When I was a little squirt, my Mother nicknamed me both "Mare" (how prophetic) and The Barefoot Contessa.   (I had no idea that she got the phrase from the title of a hotsy-totsy film starring Ava Gardner.)  For some reason, Mom associated my penchant for going naturally-footed with my Italian ancestry on my Father's side.  I think she thought I'd grow up to be Sophia Loren.  When she was feeling fanciful, she'd wave her arm and pronounce grandly that I was La Barefoot Contessa Ahl-TYE-ree, attempting to properly pronounce my foreign surname which (in the 1960's, in upstate New York) sounded to the locals to be tres exotic.

To me, shoes were an unnecessary cultural construct, created solely to be tolerated on Sundays as I sat cross-ankled, wedged between Mom and Gram in our stark, white Presbyterian church. 

The minute church was over, I ripped off the white patent leather Mary Janes and tossed them into my Mother's waiting hand.  She never tried to cut off the call of Nature to my wild-child heart, for which I am grateful.  I rode my cousin's Quarter Horse barefoot, also--a singularly remarkable experience.

My favoritest, most freeing thing to do was to wear a long skirt and run out into our overgrown grassy yard.  Grabbing a bunch of lilacs as they clung desperately to Grandma's huge, treasured lilac bush (they saw me coming, and ducked their fat little heads)--I relished that first big sniff.  Then, my head full of that fragrant opiate, I commenced to twirl 'round and 'round in the tall, soft green beneath my liberated toes.  I'd spin until I dizzied out, and collapse into that grass, under the sacred purple bush.  I can still feel the cool dampness of the unmown grass as it wrapped itself around me like so many tiny green angels' wings.  Staring up at the clear blue skies, my young spirit knew absolute freedom--the kind of bliss for which adults pay millions of dollars a year to self-help gurus and bookstores.  I often go back to that place and that time in a frail attempt to recapture some of that unbridled bliss...

Resort destinations like Saratoga Springs often fall prey to carpetbaggers and snake oil salesmen who come to town when the number are high, and stay only long enough to cash in on visitors' craving for reminders of their time spent in the Spa City.   Hawking cheaply-made t-shirts, shot glasses sporting scandily-clad, winking Hawaiian girls and birds that utilize the pendulum theory to dip into a glass of red water--there is nothing worse than a cheesy souvenir shop.  Just being around one of these smarmy types makes one feel dirty somehow.

Saratoga has seen her share of these joints, hastily rented and open just-long-enough to catch the racing season.  The owners then blow out of town, never to return.   The word, "accountability" is not in their lexicon.  Neither are "neighbors," "friends" or "respected" used to describe these takers.

How many times have you gone on vacation, and of course, wanted to get something that will bring a smile to your face every time you use or see it, because it represents a great time in a fun place?  But then you scope out the stores or kiosks that sell souvenirs, and you cringe because the products are all nasty, subtly (or not-so-subtly) sexual or just really poorly-made.  And you decide that maybe you can just commit to memory all the good times, and call upon your brain anytime you want to think about your vacation.  At least your memory doesn't have "I Went to __ with Stupid" written all over it.  Or rats in the basement.

If you were kinda short and had an odd birthmark--would it stop you from finding your star, and following it all the way to personal victory?

Those problems didn't stop George Stephanopoulos or Mikhail Gorbachev--and it shouldn't stop anyone else, either.  Both these men knew that physical appearances have nothing to do, whatsoever, with the content of their character.  An unfortunate byproduct of western society's obsession with looks has led young people to sad, often tragic, places.  Bulimia.  Diuretic diets.  Plastic surgery at 18.  Cliques, slam books and multi-colored plastic bracelets that make me sad when I think about the implications.

Kids with low self esteem will do anything in order to be "popular."

The obsessive quest for "beauty" in the post-modern world has given nothing but grief to children whose only real concerns should be whether to have the ice cream or yogurt for dessert.  Children in Kindergarten are pressured to be "pretty," and "strong."  This is a shame, and, many would say, a sin.

We who have reached our 30s, 40s and 50s are blessed to have some Wisdom that came to us through years of bucking the system.  We know that physical appearance is irrelevant, that it's what's inside that counts.  Being cute may win fame for a few minutes, but at the end of the day--a truly satisfying Life is the result of following your dreams; believing in the power of those dreams and never taking the NO of someone else as the final answer.

