Рита Браун: Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

“You think about things that would never occur to me.” He loved that about Sister most times.

On a few occasions, it became tedious.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Gray, we’ve got the Chetwynds and the Bancrofts coming to this. Those families once raced against Meg’s grandfather, when everyone raced harness horses. There were a few Thoroughbreds at the farm, too.”

“I thought L.V. Harkness was a Standardbred man through and through,” Gray remarked.

“He was, and Meg and Alan still are. Every now and then I think Mr. Harkness slipped in a Thoroughbred but in those days, the turn of the last century and before, sulky racing was the thing. Think of Dan Patch,” she continued. “As big a star as later Secretariat was.” She wrapped her arms around herself, beaming. “How it pleases me to be driving through Kentucky knowing the last winner of the Triple Crown, one of the greatest Thoroughbreds ever, was bred in Virginia.”

“I’d keep that to myself tonight.”

“I will.” She frowned for a moment. “Harness racing ought to prove to all of us not to take anything for granted. You and I could live to see the fraying of flat racing.”

“Don’t you think it already is?”

“Yes, but there’s hope for it being reversed. It comes down to three things, honey: visionary leadership, unimpeachable training practices, and slots.”

“Well, that’s another subject we’d best not get on tonight. Too close to home. Don’t get Mercer on it.” He mentioned his cousin, who did business in Kentucky and elsewhere as a bloodline/breeding consultant. Gray’s mother and Mercer’s mother were sisters.

It was a sore subject since the Kentucky legislature repeatedly voted down, always with a terrific fight, not to allow other forms of gambling at the racetracks. As to good treatment of horses by trainers, the issue was made more difficult as each state had different drug rules. Barn practices, cleanliness, proper food, and so forth proved far less difficult to monitor than drugs.

Many members of Woodford Hounds made their living through breeding, selling, and racing Thoroughbreds. Phil Chetwynd, one of The Jefferson Hunt’s members, had kept up his family tradition and stayed in the Thoroughbred business, which was small in Virginia compared to Kentucky. The Chetwynds, four generations’ worth, were kept afloat financially through their stallions. People still vanned mares from New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, and even Kentucky to breed to Broad Creek Stables stallions, each of whom carried impeccable blood.

“For Kentuckians, the frustration has to be wild. All anyone needs to do is cross the Ohio River into Indiana and walk onto a riverboat.” Sister shook her head.

“As an accountant, I have mixed feelings about gambling.”

“Gray, I don’t. No one puts a gun to someone’s head and says you will wager away your salaries. And face it, there is a thrill.”

“There is no thrill to bankruptcy.”

“You’ve got me there, but really, do you think we can protect people from themselves?”

“No. On the other hand, we don’t have to enshrine foolishness.”

“You are so right. That’s why we elect it.”

He laughed. “Now I know you’re warmed up.”

“Slow down. No, I’m not backseat driving but we’re only twenty minutes from Walnut Hall and we don’t want to be the first ones at the do.” She thought for a moment and reconsidered. “Oh, don’t slow down. Having a few moments with Meg and Alan, Justin and Libby, too, surely they’ll be there early, that’s a treat. They are so literate. I love being around people who read.”

“It’s always an elite, you know. Throughout history. One can know how to read but not exercise the ability. Now people look at their phones, their iPads, their computers.”

“Useful stuff but makes you passive.” She announced this with conviction, absentmindedly fingering the pearls at her throat. God forbid a Southern lady be without her pearls.

“I understand how film and TV makes one passive but I’m not so sure about the other stuff.”

“Okay. When you read a book, it’s just you, a white piece of paper with black marks on it. You know what the black marks mean but they explode in images in your head. So you and I can read the same passage from Moby-Dick but your whale looks different from mine. We use our imaginations. When the image is preselected as it is in electronic media, you are looking at someone else’s whale. I mean, some of the electronic books even have moving images.”

“Ah.” A few moments passed. “You’re certainly philosophical.”

“The near-death experience in the pogonip. Crystallized my mind.”

He burst out laughing as he turned down Newtown Pike. Kentucky Horse Park was at one time part of Walnut Hall. Now Walnut Hall as well as the Sautter house were behind it. Originally the giant property was granted to William Christian in 1777. Christian moved his family near Louisville in 1785 but was soon killed by Indians that same year. The western territories seethed with danger. Over time, as those dangers abated and Christian’s daughter Elizabeth Dickerson persevered, more settlers moved to the lands.

Dickerson sold a section of her land. Down through the nineteenth century it was passed along, being subdivided over time. L.V. Harkness bought the land in 1895 from the estate of Captain Sam Brown who had won the Kentucky Derby in 1884 with his horse, Buchanan. Harkness renamed the place Walnut Hall, owning 2,000 acres.

A late sun drenched the large still-bare trees in pale light, for the skies had cleared and the winds stood still. Just another demonstration of the variability of Kentucky weather.

The manicured grounds exuded a subdued grace.

“What’s going on over there? No one dead, I hope.” Gray knew no person was, for they slowly drove by the oldest horse cemetery in America, where rested fifty-eight of the greatest of the early Standardbreds. A statue of the horse Gus Axworthy, 1902–1933, announced the lovely final finish line of their lives.

At the edge of this hallowed ground, Sister observed two men working to dislodge a huge shard of engraved slate. The slab had broken over the only Thoroughbred there, Benny Glitters, 1892–1921. A large tree limb could be seen upturned at the side of the large flat tomb marker that covered the entire equine grave. So great was the force of the earlier wind that the branch must have fallen onto the slate with such ferociousness that it drove the broken sharp edge into the grave itself. The odd rise of the temperature after the storm was turning the hard frozen ground into mud.

Arriving at the door to Walnut Hall, Gray handed the keys to the gentleman there to park the cars.

“We aren’t the first.” He took Sister’s arm as he escorted her to the door.

“And it’s six o’clock. If people are that eager to get here you know it will be some party.”

Standing by the door to greet his guests, Alan Leavitt kissed Sister on the cheek, shook hands with Gray. “How good to see you. Sister, you light up every room you enter.” Alan meant that, but as he was a gentleman he wisely knew to flatter the ladies.

People were pushing in behind them. Alan continued greeting guests. Meg was easy to find, you followed the laughter.

The party, in full swing at 6:30 P.M., was the typical foxhunters’ gathering. There were people there of great wealth like Kasmir Barbhaiya, a portly Indian gentleman who had moved to Virginia to be part of The Jefferson Hunt. He’d made a billion dollars plus in pharmaceuticals in his native India. A widower, he was beset by many women who liked his money and therefore liked him. No fool, he trusted that when he did find a person to whom he could give his heart, his late wife would tell him. This he firmly believed and, having told Sister, she believed it, too.