The One Where I Don’t Go to the Kentucky Derby…

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Abraham Lincoln, books, Churchill Downs, fashion, follow a dream, hats, horse racing, horses, Kentucky Derby, Kentucky Oaks

A month ago, my husband surprised me with an early 50th birthday present – a road trip to the Abraham Lincoln Museum in Springfield, IL, followed by a visit to family in Tennessee, and on to the Kentucky Derby.

See what I mean? I need more Abe books…

It was a dream come true on many levels. For those of you who don’t know, I have a pretty big crush on Abe. I’ve written about him before and have a nice collection of books about him – but not nearly enough.

And attending the Kentucky Derby? That’s been Dream Numero Uno for many years. I watch the Derby every year. Every. Year. When the horses are led from the stalls to the track, my heart skips around and by the time the horses come around the final curve, I sometimes forget to breathe. Good stuff, man.

Our tickets were good for both the Kentucky Oaks, run Friday afternoon, and the Derby on Saturday.

Friday afternoon, we parked in a lot a few miles away from Churchill Downs and took the shuttle bus to the racetrack. Traffic snarled, and it took about an hour to get there.

People watching was great! Hats were everywhere, and one man in an gleaming top hat and tails leaned against a rail. In the gift store, an elegant lady wore a graceful hat – its feathers wisped above her face, and her finger flashed a diamond the size of a dime.

The gift store was mobbed, though – bodies pressed together and we moved with our shoes gummed to the floor.

This lady still had the tags on her hat…

The infield was crazy, too. People milled like ants, and we finally found an open spot near the beer tent. Nearby, two girls wrestled. Another girl tottered around on cork-heeled shoes – one heel had mashed flat, leaving her with a lopsided gait that sloshed beer from her cup. Step, spill. Step, spill.

We were just in time to watch the start of the Oaks on the Jumbotron. Suddenly, my husband grabbed my arm and pointed.

“Look,” Tim said, “there they are!”

In a rush, I watched the tips of the horses’ ears as they raced by, the wild colors of the jockeys’ silks flashing before being lost in the crowd.

That’s all I saw. Just like that, the race was over.

We threaded our way to the tunnel, jostling with the crowd making their way to the row of shuttle buses. It isn’t worth mentioning my porta-potty experience except to tell you not to use them if you go. Ever.

We were there for an hour, snaking our way along the s-shaped waiting fences. A large man in front of us wore a uniform of black: pants, vest, fedora and sunglasses. He spewed fumes of cigar smoke behind him, and I inched down, trying to avoid the cloud. His wife tottered unsteadily on teal-colored high heels, swearing a little more boisterously with each gulp of her mint julep.

The couple behind us argued over what shuttle bus to take. What if they boarded the wrong one? What if they ended up at the wrong parking lot? The woman promised the man that she’d “knock him so hard he wouldn’t know what hit him” if this happened. It was his fault, after all, because he bought the tickets.

At this point, I realized that Saturday’s Derby would be worse. Much worse. And I didn’t think this was for me anymore. I hadn’t felt a sense of peace since we entered the gates at Churchill Downs; I hadn’t even seen any of the majestic horses do what they’re bred to do – race with all their heart, running as fast as they can to the finish line.

“I don’t think I can do this tomorrow,” I told Tim.

Being the level-headed person he is, he suggested we return to the hotel and sleep on it. In the morning, deep down, though, I felt the same. I knew I’d rather be at home, watching the race on our TV, listening to the announcers tell me about each beautiful horse as it was led to the starting gate.

Dunbar Cave

So we drove home. And I don’t feel like I lost out on my dream of attending the Kentucky Derby. At all. How could I complain about what Tim had done? Two days learning more about Abraham Lincoln; watching our little grandson jump on his trampoline; hiking the trails at Dunbar Cave State Park, and enjoying time in Nashville. Our Kentucky Derby plans were only a small part of that week.

Not every dream gets fulfilled the way we think it will. Or maybe even needs to. And that’s OK.

Lincoln’s Secret to Great Writing…

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Abraham Lincoln, author, Bixby letter, Gettysburg Address, history, Second Inaugural Address, writing

I enjoy studying our 16th president, Abraham Lincoln. I have shelves of books that examine his speeches and letters, and I’m inspired by the almost-Shakespearean way Lincoln has of funneling deep meaning into few words.

Perhaps his most famous speech is the Gettysburg Address, given on November 19, 1863. Its compassion and straightforward message were exactly what the nation needed, although they wouldn’t fully realize this until after the war, when they would begin to “bind up the nation’s wounds.” Lincoln’s words had gained weight since he first spoke them.

Visiting the Gettysburg National Military Park was a moving experience – I hadn’t expected the battlefield to be so vast, or the stillness to be so powerful. Later, I had the opportunity to stand in the spot where Lincoln stood when he delivered the Gettysburg Address, dedicating the Soldier’s National Cemetery. Being a part of history, even in a small sense like that, is very meaningful.

I’ll always be a great fan of both the Gettysburg Address and Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address. I admire how Lincoln, in both instances, set aside his personal issues to address the nation’s deep needs – not his vision for the future, or his goals for his administration, but what the nation needed at that very moment.

One of my Lincoln favorites is The Bixby Letter, written in 1864 to a widow, Mrs. Lydia Bixby. Expressing his condolences on the loss of her sons during the Civil War, the letter reveals Lincoln’s helplessness as he struggles to console her:

“I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts, that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming.

  But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours, to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.”

The Bixby Letter

Authorship of this letter has been debated for years. Some historians think John Hay, Lincoln’s secretary, was the true author; others maintain it was Lincoln. The tone is reminiscent of Lincoln’s other writings – eloquent, yet conveying his humanity and awareness of a wider scope of events. It’s also contested that not all of Lydia Bixby’s sons died in battle – that only two did, while another was honorably discharged and one deserted or died a prisoner of war.

That aside, the writing is powerful and moving, considering the situation under which Lydia Bixby and Lincoln both labored. In a few short sentences, Lincoln conveys almost everything we need to know, leaving us feeling a higher moral purpose. Like good writing should.

But since good writing – and interesting places –  impact each of us differently, I’d like to hear what’s made a difference to you. What has moved you? Filled you with purpose? Called you to action?

Weird Word Wednesday!

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Abraham Lincoln, Boss Tweed, editing, election, history, humor, political, politics, proofreading, Richard Nixon, snollygoster, weird word, writing

It’s that week-brightening time again, when a new word pops up to add a little zing. This week’s Weird – and timely- Word is snollygoster.

Our  next presidential election is mere weeks away, and snollygoster refers to a dishonest politician, one especially calculating. Hmmmm….not taking sides here, but that could certainly refer to any number of semi-distinguished public servants who roam Washington, D.C.

The challenge arises in using snollygoster in a sentence, as in:

“Even though he professed to not be a crook, our 37th president was still a bit of a snollygoster, wasn’t he?”

Certainly, Nixon leads the pack of United States snollygosters, but history is rife with their shenanigans. Consider former Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi and his infamous “bunga bunga” parties – that’s snollygosterism at its finest. Fraud, bribery, and harems of women weren’t enough for this Lothario.

Or take Boss Tweed, who controlled the Democratic Party in New York in the mid-1800s. He was gifted in political corruption, surrounding himself with lackies who helped him bilk New York of millions of dollars.

Let’s close with a word from Abe, who might have had his own snollygoster in mind when he wrote to Allen N. Ford, editor of an Illinois newspaper, in 1846:

“I believe it is an established maxim in morals that he who makes an assertion without knowing whether it is true or false, is guilty of falsehood; the accidental truth of the assertion does not justify or excuse him.”