Allow me to introduce you to my new friend,  Hayseed.  Think of Hayseed as "EveryHorse":  he's a lot like 99% of us.  In a very real sense, Hayseed represents the norm, those of us who are smack-dab in the middle of the road.  We who were not born with cherubs' faces, destined to fight off the glare of paparazzi's flashbulbs.    We haven't gone under the plastic surgeon's scalpel to "fix" what God made.  We can't wear Chanel every day.  We live and die with looks that are deemed to be "average," or even below-average--and we're OK with it.

Psychologists know that people who suffer from bad self image are often jealous of those whose careers, lives or personal traits they envy.  Their jealousy is due to poor self esteem--they don't realize that genuinely healthy self esteem comes from within, ergo, the achievements of others should not affect their feelings about themselves. 

But not everyone is capable of this logical assessment:  it's much easier to express insecurities by putting down someone who is perhaps an easy target because of their apparent superiority, and because the media has refused to defend that person from inappropriate and cruel scrutiny.    Australians have a phrase, "the Tall Poppy Syndrome," for this need.  Anyone in Oz who's made it big; struck it rich or otherwise risen above the crowd--a poppy whose red head is visible above the others in the field--must be struck down, so that mediocrity is once-again the norm.  If no one rises above, all others appear to be equal.

This piece is going to run the gamut of emotions--so if you're not prepared, go away and come back when you're ready.  From death and grief to gratitude for heroes riding in on white horses--this is what's in my head and heart today.  I don't usually write truly heavy things here on Saratoga.com, but this is what's on the docket for today.  You may agree with me.  You may disagree.  Either way, we want to hear from you, so please post a comment below--your opinion is important.  Sans further ado, here we go...

I have lucid dreams--that is, every time I dream, I'm cognizant that I'm asleep, and that this is a dream.  And I usually direct the dream.  Pose questions.  Take actions to change the course of the dream.  I don't just experience it, I'm involved.  It's an interesting way to dream, and apparently only a small percentage of the population dreams lucidly.  Those of us whose dreamlives are lucid are in good company:  Saint Augustine of Hippo and Tibetan monks are listed among those for whom dreams are as tangible as waking life, perhaps moreso.

Books in the Middle Ages were treasures.  Not everyone owned a book, usually only royalty or those wealthy enough to afford a scribe to hand-write a book for them.  These books were beautiful, no two books alike.  It could take up to a year to hand-write a book--scribes and their patrons were nothing if not patient.  Each page featured gorgeous script.  The first word of each chapter featured a stylized, jewel-toned capital letter.  Often a scene from the story was entwined around that first letter--a great, painstaking effort, in order to bring to life a creation which was, itself, a work of art.  The visual appeal of the book was as compelling as the story or poetry contained within the covers.   A treat for the senses, these handmade books delighted both the eye and the hand.  Owning a book was a status symbol as well as a sensual experience.

When Johannes Gutenberg presented the concept of movable type in the 1430s, the Western world of books and publishing took a monumental leap forward in many ways.  (N.B.:  the Koreans and Chinese had created a printing press before Gutenberg, but its popularity didn't spread like wildfire, as did Gutenberg's invention.)   Sure, his first Bible was the Vulgate and it was in Latin, so the audience was restricted to those educated in the language.  But still, this was a huge step for Western society:  with the printing press came a world of possibilities, theretofore not even considered by the world's people.  It was now possible to communicate an idea to many people simultaneously.  Absolutely unfathomable--science fiction became simply, science.

I had coffee one day this year with an acquaintance, a businesswoman who's very good at what she does.  Educated, smart, sharp and seemingly in control of her emotions (not necessarily a good thing, mind you)--her outer veneer bespoke a woman who has no time for drivel.

And certainly not for the obsession with the lives of others with whom she is not acquainted.

And yet, this woman who might not cross the street to save a dying kitten was very upset about the pending divorce of two friends.  Or so I thought.

"Isn't it sad?  About John and Kate?" she implored.

"John and Kate."  "John and Kate."  I wracked my brain and my intercranial Rolodex for the names, scouring to conjur faces of people whom this lady thought we knew in common.

"You know.  From the TV show.  "Jon and Kate Plus 8!"

I had no idea about whom she was speaking.  I must have had the look of someone who just landed on Earth from another planet, earnestly trying to figure out how to use a pepper grinder, for she kept at it until she realized that I was clueless, and could not therefore share her grave concern for this couple and their children.  (Apparently I misspelled John's first name in my ignorance and mental scrambling, also.)

My coffee companion was angered by the fact that I neither knew nor cared about this couple and their current angst.  I mean, she was sincerely upset with me.  Maybe she knew them as friends who just happened to get a TV show?

