by Abigail Keam
Now the type of grass is special too. It is a grass from the Old World that old timers say was brought by a settler accompanying Daniel Boone. When it is allowed to grow to its full height, it has a bluish gray tint when it moves in the wind. Thus its name–blue grass and the name stuck for the region–Bluegrass.
A little known fact is that ninety percent of the Bluegrass seeds are cultivated in Idaho, Oregon, and Washington, but I digress.
Prior to 1980, there were one hundred seventy-five horse farms in the Bluegrass. Horse racing and breeding were controlled by wealthy families who loved the sport of racing. Although they needed to break even on their expenses, money was not the object of the game for many. They coveted winning and the glory that went with it.
However, in the ‘80s, “new money” moved into the Bluegrass and gobbled up horse farms whose owners were not able to cope with the times. Now there were over four hundred horse farms covering fifteen counties and four thousand square miles. The emphasis on raising horses to win races now changed to making money on breeding rights.
Outrageous fortunes were gambled on breeding famous stallions to mares.
A prime example of a fortune gained and then lost due to mismanagement and possible corruption was Calumet Farm whose owners owned Alydar.
Calumet Farm, purchased with money from the fortune of the Calumet baking powder company, owned by the Wright family, was the premier Thoroughbred farm in the world. Located on Versailles Road outside of Lexington proper, Calumet, with its white fences and rolling emerald pastures, was home to more winners than any other farm in racing history. It was the jewel of the Bluegrass racing industry. At least it was until it fell into the hands of those who looked upon horses as commodities.
Shares were sold for the right to breed with Alydar, which made Calumet Farm one of the wealthiest horse businesses in the world, but then something odd happened.
Alydar died under mysterious circumstances.
Soon, lawsuits and accusations of mistreatment of horses, embezzlement, and insurance fraud fell upon Calumet’s managers and associates, causing the downfall of this great horse empire. At the end, Calumet had to be sold and all the wealth it had accumulated was gone forever.
The story of Calumet is a cautionary tale of greed, but there is a silver lining.
Calumet was saved from the bulldozer by Henryk de Kwiatkowski, a Polish immigrant to Canada, who made his fortune through the leasing and brokering of airplane sales. He purchased Calumet and its seven hundred seventy acres at a liquidation auction for a mere seventeen million.
Thank goodness.
I love the Bluegrass. When I drive down Tates Creek Road and see the mares and their foals grazing in the green pastures of horse farms, everything is right with the world. I see history in those horses. I see unspeakable beauty. I see land fought over by Native Americans and Europeans for the right to walk upon its sacred soil.
So you can understand why I get hot under the collar when I see these horse farms bought and paved over for a stupid shopping mall or a fast food joint.
Come on. Most of these tacky housing developments and malls are built by outsiders, who don’t give a damn about this area. They are destroying one of the most fragile and unique places on earth. And the various county zoning boards in the Bluegrass are letting them. Why? Greed.
If I see one more Growth Is Good bumper sticker, I’m going to vomit. Literally.
And Charlie Hoskins was one of the destroyers, only he was one of our own–a born and bred Kentucky boy.
That just made it worse.
5
You need to know a little more about the horses that are bred in Kentucky before we can continue with our story.
Thoroughbreds race around an oval course, called a racetrack, with a small person called a jockey on their backs. The horse that completes the track first wins.
The Triple Crown for Thoroughbreds is the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont races. Horses that win the Triple Crown are very expensive and very rare.
Saddlebreds were originally called Kentucky Saddlers and used as officers’ mounts in the Civil War. They are show horses prized for their three-gaited and five-gaited strides. They do not race. They perform in a ring. Their Triple Crown is the Lexington Junior League Show, the Kentucky State Fair World’s Championship Show, and the American Royal Show.
Standardbreds are horses that race around a track with a driver sitting in a sulky. They do not run. They trot.
Their Triple Crown is the Yonkers Trot, the Hambletonian Stakes, and the Kentucky Futurity.
