Friday My Town Shoot Out - Places of Worship

Today's Shoot Out topic is brought to us by Rebecca of Ambler Pennsylvania. She says:

This week I picked places of worship because I was thinking that so many churches & synagogues (etc.), have such interesting architecture and symbolism both indoors and out. In addition, there is often much history surrounding the older buildings used for worship as well, adding to the interest.

Western Kentucky is known around these parts as the very buckle of the Bible Belt. I could fill up blog posts for the next year and still not come close to including all the churches. I've chosen to show you some of the ones in my immediate neighborhood.

The flood wall features a mural with Paducah's historic places of worship. The beautiful Jewish temple - seen with the golden minarets - burned before we moved here, but it was right downtown.

you might have to click on the photo to enlarge - use your back button to return

This is the Presbyterian Church three blocks away. The congregation has been so welcoming to the artists who have relocated to their neighborhood. It is a beautiful church.

The Methodists are also just three blocks from our house. There's an indoor swimming pool in this church! They're very generous about letting the neighborhood use their meeting rooms to gather.

This is Grace Episcopal -five blocks from our house. The Stars of David fascinate me. During the Civil War, her courtyard was used as an infirmary. They allow us to hold our rehearsals of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues there. Every year the performance raises money for the domestic violence shelter, and it raises awareness. Grace Church lives up to her name.

This is the Catholic church, St. Francis de Salles. It is six blocks from my little computer room. Ironically, Bill took care of the brothers from a St. Francis de Salles monastery back in Maryland, in his old practice. I miss Brother John.

St. Francis de Salles

The churches are, for the most part, segregated here. Not by law any more, thank God, but sadly by choice. I find it sad, anyway. This is a Baptist Church four blocks in the other direction from our house.

This is another Baptist church. I don't know if it is for white Baptists or black Baptists. It's the furthest, about eighteen blocks away. But it's right across Broadway from the hospital where I'll be working. (Yipppeeeeeeee!)

This is a spiritual place for so many people. The cars in this photo each contain one man. And there are always cars backed away from the river, occupants staring at the water. Always. I have written about these lonely men.

Bill's place of worship is his studio.

Mine used to be here. These were the fields behind our farm. I walked with the dogs, whistling to the red tail hawks and being thrilled when I got good enough that they would call back. (I always hoped I wasn't saying something rude in hawk-talk, and I'd laugh at myself.) I walked the dogs all at once, three times a day. Only twice a day in winter when it was dark after work. I rode the horses here with the kids before there were whippets. When there were Opie the lab, and Measley the very mixed. Sara and I found the Magical Lands.

There my soul found its breath and its reason. There was where I knew God was listening, and more importantly where I could hear.

Here I find my breath in the smiles of the people on the sidewalks. In the fact that at Kirchhoff's bakery, they work at perfecting Bill's favorite Ciabatta, and give me a loaf for free because they're excited that Bill will love it, and because they felt bad that they had none the last two times Bill came in. In knowing every person in the audience at the 7 o'clock Sunday movie at the independent movie theater.

In caring about my neighbors, because in reality they are dear friends.

It's a great town.

hug your hounds

Service Above Self

I was asked in a last-minute-we-can't-get-anyone-else-the-guy-who-was-supposed-to-come-welched-on-us kind of way to join two perfectly wonderful and qualified speakers who were doing a presentation about Social Networking to the Rotary Club of Paducah.

half of the tables before things got started

When I arrived, I thought, my, my this is a big room with a lot of seating! I had imagined the Rotarians were a small group of (mostly boring, self serving NO I DID NOT SAY THAT) business people. Three of us were to speak.

Mary Thorsby IS social networking in Paducah. She started iListPaducah dot com, for which I write the iPet of the Week feature. She is a dynamo and a treasure and a precious gem, and all of us in this region -most of all the charities - have benefited from her creative spirit and energy and ask me how I really feel!!! Mary spoke first.

Laura Thornton is Laura K of Laura K Style. She's only a model, a PR guru, a marketing genius, and a graphic designer all in one. She was the second speaker.

