After just one episode that drew one million viewers, the show was renewed for a second season.  On the surface, this is a stroke of luck, in itself.  Considering that the series takes place at a racetrack (horse) and not Talladega--this may fall into the "miracle" category.

As the show unfolds, the viewer is introduced to many characters, and their respective small stories within the larger tale.    (Don't worry, I'm not going to describe the show to you and ruin it if you've not seen it.  But I do want to give my impressions here.)  Some viewers thought that the first show was a tad slow.  Others thought that it was just fine.  I have my thoughts--and they're not necessarily good.

You see, I'm not sure how the series will fare.  My key concern is that in many ways, this is HBO's latest mob TV show--and I find that to be short-sighted, at best, insulting to the industry, at worst.

HBO, you may recall, is the cable channel that gave The Sopranos to the world, much to the chagrin of many Italian-Americans. (Include me in that list).  Sure, Luck is set at the beautiful, lush Santa Anita, not Jersey or the boroughs.  The scenes take place at a race track, not a pasta joint on Arthur Avenue--but I have a feeling in my gut that this show is based on a premise that is oh-too-familiar.  That premise is that all racetrackers are somehow crooked--and that those who aren't, are the object of ridicule because they're not cool enough to be a loser or con man.

Horses are the vehicles for those characters--but not the vehicles whom we know them to be. When I think of a horse as a vehicle--I'm thinking that that horse is taking us on a ride, a romp, a leap and a dash toward bliss.  Horses take us on a wild ride, simply by being in our lives.  They can take their owners and trainers, jockeys and all connections on a life-altering adventure, like winning the Triple Crown.

But the majority of the people in Luck don't give a tiny rat's patootie about the horses--the magnificent gifts from God who populate the stalls, who have the potential to love, and to give, and to run their hearts out.  And they do it because they want to make us happy.  What an amazing creature.

And that angers me, that so many characters don't really care about horses, only about their own selfish gains.  These are not the racetrackers I know.  These are not even the racetrackers painted in Saratoga (the film).  With precious few exceptions--and those exceptions are precious souls, indeed--but almost without exception, Mr. Milch has painted a community in which violence and using people and horses to get what you want is "just how it is."  And women--women aren't even a valued part of the equation.  I can think of only four female characters so far:  an exercise rider; a woman whose role wasn't defined, that I could tell; Jill Hennessy's aforementioned character, whom I disliked immediately--and, oh, yes.  There are hookers.

The lack of strong, smart, competent, kind-hearted, horse-loving racing women in Luck --makes my eyes bleed.  I could not but notice that females play small roles, (so far), and none of them is a big-time owner, trainer or jockey.  There is no character like Julie Krone--so far.

Neither are representatives, or archetypes of great horsewomen like Virginia Kraft Payson, Penny Chenery, Marylou Whitney, Maggi Moss, Suzie O'Cain, Linda Rice, Allaire du Pont, Barbara Banke, Gretchen Jackson, Queen Elizabeth II, Princess Haya--or any of the other brilliant women who've graced racetracks since time immemorial.  No, women in HBO's West-Coast Arthur Avenue saga have yet to prove themselves (exercise rider); have a lousy attitude or are there simply on a "cash-and-carry" basis.

I'm not being contrary for the sake of being contrary.  There are many people who love Luck.  The only character I love thus far is Nick Nolte's trainer, because he represents so many people I know--real people, with real vocations, their callings, to be in this sport.  

I would love to love this show--I would like, genuinely, to say that it will help grow the sport.  Unfortunately, after Week One, the only thing that I envision growing is the ulcer in my stomach lining.  I find it utterly ironic that TCM showed Saratoga last week--a 75-year-old film, made in 1937--and that that film, with all its innocent, flirtatious fun--as far-closer to reality than Luck.  The interesting contrast is that, while Saratoga introduced archetypes of real racing personalities--Luck, on the other hand, introduces us  to entirely too many angry, violent, deceitful caricatures.  The difference between an archetype and a caricature is vast, and eternal.  (An archetype is eternal:  a caricature ends up being a joke who is soon forgotten.)

This is not to say that I won't tune in to the next episode, for truly, I hope that Luck learns how to rein in the stereotypes, and fleshes out the characters so that they have three--even four!--dimensions.   (Greeks and Italians who are crooked: my, what a refreshing concept.  Seen it.  Didn't like it.)