Nope.  The smart businesswoman had never met the two; she lived some 3,000 miles away from their drama and yet she was extraordinarily disturbed because apparently they were going through the throes of divorce.

For the record, I responded by telling her that I didn't give a tiny rat's patootie:  if Jon and Kate--or any other celebrity--doesn't care about the status of my Life, why should I be obsessed with theirs?  Not a satisfactory response, from the lecture I received about my "hardness of heart."   (Her extreme reaction may have been the result of the gallons of caffeine she'd consumed during our klatch.  She'd inhaled lattes like a man on Death Row....)

When I was in high school in Watervliet, New York, I had friends who lived on Easy Street in Maplewood, a small enclave of the town populated mostly by Russian-Americans.  (It was because of this delightful community of Eastern Europeans that my school was one of only two, I believe, high schools in New York State that offered Russian as a language option.)  But I digress, per usual.  (Hey, cut me some slack:  it's the holidays, and I'm in the process of my annual hibernation.  I can't physically just curl up and sleep 'til the first day of Spring--which, in my world, is Opening Day of Belmont's Spring Meet--so I start sentences about one topic and meander through the woods, always ending up where I intended to go...but the circuitous route seems more interesting when I'm weighed down by the heaviness of Winter's spiritual and physical saddlepack.)

Ah, yes.  Easy Street.  I wanted to live on Easy Street.  Who didn't?  Easy Street is the mythical place where life is sweet:  all needs are met.  Love abounds.  Friendships flourish, and there's always a helping hand.  Many Americans work like dogs for 40 years, hoping to at least retire to Easy Street, if they can't figure out how to do it earlier in Life.

If you're a horse, getting to Easy Street is often harder.  When you don't have thumbs, you have to depend on the kindness of others to provide for you.  Birds are lacking that fifth digit, but they manage to forage and build cozy nests and find all the food they need.  But horses are another story.  For some reason, many humans feel a need to starve, beat or otherwise be cruel to horses.   Why, I've so often wondered angrily, are so many people intentionally rotten to God's most beautiful creatures?  We've heard entirely too many stories recently of horses in the hundreds, found starved to death or near-death.  Horses who've been beaten with chains, left to bleed out.   I believe, truly, that animal cruelty of all kinds--but most notably on the part of those who torture or abandon horses--stems from an innate jealousy of the archetypal Horse. 

The Horse in archetype represents strength, consummate beauty, speed and otherworldly, innate Wisdom...

Well, Dear Readers,

This may not start out as the happiest blog you've ever read, but hopefully it will help you to start a new tradition, and thereby add something of substance and joy to your holiday season.

I just found out that a beloved friend, Sylvia Bauersfeld, died last weekend.  I loved Sylvia.  "Gee," as she was known to those who love her, was a great woman, a lady who was surrounded by love and joy every minute of her life--precisely because she gave these things abundantly to everyone who ever knew her.

Gee came into my Life at a tragic moment:  14 years ago this past June, my own beloved Mother died.  Gee's Granddaughter, Kristy, was our Hospice Volunteer.  Kristy was no ordinary 18-year-old:  when Hospice told me that they were sending a teenager to volunteer in our Home, I was disappointed.  Within one minute of meeting Kristy, I knew that she was wise, and kind and self-aware far beyond her tender years...

Upon meeting Sophie Watts, the challenge is on, to not like her or be impressed by her lengthy personal and professional resume.  Tall, svelte, blonde and crisp, she epitomizes the image of the consummate equestrian.   In black pencil jeans, black riding boots, black blazer and white Oxford-collared shirt, Watts is breathtakingly attractive.  A fan of Thoroughbreds and the sport of racing them, she is as comfortable on the backstretch as in the Clubhouse.  She's the kind of beautiful that makes insecure women want to hate her because they feel inferior, just by virtue of the fact that she exists. 

But once she flashes her open smile and her eyes twinkle with glee at something that tickled her fancy--all such thoughts melt like the Spring snows.  And because she's brilliant, genuine, caring and sincere--it quickly becomes impossible to harbor any feelings for Watts other than the strong desire to become her friend and colleague.

For those who judge a book by its cover, Watts may offer a challenge:  perfect people are especially difficult to love for those with ego problems.  And Watts does come across as being perfect, in spite of the fact that she's very real, and extraordinarily kind. 

Once you get past her outward classic demeanor--it takes about one minute--you want to know more about this astonishingly accomplished woman.