And then there was ... me.

I looked out the windows at the same river where the dogs and I walk every morning. It calmed me some. Some.

Mary and Laura had prepared wonderful talks about how to use Twitter, Facebook, Blogs, LinkedIn and a bunch of other stuff I'd never heard of.

I walked to the podium and held up my digital camera and said, "SMILE! ...Y'all are going to be on my blog tomorrow!"

and they did! Only I couldn't fit everyone in one shot.

And then I said, "I'm here as proof that if I can do this stuff, anyone can do this stuff. I have a little blog, and I have found great friends on Facebook, but I don't get Twitter. I keep telling folks for heaven's sake don't follow me on Twitter, because I have no Earthly idea where I'm going, and there you go I have five new followers."

I certain I didn't teach those Rotarians much of anything. But I sure did learn. I really thought the Rotary Club was about people pushing their businesses. Kind of like the recorded messages about consolidating your debt phone calls you get at dinner time. HA! This was absolutely wrong, wrong, wrong! Their motto is Service Above Self. I looked around the room and saw the friendly faces of the people I most respect in Paducah. They recited:

The 4-Way Test

Of the things we think, say, or do...

1. Is it the TRUTH?
2. Is it FAIR to all concerned?
3. Will it build GOODWILL and BETTER FRIENDSHIPS?
4. Will it be BENEFICIAL to all concerned?

Huh? That doesn't sound like a bunch of self serving business sharks! (Not that I have anything against Sharks, Janet Reid, Literary Agent. I loved being your chum*.) That sounds like my very own personal mantra. How did they... ? This sounds like something Little Miss Goody Two Shoes could dig right into.

As I listened to the meeting progress, and to new members being sworn in, I was more and more impressed with the whole philosophy behind the Rotary Clubs. Today I've searched around the web and I'm even more delighted with what I found.

L to R: Laura Thorton, Rotary President L V McGinty, Mary Thorsby and Goody Two Shoes

So. What do you know? Life is good!

hug your hounds and your Rotarians

*query #112, if you were curious

I Read A Book, a very *good* book

(Non Dog Related)

I'm stepping out of my dog writer shoes for a moment and sliding on my fluffy book reader slippers. I must share this with you.

"This" is a novel that I just finished reading. I've been reading a lot of 'first' novels and classic novels. The book before last was To Kill A Mockingbird, which was both. I've heard everywhere and back again that writers should read good writing. I read the 'first' novels to give me hope.

I got a recommendation for a book on Barry's most excellent blog, An Explorer's View of Life. Seems the author was one of his blog friends/followers. I checked out her blog, and I loved her voice. So I followed the links and ordered her book.

My copy of Tender Graces, by Kathryn Magendie, arrived in the mail. It is published by BelleBooks, Inc., which I assume is a smallish press out of Smyrna, Georgia. I had to finish two library books which were due back. I made the mistake of reading the first chapter of Tender Graces. Library books, shmibrary books. I was hooked.

I raced through Tender Graces, not the way you would gulp down a big juicy hamburger after a couple days without food. More the way you would attend to a fresh-steamed Maine lobster, wanting to savor every bite while the butter was still hot and the shell burned your fingers a little. Everything else could wait.

That I had only recently re-read To Kill A Mockingbird is one of those inexplicable Gifts of the Universe. That book, (okay, along with Gregory Peck), holds a very dear place in my heart. Harper Lee is one of the best writers in my world. And I read Tender Graces thinking, Wow. She's that good a writer. This book is To Kill a Mockingbird good. And I was right.

Now I have to wait until the next in the series comes out. The rest of you can use the links and get your own copies. Don't bother with the blurbs - they don't do the storytelling justice. Here's a blurb: It's the story of a girl and a mountain and whispers in the wind. Of riding fast on an imaginary horse and parents who drink and make hornets buzz in a little girl's head. It's about kindness and flaws and doing better. Hot Louisiana summers and brothers who are gone and there and gone. It is simply a great read, beautifully written.

Enjoy!!

