Kentucky Sire

Kentucky Sire

  There is a land down South, more “Northern” South, named Kentucky.  Many travels led us through this twangy, wavy countryside.  White fences encompassed galloping Thoroughbreds.  They were the frisky monuments of the green grasslands.  Trees dripped-dropped, tipped-topped, shading farmhouses.  We were Irish gypsies with fifth-wheel in tow.  My dad called us gypsies, because the road was our second home.  The Irish clan was on the road again.  Make way!  On the road again.  I can’t wait to get on the road again.  That was our traveling jam!  Our destination was the rolling Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.  Dad, are we there yet?  No hun, not yet. 

I can remember year after year, hitching up our fifth wheel and hopping into my dad’s dually Ford truck.    My dad was a Ford man.  I could see why, they are tough as bulls.  My brother and I were homeschooled.  We were free to pack up and explore new states.  We learned hands-on in God’s country.  We touched the Bluegrass and smelled the Kentucky air.  The horse capital of the world is Lexington.  I just unearthed Kentucky mine gold!  Any horse girls out there would feel the same.  I was a crazed horse girl, ready to ride over the dewy range!  I was in the heart of my passion!  The Kentucky Horse Park was our first stop on the expedition map.  No smart phones back then, just crinkly maps.  What’s a map you ask?  Google it.

My dad would fly like an Eagle down the freeways.  There was no fear in him nor mustache.  We made it through flat, boring Ohio and skidded over new soil.  The Kentucky Horse Park was in tiring sight.  Driving is tiring.  I should know.  I drove from Michigan to Louisiana.  Coffee please!  The rolling savanna swept us through the entrance.  My eyes grew, capturing the sights of my beloved infatuation, horses.  The lining trees gave us an ole’ Kentucky welcome, leaves waving in the light breeze. 

We drove up to the main office.  As tradition, my mom and I would get out to pay for our campsite for the starry night.  We’d hop back into “Scratch” and headed to our concrete pad.  My dad called his truck Scratch, because a woman in a Florida parking lot ran into my dad’s truck with her car.  To make a long story short, she cried and my dad said, “That’s ok, hun.”  He was a Southern gentleman.  We made it to our temporary abode.  The boys, my dad and brother, did the “man” things on the outside.  My mom and I did the “womanly” things on the inside.  We worked like a team of Lexington horses.  We were all evenly yoked, work and God-wise.  There was still enough daylight to go swimming in the Olympic size pool.  My brother and I were born with “fish” syndrome. Let’s go!  Marco…Polo…time to eat, then off to peaceful sleep.  Kentucky sire, what meadows and glowing moon beams you have sired. 

Fresh coffee grounds awoken the campground and us.  My dad loved his morning coffee.  Little did I know at the time, I would too.  Like a team of harnessed oxen in the sunny morn, we put everything away in our fifth wheel and pulled in the slide.  My dad unhooked everything outside.  With perfect precision, he backed up Scratch to the hitch.  Bingo!  Time to raise the jacks and to “Timber” Tennessee we go. 

With waking brown eyes, I look out the window as we leave.  Foals prance by their Thoroughbred mamas.  A mist sets upon the emerald sleeping ground.  It wraps around black Stallions and fading trees.  It rests over earth till the sun becomes sire.  The veil rises, as we ride down the road.  Bye, Kentucky bluegrass. Bye, graceful steeds. Bye, Kentucky sire.  We’ll be back, to have a campfire.