Of course, these are American races for glory, money, and silver trophies. Other countries have their own shtick going.
All three breeds can trace their ancestry from Arabian horses, then to Britain, with final tweaks in America.
Shaneika’s horse, Comanche, is a Thoroughbred and slated to compete in the most famous Thoroughbred race in the world–the Kentucky Derby!
I don’t care for Comanche very much. He’s lazy, cantankerous, and foul tempered. The only people that he allows near without trying to nip them are Shaneika and her son, Lincoln. And the fact that he is unusually difficult is fodder for the gossip circuit among the jockeys who make their living riding difficult and powerful horses. Shaneika always has trouble finding suitable jockeys who will take Comanche on.
Did I mention that he is eating Shaneika out of house and home?
Every dime she had has been invested in this eating machine called a racehorse. She even mortgaged her home.
Her mother, Eunice, told me in hushed tones one afternoon that Shaneika will be on the verge of bankruptcy if Comanche doesn’t win the Derby.
Shaneika surely has racing fever.
Even though Comanche had made enough stakes money to enter the Kentucky Derby, I just didn’t think he had it in him to win the coveted race.
But obviously Charlie thought he did. Otherwise, why would he bother to rattle Shaneika’s cage?
6
Mike ran over to us after the explosion. “Are you okay?”
Shaneika and I both nodded, still stunned.
“What happened?” I asked. “Was it a stunt?”
“I don’t know, but I will see what the hell is going on after I check Comanche,” replied Mike, opening Comanche’s stall door. “Whoa there, boy. Take it easy now.”
“I haven’t taken my eyes off him, Mike,” reassured Shaneika. “I didn’t step away during the explosion. No one could have gotten to him.”
I stared at both of them. So they thought the explosion might have been a tactic to lure us away from Comanche’s stall. Even though security was tight, unsavory things have been known to happen to a horse before an important race.
“What about his water?” asked Mike, rubbing his forehead in exasperation.
“I got his water myself while Josiah and the vet were with him.”
“Comanche has been protected the entire time. He was never out of our sight and no one had access to him without one of us watching,” I concurred.
“Did Velvet come by this morning?” barked Mike.
I could see that he was more nervous than Shaneika.
Shaneika nodded. “She said he was ready to race.”
Mike nodded, obviously satisfied.
“Did you see the balloon exploding?” I asked. “What happened?”
Mike checked Comanche’s legs and then pulled his head down to check the horse’s eyes and muzzle. “Be good now, boy. You can eat after the race.” Mike looked at us. “Nobody has given Comanche something to nibble, not even a treat like a carrot or peppermint?”
Shaneika and I shook our heads.
“Good. Good.”
Malcolm, who also doubled as the hot walker and groom, raced over to us. “Did you see that balloon blow up? I was getting a sandwich and boom . . . what a noise it made.” He handed us bottles of water. “Shaneika, your mama is here with Lincoln. They’re eating in the dining room if you want to join them.”
“I’m too nervous to eat. I’ll call them and let them know I’m staying with Comanche.”
“I think you should go with Josiah,” cautioned Mike. “Like you said, you’re nervous. Not good for Comanche. You go on now. It’s still hours ’til the race. Malcolm and I have this covered.”
“Malcolm, has your family arrived yet?”
“I talked to Gramp. They just got here.”
“Is Lady Elsmere with them?”
Malcolm grinned. “When I called, Gramp was fighting with her Ladyship about sitting in a wheelchair. It would be easier to maneuver around the crowds if they could wheel her.”
“Perhaps I better go help Charles with June. She can be a handful, especially when she wants to make a grand entrance,” I suggested.
“I’ll go with you. I need to change my clothes,” commented Shaneika.
It was a long way from the barns to the clubhouse, so I waved down a Churchill Downs worker who was driving a golf cart and begged him to take us to the clubhouse. Thank goodness he was going that way.
Lady Elsmere had rented a suite where everyone could go when they wanted to relax. There would be food and drink in the suite as well as a place to wash horse slobber off our hands and change into our Derby finery, which included very large, expensive hats.