A Bump In The Road (fiction)

Here's the short story. All of it. I couldn't bring myself to split it up, so you can read it in parts or move on to your next blog and I'll totally understand.





It was an accident, she thought. No. It was less than that. Random. Don’t stars collide everyday? No great master plan. Just by chance.

She was completely, utterly lost. She had gone exploring the back roads that surrounded this new town. It was a very old town, but it was new to her. How odd to find herself well past fifty, barely able to get to a Krogers without losing her way. Where she lived before, she had been since birth, and she knew the shortcuts to everywhere and back. Here, in this strange river town, roads struck out willy-nilly like broken bicycle spokes: no north, south, east, west. On a whim they took off in big circles, or worse.

I should have bought a map. According to the sun she was now driving north, and, she guessed, a little west. And then the road changed its mind and just like that she was heading southeast. It was late afternoon and she began to cry.

Then the road turned rudely, with no warning. Caught her right as she was wiping the blurring tears from her left eye with her left shoulder, all hunched over. She had to yank the wheel to the right.

She hit a horse.

Now, that’s not something anyone puts in their ‘to do’ list. What was I supposed to do today? Oh, yes. Take part in a little vehicular equinocide. Only the horse wasn't dead. Heather didn't even know what she had hit at first. She leaned back. That was a successful move as it stopped the horn from honking. Her head hurt, oh and her knees. Well, for the love of God she hadn’t fastened her seatbelt. She always fastened her seatbelt. She glanced in her rearview mirror. Her forehead was bleeding.

Her brain told her that she was seeing something beyond the rearview mirror, off to her right. Clearly her brain was playing a not so funny joke. She had left her horses back home. She had sold the young ones, placed the old retirees with generous people who thought they understood. She missed her horses with every breath. She missed them the way you’d miss a dead best friend. The way you’d miss church. She focused her eyes through the cracked, kaleidoscoped windshield. Apparently her brain wasn't lying.

She had hit a horse.

Heather stumbled out of the car. This everyday act caused her knees to demonstrate their dissent: they crumpled. That hurt. Behind the hissing of the engine and the creaking of various cooling metal parts, Heather heard her own pulse in her ears and the sonorous nasal blowing of horse breath. She got up.

Oh no. Oh my dear Lord. No.

It was a little chestnut. Fifteen hands, maybe. No more than fifteen-two. He looks like a thoroughbred. Can’t be. Not out here. The only horses Heather had seen in the counties surrounding her new town were Saddlebreds, Quarter Horses, Walkers, a few Arabians. Not that she’d been looking on purpose.

“Whoa, bud,” she said, low and soft. Damn. The horse was standing in the grass next to the road. A huge vee-shaped flap of skin and meat hung from his shoulder. The whole animal was shivering, and he was blowing like he'd run a race. But his eye was kind; he looked right at her. He had fine, tiny ears, laced with distended veins. Hot blood.

Heather took a few steps closer, steadying her undependable knees by leaning on the car. The scent of the horse hit her like a whip. In that smell was her son’s old pony, young still, with ten year old Charlie waving and smiling at her. Holding his little trophy over his head. We won, Mom! We won! In that smell was a deeply bedded stall, sweet oat straw, and a mare’s quiet whunkering to her half-born foal. Heather, magnified by a down parka, huddled there in the corner. Keep pushing, Scarlet. You’re almost done now. Good girl. In that smell were the last three jumps at the Olympic Trials. A young Heather gunning her brave Rupert toward a huge oxer, down over the drop, and then galloping hell bent for leather to the final jump, a simple post and rail, collecting him now, up over the last, and then draped around his lathered neck, hugging him from above. Good man, Rupe! We did it!

She touched the chestnut’s wet neck. It was a bad sweat. Cold. He was going into shock. “Easy, hey, we've got to stop that bleeding, bud.” Heather ran her hand down the horse’s forelock, down his face, gently grabbed his lip and checked the color of his gums. He didn't take his eye from hers. His gums were pale. His upper lip was tattooed on its inner surface. This was a thoroughbred. A racehorse. Well, now both of them were in shock.

