or may not be the coat we actually ride in, but it is de rigeur apparel for stall cleaning, grooming, feeding and visits by the vet or farrier.

My theory that Barn Coats are - like dogs - genetically identical despite variations in their outward appearance evolved several years ago while I was visiting a friend after work. For whatever reason (or perhaps none at all) we decided to mosey out to her barn, so she loaned me HER Barn Coat. I put it on, automatically shoved my hands in the pockets (which were right where they needed to be, of course), and discovered that The Coat felt and smelled (!) exactly like mine. While I didn't take inventory, I'd bet a sizeable portion of my income that her Barn Coat Pockets contained, as we say in southwest Ohio, the "exact same" items as mine. In short, her coat felt just like home.

My current Barn Coat (see photo, taken somewhere in the last century, approximately 1995), belonged to my father, whose passing in 1990 elevated it to the status of holy relic. Mom gave it to him for Christmas around 1972, so by my reckoning it is at least 35 years old . It's a three-quarter length, fleece - lined Levi's denim model, still held together by its original stitching and whatever nameless goo has been ground into it over the years.

I wash it once a year whether it needs it or not (it usually does), but at its advanced age I view its annual bath with some trepidation; I'm never sure whether it's going to come out of the washer in one piece or dozens. In deference to its geriatric state I use the gentle cycle; this of course is no match for smears of hoof dressing, spots of betadyne, molecules of manure, horse hair, dog hair and particles of hay dust...a biochemical mixture which probably turns into a sort of glue when agitated in warm water. In fact, I suspect this is actually what preserves the aging cloth, and have considered peddling this formula - once I nail it down - to art conservators who deal with antique tapestries.

Whatever the reason, The Coat seems to be made of iron, and I think there is every likelihood it will outlast several washers. Not washes. Washers.

I have to wash it at home, of course. Any self-respecting laundromat manager seeing and smelling the thing would meet The Coat and me at the door and send us both packing.

The laundry soap commercials would impress me a lot more if, instead of demonstrating their soaps' effectiveness on mud-and-fruit-punch stained kids, they attempted to tackle Barn Coat stains.

However, as any horse owner knows, the Barn Coat is much more than a garment designed for warmth and protection from the elements. Because...it has pockets.

About ten years ago, before I got into the habit of giving it a yearly bath, I decided to take a formal inventory of my Barn Coat pockets (Ok, so it was one of those icy January days in which I had entirely too much free time on my hands). The items I discovered and listed filled an entire notebook page - both sides. I was amazed at how much easier my walk to the barn became after I had divested my Coat of apporximately 20 pounds of "stuff" though in subsequent weeks about 15 pounds of "really necessary stuff" found its way back into the pockets.

As I viewed the list and the pile, I began to truly appreciate the many functions of the miraculous Barn Coat:

It is a portable tool box (wire cutters, two screwdrivers, and a pocket knife; a pantry (if you crave last year's candy canes, six month old chewing gum, or a worn-around-the-edges Milk Bone); a linen closet (assorted rags); a first aid kit (two Band-Aids, one used and a wrinkled tube of eye ointment), a bank, and an occasional cat bed. And oh yes, a repository for Lost Items (my best suture scissors). If the truth be told, the Holy Grail is probably in somebody's Barn Coat (Barn Cloak?), somewhere.

I found surgical instruments that had disappeared years previously. Rolls of Vet Wrap mashed to the density of granite (and speaking of granite, several "neat rocks" picked up on the path to the barn). Fencing material sufficient to repair a five acre pasture. A "chestnut" (for you non-equestrians, this is a part of horse anatomy of callous-like consistency located on a horse's legs) peeled off my gelding's leg and stashed away to keep the dog from eating it now and upchucking it later in the living room in front of New Years' Eve party guests. Enough Kleenex (only slightly dirty) to mop up a classroom of first graders during cold and flu season (and hey, is that lint -covered thing a cough drop?). Gently cushioning it all, having worked its way past $18.73 in loose change - presumably to pay for a parking space at the barn? - to the very bottom of each pocket, was approximately half a bale of prime mixed alfalfa-orchard grass hay. And - wait for it - a hoof pick.

On any given day, my personal Barn Coat will also contain a broken dog leash and a half-full tube of horse wormer. My friend Yolonda added that hers was not complete without a "gross, slimy" tube of Chapstick, and also noted that matching buttons - or even a complete set of buttons - were NOT a a requirement for a good Barn Coat. After all, you can always hold the thing together with baling twine - which of course is in one of these pockets, somewhere...

Despite its frayed sleeves and a permanent crust of what I fervently hope is just dirt, but from which several useful vaccines and a cure for the common cold just might be developed, my Barn Coat looks to be around a while longer. Amazingly, the coat has not yet exhibited even that first symptom of Terminal Barn Coat Disease: ever-widening holes in the pockets that allow their contents to hemorrhage into that hinterland between the lining and the outer shell, never to see the light of day again.

I had occasion several years ago to treat a young relative of our pastor's to a midwinter horseback ride. Of course, in my concern that everything was safe and comfortable, I forgot to change from my Barn Coat to my Official Riding Coat (which might one day become a Barn Coat in its turn, although right now it is still much too clean). The pastor took one look at my Coat and offered to perform an exorcism on the spot (I declined, cackling evilly with my head spinning on its axis...).

Remember that scene in an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, where Bugs spots a Scottish Elmer Fudd playing the bagpipes? Mistaking the bagpipes for an attacking monster, Bugs tries to wrestle the instrument to the ground. If my Barn Coat should ever make a noise, I think that will be all the excuse my dogs need to do the same thing in my defense. And it won't be pretty.

Regardless of the shock value of its appearance, I think I'll keep my old friend going a while longer. However, as time goes by I can't help but give some thought to what actions would be appropriate when my Barn Coat has outlived its usefulness. I am wavering between cremation and a decent burial, but I'm not kidding myself; there's every possibility, at this rate, that my Barn Coat will outlive me.


I recently settled onto the living room couch to watch (for the umpteeth time) the finale of the Lord of the Rings movies. I sincerely believe that if Frodo had concealed the One Ring in the pocket of a Barn Coat, the story could have been told in three chapters, instead of three volumes. Of course, the Fellowship would probably have been trailed anyway by the horses of the Dark Riders, irresistably drawn to the scent of hay, peppermints and old cookies also residing in the pockets!

I'm thinking I should notify the Levi Strauss company. I'm available for endoresments, and so is the Coat, but it insists on signing its own contract.