I'll watch just one more episode, to see if the roles of women get better--or if Mr.s Milch and Mann really are living in the 19th Century.

I want to like Luck.  

I want to write the next great horse racing movie.  

I want a lot of things--whether they'll happen, I don't know.

As an Italian-American--I'm offended.

As a woman--I'm incensed.

As a racetracker--I'm sad and irked, because in its present incarnation--Luck represents every stereotype that those in the non-racing world believe to be true.  

But what happens to the bookie, the society girl, the lovely ladies and the powerbrokers and their horses--that is the stuff of a light-hearted romp through the lovesliest race track in the world: the Saratoga Race Course.   (And since director, Jack Conway, insisted on authenticity, the film was shot in Saratoga, Louisville and other locations around Kentucky.   To see the tracks and backstretches 75 years ago is a treat, in itself. The movie could be silent, with dogs in all the roles--and the scenery, even in black, white and grey--would hold your attention and leave you wanting more.)

Saratoga was written by the prolific and brilliant Anita Loos, and starred some of the greatest names in Hollywood.  MGM didn't play:  they had only the best on contract, and they used those actors in everything from great epics to bits featuring tap-dancing daisies.  The all-star cast featured  Clark Gable, Jean Harlow, Lionel Barrymore, Hattie McDaniel, Frank Morgan, Walter Pidgeon, Una Merkel and Margaret Hamilton.  (Note that Gable, McDaniel, Morgan and Hamilton were reunited just two years later, in Gone with the Wind.)

Ah, yes.  Clark Gable has never been more handsome--or rakish.  My aging heart went pitter-pat.  Maybe it was the suit.  Hmmm...yes...I think that Gable as bookie, wearing wing-tip shoes and great suits--and flirting up a storm at the Grand Union Hotel in Saratoga--that, women, is the stuff of which dreams are made. Jean Harlow was never lovelier--a sad aside is that she died during the making of the film, at only age 26.  (When you see the movie, you'll realize that her double was used at the end--wearing big hats, side-face shots--and yet, somehow it worked.)   Each cast member shimmered, regardless of how small a role.  (Remember the adage that there are no small parts, only small actors.)  

And Una Merkel as Fritzie--well, Fritzie is my favorite character in the whole thing.  Fritzie's the kinda gal you want as your best friend:  fiercely loyal, funny as all get-out, genuine, and smart as a whip.  

The best part about Saratoga is that it's smart.  Referring back to the young notion that

nothing--nothing!--that's 75 years old could be as, what? As cool--as it is now.  As savvy--as this very minute in time.  Well, this movie is celluloid proof that, yes, 1937 was a year of very smart people.  (A great deal of important world events happened in 1937--if I discussed all of them, this column would be a book.  Amelia Earhart was lost over the Pacific--and Picasso painted his insightfully brilliant Guernica.)  But yes, Virginia, people "back then" were smart, and savvy--and knew the score.  Better than that--they wrote the score.

And this is one smart, knowing film.  The scenery is lush--and when you see it, you'll ooh

 and aah, when you recognize places that you know from horse racing.  The acting is sharp, and witty and sincere.  

And the characters--every last one of them is real.  Someone who doesn't know the racing world may see the characters as being caricatures, instead:  but they don't know what we know.

As I watched the movie, I kept saying aloud, "Oh, that's -- !" and, "...and that's --!"  These people, the characters to whom Loos gave Life, actually are archetypes, people we see every day at every race track in the world.  The racing world is its--our--own little society.  There are characters, roles to fill--and, one-by-one, each of us takes out place on the soundstage, finds out mark and says our lines.

The actors chosen for the roles in Saratoga were exquisite, precisely because they could nail it--give life to the types of people who populated a race track at that time--and now.  They are eternal characters, with whom we can relate.

                                                                                                                                                          This is why we want to be Fritzie's best friend, and to be wooed by Gable's bookie. Why we want to slap the society girl, until (inevitably) she grows up and quits preening.  The horses never change--the equines who starred in the movie look the same as their descendants in 2012.  The costumes on the actors, of course, are far-different than seen in clubhouses and backstretches today.  But the souls who filled those costumes--they are real, and luscious, and layered.  They are you, and me, and our friends and colleagues at the track, and hanging out at Siro's, Saratoga National and the Keeneland backstretch kitchen.  The human spirit hasn't changed in millennia--there's no reason to believe that the human soul, the core of the being, would make a remarkable change in just 75 years.