Heather’s head pounded. Why did the back of her head hurt so much when the cut was on the front? She remembered something about a past concussion - you ride a lot of horses, you fall off sometimes - the brain would get bruised from bouncing against the back of the skull. Whatever. She went to the rear door of the car and got her old afghan lap blanket from the back seat. Her mother-in-law had crocheted the thing ages ago. Heather had thought it was ugly until this very moment. Her knees were still numb, which she found curious, but they were wholly unreliable, so she steadied herself by gripping the car. She hoped the horse’s injury was numb, too.

“This might hurt, bud.” He was swaying a little bit. He had widened his stance, like a foal trying to stay upright. Heather wrapped the afghan over his withers, around the front of his chest. She brought one corner in front of his leg, the other corner behind, where a girth would go. She tied those corners to the top two, pushing the huge flap of meat closed. The horse trembled more violently. And bled.

I need more direct pressure. She took off her shirt, surprised by the amount of her own blood on it, and balled it up. She wedged it under the afghan, directly over the wound. The bleeding slowed. Heather smiled and stroked the horse’s neck. I need to get help.

She reached in through the passenger window and got her cell phone out of her purse, which rested, unopened, upside down on the floor. 911. Nothing. Heather looked at the phone. Her own hands were shaking. Duh, push the little green send button. Nothing. No bars. She turned the phone off and back on. No service.

Heather looked at the horse. He was swaying badly, fighting to stay on his feet, his eye still fixed on her face. It unnerved her, as much as anything in this whole slow-motion otherworldly scenario did. Horses normally looked off, seeing the unseen, or they looked inward, sheathing their disappointment in humans the way God would. But this horse never for a moment took his eye off her. Heather expected to see blame in that stare. Instead, she saw trust. Charity. A wave of nausea brought her back to her senses. I've got to get help.

On both sides of the road were woods. She couldn't see around the sharp turn that had caused this mess. Ahead, she could only see as far as the next snaky bend and rise and it was just woods. The sun had dipped behind the trees when she wasn't paying attention. Think! Had she passed a farm? A house? Where the hell was she?

The horse went down.

Back when Charlie was seven, his pony had gotten a foot stuck in the fence while Heather and Charlie were at church. They had come up the drive trying to understand the scene before them. Grampa, who never had anything to do with the horses was holding the pony’s head. Charlie’s dad, who loved the horses but never handled them, was being whipped around like a kite, as he tried to put pressure on the pony’s lacerated hind leg. Blood shooting a full ten feet from the severed artery. The pony trying to kick free of the pain and of Sam’s attempt at a tourniquet. The vet had arrived a minute behind Heather and Charlie. They got the pony into a stall right before he went down. The vet started two IV lines and bear-hugged the bags to get the fluids in faster. “A horse won’t go down until he’s given up,” said the good vet. “Going down means he’s ready to be something's dinner. Ready for the wolves.” Heather remembered her profound relief and Charlie’s happy tears when, after the leg was bandaged and four liters of IV fluids had infused, the pony stood up and nuzzled Charlie’s pocket for a carrot. Their church clothes were ruined.

Only in the movies do horses whinny in the face of danger or pain. In real life, they whinny for their dinner, or in greeting, or to call to a friend. They are prey animals; when threatened it’s a better plan to be dead silent. No need to attract the predators.

The horse made a sickening thud when he went down. His legs just buckled. He landed like a foal, lying on his chest with his legs folded under him. His head up, still looking at her. Don’t you die on me, horse. Oh, God help me! She had stopped asking for help from God or any of His assistants years ago. He hadn't had time to help when Charlie had needed it in some godforsaken village in Afghanistan. God had been too busy when Sam’s heart exploded, not a month after they buried their only son. She had begged Him to let her go on with her life. Widows went on all the time. Sonless mothers went on. But she had seen Charlie and Sam in every corner of their farm. In every horse’s expression. Anytime she heard a tire crunching up the driveway she knew it was them. God ignored her, so she left. She left the horses, the farm, the graves, the friends. She tried to leave the memories. She succeeded in leaving herself.