Shaneika and I arrived at the suite before Lady Elsmere’s entourage, so we quickly changed our clothes, coiffed our hair, and managed to apply some makeup.
“Where’s your wolf cane?” asked Shaneika. “I just now noticed that you’re not using it.”
“I think my walking has improved to the point that I’m not using it as often. But ask me again if I fall on my fanny.”
“You’ve lost more weight.”
I slid my hands down my dress. “Down to my college weight. Now we shall see if I can keep it off. It just helps my health if my weight is down. I guess after Brannon left, I ate out of loneliness. If I hadn’t been so fat, I could have outrun O’nan. Maybe things would have been different for a lot of people,” I replied wistfully, thinking of the number of people my fall had affected.
“Look!” cried Shaneika. “My hands are shaking from nerves.”
“Let’s go have a drink,” I suggested. “I need one.”
I wanted to make sure I got my fair share of booze, as the fans attending the Derby typically guzzle 7000 liters of bourbon and 120,000 Mint Juleps.
Shaneika nodded and as we began to leave the suite, a catering group that Lady Elsmere had hired barged in. Following them was Charles, pushing a wheelchair with a complaining Lady Elsmere balancing two champagne bottles in her lap.
Amelia and Bess pushed by the wheelchair and Charles, depositing their mother, Mrs. Dupuy, into a comfy chair by the window. Then they plopped down next to her, fanning themselves with racing programs.
“We couldn’t get an elevator, so we had to walk up the steps,” exhaled Amelia, breathing heavily. “Poor Mother!”
“I told her to get in a wheelchair like me,” spouted Lady Elsmere, aka June Webster from Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky.
“I’m not old like you,” retorted Mrs. Dupuy.
“Over sixty, everything takes a toll,” replied Lady Elsmere.
“When I get to sixty, I’ll let you know,” sassed Mrs. Dupuy.
“I think water has gone over that dam,” retorted Lady Elsmere.
Mrs. Dupuy started to reply when Charles cut her off, “Now ladies, hush. I can’t hear myself think with all the noise from the stands and you two hens cackling.”
Ignoring the fuss, I grabbed a bottle of champagne from Lady Elsmere’s lap. “Hey, it’s even cold,” I announced to Shaneika.
“Can’t you wait for lunch to have some of my very expensive champagne?” complained Lady Elsmere.
“No, June, we can’t,” I replied to Lady Elsmere. “We have had a tough morning and need a bit of the bubbly.”
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with Charlie’s hot air balloon exploding, would it?” asked June, casting a steely glance at Shaneika.
“Oh, keep your eyeballs in your head, old woman,” Shaneika shot back.
“Lady Elsmere is our hostess for the day,” reminded Charles sternly.
I quickly poured a glass of champagne for Shaneika and handed it to her.
“I’m very sorry, Miss June. I’m so nervous I don’t know what I’m saying. Please don’t take offense.”
Lady Elsmere smiled sweetly. “None taken.”
“I think that’s the first time you have ever offered an apology,” I pointed out, looking at Shaneika in amazement. “And you goaded her,” I accused June.
Lady Elsmere shrugged. “Just seeing what I could learn about the balloon explosion.”
Charles grabbed the TV remote. “Let’s turn on the TV and see what the news says about it,” he suggested.
One of the caterers tugged at my elbow. “How should we address the lady in the wheelchair?”
I whispered back, “The public knows her as Lady Elsmere and her close friends call her June. We leave it at that.”
“Oh,” replied the young caterer, her eyes widening while taking in June and her glittering array of diamonds. “She’s beckoning toward us. What does she want?”
“Your soul, I warrant.” Looking at the young caterer’s stricken face, I relented. “She wants you to take the other champagne bottle. I’ll get it for you.” I went over to June and grabbed the bottle out of her lap. “Be nice, June, you’re scaring the help.”
“One of life’s little pleasures left to me.”