If you don't see another movie in 2012, I beseech you to rent/find/somehow acquire Saratoga.  TCM may feature it again soon.  If not--find it.  You will be delighted, warmed and blessed, as you see yourself in the mirror that Anita Loos held up--yes, in the last century.  

When they made this film in Saratoga--they were chattering about the fact that the Saratoga Race Course was 75 years old.  What an amazing thing, America's oldest racetrack!  And now, in 2012, we can look to next year and that same place--that beautiful, historic property with the ghosts of all those bookies, ladies, powerbrokers and horses--will be 150.  There's no place on Earth quite like Saratoga, and the tradition of horse racing here. 

And there's no movie like Saratoga in which to see the archetypes of these personalities--these lovely, dear horsepeople whom we know as our friends, in 2012.  The archetype hasn't changed one iota in 75 years--he same personalities existed 75 years before that, when the track was founded--and will be the same, 75 years hence.

Please see this movie this year.  Celebrate the fact that this film holds up after 75 years--and then get geared up for 2013, when we'll celebrate the 150th anniversary of the most magical place--the real Happiest Place on Earth--Saratoga.

P.S.  As a treat to yourself--and to get you psyched to find the movie--check out this video. The movie has only two songs, but both are gems:  the title song, "Saratoga," and this one, "The Horse with the Dreamy Eyes.":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xaZpzZfgQxA

Credits:  
*  Thanks to MGM (movie posters).
*  Thanks to SonjaHenieFilmFan for the YouTube video of "The Horse with the Dreamy Eyes."

*  "The Horse with the Dreamy Eyes"   music by Walter Donaldson, Lyrics by Bob Wright and Chet Forrest. 
*  Thanks to the Saratoga150 Committee (logo)

John Henry was a man's man.  He was a woman's man.  He did life on his own terms, and apologized for nothing.  He was irascible, nasty and opinionated.  He exemplified the term, "grit":   an aggressive child, he become tougher as he grew into an awkward, smallish donkey of a horse.  

If this is your first encounter with the legendary horse, this description may seem harsh--but it's an honest assessment.  And John Henry, who died at age 32 in 2007 at the Kentucky Horse Park, was nothing if not honest.   He raced 83 times and came in the money 63 of those races:  he graced winner's circles 39 times in all.   He ran hard and hated to lose.  

Truly, he exemplified the notion that anyone, regardless of breeding or advantages, could make it.  

He came into the world in 1975, sans fanfare or great expectations:  his parentage was nothing special.  In a sport that's pedigree-crazy--millions paid for an untested yearling who happens to be the product of an accomplished sire or dam--John Henry was a disappointment from his inception.   His sire, Ole Bob Bowers, didn't do anything of note on the track.  (Although, to be fair, it should be noted here that both Princequillo and Bull Lea were Ole Bob Bowers' grandsires.)  Once Double, John Henry's dam, wasn't noteworthy either as a runner or as a producer (although her sire, Double Jay, was a fabulously fast graded stakes winner).

But all-in-all, the little foal who dropped onto the ground at Golden Chance Farm that cold March day had no reason to raise hopes for his breeder or owner:  at the January 1976 Keeneland Mixed Sale, he sold for $1,000--a pittance.  And the little horse with no name was nothing to look at that day:  small and plainly-bred, he was a mess when he stepped into the sales' ring.   He had long hair and a weak chest.  Was back at the knee and had blood all over his face from hitting his head in his stall just before he was brought out.  It's a wonder that even $1,000 was paid for the undersized yearling.

But John Calloway saw at least something in him, so $1,000 changed hands and the nameless horse was on the first leg of the journey that would take him to racing stardom.

Calloway is credited with naming the horse after an American folk legend, John Henry, a "steel-driving man." The horse, even as a youngster, had a habit of grabbing the steel water buckets off the wall of his stalls and stomping them flat.   He was gelded both or his poor breeding and for his temperament.  (Obviously the gelding did nothing to affect his attitude.)  