Heather remembered that she had a bottle of water in the car. A liter. She had only taken a few swallows when she started out. It felt like it was a long time ago. She got the water. Her knees were no longer numb. Walking without supporting herself on the car was not an option. The fronts of both knees were split wide open, so crawling was completely out of the question. Heather sat on her butt and scooted backwards to the horse’s head, the water bottle jiggling in her lap. She unscrewed the cap, propped the horse’s head up and tipped the water into the corner of his mouth, where a bit would go if he were bridled. He swallowed, big horse swallows until the bottle was empty.

It was all she could do.

Heather was exhausted. Maybe she was ready for the wolves. The horse’s wound had started a fresh trickle. The makeshift bandage had shifted when he went down. I’ll lean against it. She scooted back until she could rest against the horse, one shoulder blade leaning on the wound. Her head hurt. The horse curled his neck around so that he could keep that eye on her. It looked like God watching her, soft. And then the horse’s eye closed. Or her eyes closed. But it was dark and she was distant and it was quiet and nothing hurt.

“Jay-sus Gawd in heaven! Hang on, lady, I’ll be right back. You useless sonofabitch bad luck bastard, now look what you've done. Jay-sus Gawd.”

Heather heard a truck door slam and tires spin and then the sound went away. She was thirsty and she hurt. The horse. She cracked one swollen eye open and looked directly into his. He was still curled around her; neither of them had moved a fraction. The morning light hurt her head. She drifted off.

“Lady, I gotta move you. Can I get you over to this blanket?”

Heather shaded her eyes. She couldn't focus. She tried to speak. It didn't work very well.

“I called an ambulance, but I gotta move you so I can shoot this goddam sonofabitch. Son of a bitch!”

“No.” She got that out.

“Lady, it wasn't my fault he jumped the goddam fence again. Jay-sus, I’m sorry. Son of a bitch hasn't been nothing but trouble. I got insurance. Where is that goddam ambulance? I gotta move you out of the way.”

“No.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll wait til the ambulance gets here. But if that goddam sonofabitch tries to get up he’ll hurt you worse than you already are. No. I gotta shoot him now.”

“No!” Heather struggled to make sense. She couldn't move her legs at all, but she managed to get her eyes open. The horse looked from her with his eye soft, his ears pricked, to this man. His eye went wild, his ears flattened back.

“You won’t shoot this horse.”

“The hell I won’t.”

Heather felt a big fight come up from deep in her belly. It came from where her son had kicked and somersaulted inside her before his birth. It came from the place that had grabbed her when she first met Sam.

“If you shoot this horse, I’ll sue you for every penny you have. You know damn well if your horse is in a road, you’re liable. I can afford good lawyers. But. If you give me this horse, we’ll be even.” She could hear sirens in the distance.

“Lady you hit your head hard, I …”

Heather cut him off. “Be quiet.”

The ambulance, the sheriff, and other assorted wailing vehicles arrived. Heather said, “I want to talk to the sheriff.”

A sleepy-eyed, crisply uniformed man identified himself as the sheriff and kneeled beside her. She smelled coffee on his breath.

“Can you take a statement? Can you get these witnesses to sign it?”

“Ma’am, let the paramedics tend you now. You can deal …”

“Please! For the love of God, please,” Heather interrupted.

“My credit card is in my purse. I want you to call the best horse vet you know. I want you to save this horse. I’ll assume complete financial responsibility. I want you to write down that I said if that man over there harms this horse I will sue him for everything a high-priced attorney can think up, and there should be plenty. But I’ll take this horse as payment in full. As a settlement or whatever and I won’t sue him. Have you got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you know a good vet?”

“Doc Eugene is as good as they come. Not fancy, now, like some, but he’s got common sense and a good heart, ma’am.”

Heather felt herself melting. Sweet warm relief. She touched the horse’s neck with the back of her hand. “It’s going to be all right, bud. Thank you. God, thank you.”