“Oh really!” I looked around. “Where’s Liam? Thrown him over for someone younger?” I asked, referring to Lady Elsmere’s current paramour, who was an Irish grifter posing as a valet and lately turned into a sex toy for June’s amusement.
“I think he’s mingling with the crowd.”
“Probably pickpocketing some poor schmuck.”
“You’re always thinking the worst of people, Josiah. It’s unbecoming.”
I gave June a knowing look. “Well?”
June sputtered, “If he does, I’ll make sure he gives the loot back. Now let’s enjoy this day. Charles, what does the boob tube say?”
Charles was listening to the sports announcer report that the races would continue even though there had been an explosion. Racing officials, firemen, and police were checking, but all fires had been put out. No one was hurt and very little damage was done to the property.
Everyone sighed in relief.
“I thought they might call off the Derby,” confided Shaneika, holding her stomach. Talk about a nervous cat on a hot tin roof.
I handed her my glass of champagne. “You need to drink more or take a Valium. You’re overwrought.”
“Overwrought? What a nineteenth century word!”
“Does it fit?”
“Yeah,” she replied before downing the champagne. “Where can I get more of this?”
I beckoned to one of the caterers. “Don’t go overboard with this stuff. You don’t want to look like a lush on national television if Comanche wins.”
“When Comanche wins,” Shaneika replied emphatically.
“Okay, when he wins,” I replied while mouthing to the head caterer to make lots of black coffee.
Shaneika swept away and sat next to June. “I’m sorry that Jean Harlow didn’t win the Kentucky Oaks.”
June nodded. “She did so well on her practice run, but in the race she faded after the second turn. I think I will switch jockeys when I take her to run in the Black-Eyed Susan Stakes.”
“So you’re going to Pimlico, then?”
“I must give Jean Harlow every opportunity to become a champion. She was bred for winning.”
Before taking another sip of champagne, Shaneika asked, “After this year, what are your plans for Jean Harlow?”
“I plan to breed her with Comanche and get myself a Kentucky Derby winner.”
Shaneika choked on her champagne until I patted her on the back. Yes,
I was standing behind them eavesdropping.
“I refuse to die until my horse wins the Kentucky Derby,” revealed June.
“Let’s breed those two horses today then!” I mocked.
“Keep it up, Josiah, and you are out of my will,” scolded June.
Shaneika laid her hand over June’s gnarled ones. “I understand completely.” She looked out at the racetrack. “For most people, it’s about the money.”
June interrupted, “But for you and me, it’s about the glory.”
“Yes,” replied Shaneika wistfully. “It’s all about the glory.”
“You’re still very young, but you will appreciate what I’m about to say. This is a man’s business. Very few women have breached the cigar smoke and Kentucky bourbon of the Old Boys’ Club to get this far. There was Penny Chenery, who owned Secretariat and Karen Taylor who owned Seattle Slew. Then there were a handful of women like Lucille Wright Markey and Fannie Hertz who owned horse farms, and Josephine Erwin Clay, the first lady to run a stud farm in the Bluegrass. She was the one who busted open the doors, but it’s been hard for us gals to keep our hand in the game.
“Now there are you and me, plus a few others. We love our horses. We love the smell of the barn with its hay, leather, and manure. We love the smell of horse sweat. We love everything there is to love about this business, and I’m telling you, Shaneika, no one gives you anything. If you want to win, then you must take it.
“You let Charlie get to you. He was playing mind games at my Derby ball and you took the bait. Keep your mind on the next race and your horse. That’s all that matters. Understand?”
“Yes, Miss June. I understand, and thank you for even considering breeding Jean Harlow with Comanche.”
“He’s got the stuff to become a winner, but he’s got to believe it. I see him hesitating. You need to give him more room to stretch his legs. Keep your jockey from holding him back. Just let Comanche run the race his way.”
I watched as both ladies whispered strategies and dreams, and wondered when I had been so enamored of a goal. I guess it had been learning to walk again. My, my, that had been a struggle.