(C) Patience C. Renzulli, all rights reserved



hug your horses and your hounds (and thank you for reading)

The Cancer Dance

My sister Martha is in the hospital again. She was diagnosed with stage 4 ovarian cancer on March 24. That she is still fighting, (with all her strength, I might add), is proof of her superhuman courage.

She inspires me. Ha. That's an understatement from the Hyperbole Queen.

Last night I was able to make her laugh and laugh during our daily phone call. I told her about my adventures playing kickball (for the first time - why yes, I'm 55, why do you ask?) yesterday at the Summer Festival. I took Bill's dad's old cane to the game and limped up to the plate with it.

Martha hasn't been home since March 24. She has gone back and forth between the hospital and the extended care facility. Her superfriends have literally gutted her house: new paint, new carpet, new furniture. Martha has gotten to see it on a day trip, but that's all. I encouraged her to remind all of her medical team that she wants to go home. She'll get re-admitted; that's a given. Where's the harm in letting her go home for a little bit?

Anyway, one of my favorite blogfriends is battling his own cancer, and one of his commenters posted the following video. I just had to share this dance!

manda 8 @ Yahoo! Video

I know I haven't been too clever and funny lately. My readership is shrinking like a slug in salt. I'll have funny stuff to write about again.

Extra thanks to those of you who are hanging in there with me.

hug your hounds, and think some good thoughts about letting Martha spend a couple of days or a week in her own home

Not Dog Related, just eloquent

Just for a smile.

now hug your hounds with your heart (I did)

If you haven't seen this...

you might want to.




Pour a cup of coffee or tea, get comfy, and

hug your hounds

When the Olympics were...

fun.





I think "she's" taken up swimming this year!


hug your steroid-free hounds

Keeneland Photos

(Someday I will go back to writing dog stories.)




First, thank you to dear reader Gail D. for sending me these photos she took at Keeneland when she was there last autumn.



This is the infield, which was brilliant spring Bluegrass green last week




And this is the paddock, where Jeannie and I got to play big shots, while Jake and the other trainers saddled the horses. Thank you again, Gail; it's fun to show these.




Looky what Jake emailed me last night.



This is after the 16th pole when the big dark bay horse had caught up with him, and Xela (pronounced "Zella," by the way) was taking off again.






This is the official win photo, showing the finish line on top, and the Winner's Circle underneath.



Closer of the Winners Circle. (And you can click to enlarge; use your back button to return.)
L to R - One of Jake's other owners, the Friendly Tour Bus Driver, Jeannie, Jake's kind mentor (in the hat and shades), smilin' mom, Jake's awesome groom, Xela, rider John McKee, Jake.





And finally, a close up of the official win photo. I didn't notice what Jake had the photographer do, until I was printing the photo. "Mom's Day at Keeneland" appears on the official photo!! How fun and crazy is that?

Thank you for sharing this fun day, this miraculous minute and ten seconds with me. No matter how well prepared a trainer has a horse, there is still racing luck. A horse can stumble coming out of the starting gate. A horse can get bumped or squeezed. A rider can not follow instructions. A million little things can go wrong.

If you click to enlarge the next to the last photo, and look at Jake's face, I think you can see all of the things which went wrong last year. Right after the photo was taken Jeannie asked him how he felt, and he said, "It hasn't set in yet. Ask me again when I come to visit at Christmas." I can see that in the photo.

Now, he's smiling. I haven't stopped.


Hug the everlovin' daylights out of your hounds

Wa-HOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Xela

This is not a dog story, and for that I beg your forgiveness and patience, dear readers. This is a son story, a grand little horse with a big heart story, and a story full of kind people.

I drove to Lexington and back today. My generous and kind friend Jeannie got up at oh dark thirty to go with me. My son had a horse running in the first race at Keeneland.

If you are a race horse trainer, having a horse run at Keeneland is a big deal. But if you are a young race horse trainer whose successful business imploded and vanished after a pile of bad luck so despicable as to have made Job himself shake his head in disbelief, then having a horse run at Keeneland is a huge big deal.

So Jeannie and I piled into Bill's "babe machine" (the Buick Rendezvous, which looks like a Gremlin on steroids) and headed East. Bill would be gone most of the day as he was juroring an art show in the middle of the state. Our kind and wonderful friend Karen let my dogs out at lunch time to potty. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to go. I got to take the Rendezvous, because Jeannie's husband Harvey drove Bill to the art show. Otherwise, I would have had to take the van, which would have been $200 in gas, and I wouldn't have been able to go.

I have to say here, dear readers, that I have been sick with worry for my son. I don't know how he survived the past year. I would not have. But he lives and breathes horses. He loves horses. He "gets" horses. He wants nothing else in life but to train race horses and to do it well. So he started all over. He persevered.

The four and a half hour drive flew by this morning. Jeannie and I talked and lucky Paul Simon sang. My nerves got more and more jangly. It had been seven months since Jake had run a horse, and this was only the second time ever that I would get to see it in person. I'd watched his races on the Internet and had made my poor Bill think that I was being torn limb from limb when he'd innocently come into the house, and I'd be shouting in my little room, "GO! GO! OH MY GOD! Youcango you go aooohhhhhhaoooahahaaaaaaaaaaa Yayayayayay!!!"

We pulled up to the barn, and my handsome son looked cool. If you didn't know him like I do. I saw a man who had everything on the line. He was stretched like a tight rope, but he was calmly rubbing liniment on his horse, putting wraps on his legs, giving his groom last minute instructions.

"He looks great, Jake."

"Yup."

Jeannie and I got to be in the beautiful Keeneland Paddock like a couple of big shots as Jake saddled the horse and gave the jockey a few words. "Just let him run his race. He's got a lot of heart. If he's in the middle of the pack don't abuse him, just bring him back safe. But I think he'll run big today." He gave the rider a leg up and we went into the Clubhouse. Jeannie placed her good luck bet. I don't bet. But I remembered something from when I was sixteen and saw my first ever horse race. I got to the window and said "five dollars to win on number two, please."

We stood at the front watching the horses warm up. I was only watching one little chestnut horse with a number two on his saddle pad and a white bridle on. I was so nervous at this point that I thought vomit might spew out my eyeballs and my butt and my ear holes and my arm pits. That's nervous.


A man in his early seventies walked up to Jeannie and me and pointed at the embroidery on his jacket, saying something about being a tour bus driver and having a safe driving record for forty-nine years. He said he'd bet on the one, three and nine in a boxed trifecta.

"You have to bet on the two!" cried Jeannie. "Her son trains that horse."

Tour Bus Driver Man looked at me and asked if he should bet number two.

I tried not to vomit as I explained the horse was coming off a five month lay off and this was my son's first ever start at Keeneland.

Tour Bus Driver Man pointed to his baseball hat which spelled "GAP". "God Answers Prayers," he said.

I don't bother God with prayers for dog shows and horse races. If I were God and had prayers from mothers with sons in Iraq and Dar Fur and Guantanamo to work on, I'd be right peeved at prayers for dog shows and horse races. But I'd been praying for my son "pretty regular" for a good while.

I said, "I tell you what. You send a prayer up. And if this horse wins, you come down in the Winner's Circle and get in the win photo with us."

Jake came back from the racing office and we ran upstairs to watch from behind the boxes. And the horses were in the starting gate and they were off. The white bridle burst out of the starting gate and was second by just a head, and the horses got in stride and the little chestnut was neck and neck for the lead. I pounded on Jeannie's shoulder blades "Go, Xela! Go!" and the little chestnut colt got his nose in front rounding the turn and Jake whispered, "Be a race horse, buddy, be a race horse now," and I beat poor Jeannie's back purple and I yelled, "GO, XELA! GO! GO XELA OH MY GOD GO!" and then a big strapping big bay colt, number nine the favorite, came up and hooked the little chestnut, and I thought they were right at the wire, and I groaned, "Close, honey, there's going to be a photo," and Jake shouted, "It's Keeneland, it's a long stretch, that's the sixteenth pole, HE's GOT HIM!" and the little chestnut dug in when the jockey asked him to and pulled out and won by a length and a half, just like an answer to prayer. And I stopped beating on Jeannie and I hugged her and Jake grabbed me and he lifted my way up off the ground and he spun in a twirl with his old mom in the air and we ran down to the Winner's Circle.


We found Tour Bus Driver Man looking positively confounded with his winning ticket in his hand and I said, "Come on! Follow us!" I told Jake that there would be a very friendly Tour Bus Driver in the win picture and Jake shook his hand and said it was nice to meet him, no questions asked about why there was a friendly Tour Bus Driver in the win picture. Xela came back, and he had barely even broken a sweat, but his nostrils flared in that inspirational nobility of a race horse who knew he had won. Jake patted him, with respect, and whispered something to him.

People who were part of the Tour Bus Driver's touring group collected outside the Winner's Circle waiving their winning tickets, shouting, "Thanks for the tip, Eddy!"

One of Jake's mentors was there. A generous man who quietly had helped Jake get back on his feet. He pointed out during all the congratulating that Jake would have all kinds of friends today.

"Yes," I smiled to myself. "But only one Mom."


So I beg your forgiveness for not writing about dogs tonight. And I know I've missed Asta's coming home party, and I am sorry for that. But when Jake called me later, he was down at the barn holding Xela outside to graze on the spring grass. He wasn't up in the clubhouse getting pats on the back. He was letting the little chestnut horse with the big heart relax and eat grass.



And I just had to write about that.


to see photos of the day, go HERE.


Hug your hounds

A gift, a tag, and a newspaper story

I got a most wonderful gift in the mail yesterday. It was from Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie's litter brother Breezy, and Lindy Loo's litter brother Topper and their kind Mom, Sandy. As most of you dear readers know by now (ad nauseatum) I am in the throes of writing a book about a dog. I was having a cell phone conversation with Sandy while walking my dogs and it must have been a cold, gray day (imagine that) and I must have been just a wee bit discouraged, because I think I said something to the effect of, "I have no idea why I ever thought I could write a novel." Sandy, being a kind and generous and supportive soul sent me this gift. (It was beautifully wrapped in gorgeous paper and ribbon, but I tore into it before I got my camera.)

Oh the inspiration! Oh the resources! Oh the gratitude! I love Mary Stewart's writing and I had not read The Ivy Tree, so I can't wait to dive in. And The Writer's Kit is perfect! Thank you, Sandy.

This works perfectly with the tag from the mom of the delightful Wire Fox Terrier, Gus, which is:

Rules:

1. Grab the nearest book of 123 pages or more.

2. Open it to page 123.

3. Find the first 5 sentences and write them down.

4. Then invite 5 friends to do the same.

I have two books going. I'm almost finished with ON BENDED KNEES, the True Story of the Night Rider Tobacco War in Kentucky and Tennessee by Bill Cunningham.

• His brew was sold to captains, passengers and crews of passing Cumberland River packets aw well as other good customers within that area. These diversified businesses allowed Bennett to pay the hillbillies gold dollars for their leaf, an extra enticement in those hard pressed days. His progeny matched his material wealth, having six children by his first wife who had died and another offspring by his second spouse. By any standard of the day, Henry Bennett was affluent and well-to-do. Physically, he stood only five feet six inches tall, a proud, brash and abrasive sort who strutted about with the brag and bravado of a bantam rooster.

And I've had a sneak preview of the aforementioned The Ivy Tree.

• "You can take it how you like. I've assured you that no one will be harmed by what I'm doing, but I don't expect you to believe me. Why should you? I can only beg you to keep out of what doesn't concern you... at least until you see wrong being done." He said, all at once sounding very tired, "I don't understand you."

So that's the gift and the tag. If you would like to participate in this tag, consider yourself tagged - you're it!

The newspaper story? I read tonight in Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues. This amazing play has raised over $50,000,000 around the world to help end violence against women and girls. The stupid ridiculous blizzard that whooped down into western KY last night won't help.

Got to RUN. I'm LATE for our last rehearsal.

hug your hounds, your mothers, your daughters, your aunts, and your nieces!