Did this horse have anger issues?   No doubt.  Could he be trained to channel that rage into something positive, and breathtakingly beautiful?  Absolutely.

(Note here that the human John Henry was Black, probably a slave or prisoner.  The very fact that a Black American hero grew out of 19th Century American mythology at a time when civil rights wasn't even a glimmer of a thought--is an indication of the power of the archetype.  The power of such an archetype is the defining Truth of these two beings who shared a name:  that, being of disadvantaged birth, one could become a legend, a folk song, an American Hero.  And the other, a racing Champion of monstrous proportion, the yardstick by which other horses are measured.)

His physical conformation never changed, of course:  it was his attitude, his heart--those untouchable attributes that define the difference between a horse who ends up pulling an Amish buggy and one of the greatest Thoroughbred Champions of all time.  Lovers of all horse breeds know about heart:  it can't be touched with the hands, but we know it when we see it.   

It was that heart that gave him the drive to run faster, farther than hundreds of competitors.  It was something from so far down in the horse's self that probably even he didn't understand it, he just went with it.

Eighty-three times John Henry entered a race, and 39 of those times, he chewed up his opponents and spit them out.  Eighty-three entries is remarkable, by today's American racing standards:  many American horses who've received Eclipse Awards raced no more than five times in a year.  Most three-year-olds who did reasonably well in 2010 are now retired to stud or broodmare duty.  

John Henry, being a gelding, had no such lush retirement on the horizon:  he raced through his ninth year, and resoundingly won six of his nine entries that year.  Proving that Thoroughbreds really do get better with age--at least, that Thoroughbred--he would not be the poster boy for early retirement of a horse.

From that first sale at Keeneland until Sam Rubin found him, John Henry bounced around from owner to owner  until he was three.  But then Sam Rubin bought him for $25,000, sight-unseen, in 1978, and the tide began to turn.  The three-year-old had achieved a bit on the track at that point, but no records had been broken, no predictions of greatness made.  His so-so race record was no doubt attributable to his unstable lifestyle.

Sam Rubin knew nothing about horses--he thought that "gelding" was a color.  Rubin needed guidance and insight from someone who knew horses, including colors.   At first the horse was under the tutelage of trainer Robert Donato, who saw the horse's grass potential.  (He was small, but he had big feet.)  Donato took the horse successfully to six straight victories that year, for a total of $120,000--and from cheap claimer to stakes winner.  This was a tremendous leap for the awkward little horse who had been dismissed at birth.  

The next year the owner and trainer had a disagreement on policy and parted company, and John Henry was given to a new trainer, Lefty Nickerson.  With Nickerson,  he won four of 11 races in 1979, but when the grass season in New York was over, Rubin suggested sending his horse to California.   Nickerson believed that his friend, Ron McAnally, should be entrusted with the horse with rising potential.    By now John Henry was four, and had earned $239,613.  

This new arrangement was a match made in Heaven--or at least in the Racing Hall of Fame.   The team of McAnally and John Henry won 27 of 45 races, and earned $6,358,334 by the time the 83rd race was run and won.

Apparently John Henry trusted McAnally as much as he could trust a human.  And the trainer knew how to work with such a horse, to take that powerful rage and properly shapeshift it into the relief of running fast, far and leaving the competition in the dust.

At the age of five--five is the age at which Thoroughbreds are fully grown--John Henry discovered himself.  It was as if he'd found his footing, and his role in Life.  The lightbulb went off, and he Got It.  That year his star shot up into the sky, as he won the Hialeah Turf Cup; San Juan Capistrano; San Luis Rey and the Oak Tree Invitational.  In 1980, John Henry won $925,217 in purse money, and was named Champion Male Turf Horse of 1980. (Eclipse Awards)

The horse was on a roll:  at age six, John Henry won the first of his two consecutive Santa Anita Handicaps; the San Luis Rey; the inaugural Arlington Million and the Jockey Club Gold Cup at Belmont Park.   He racked up many honors, including Eclipse Awards for Champion Male Turf Horse, Champion Older Horse, and Horse of the Year.  His earnings for 1981 totaled $1,798,030.

But at age six, John Henry was far from done--he had races to win, and money to take from his rivals.  His eighth and ninth years did not see him slowing down--if anything, he got better with age.  This flies in the face, completely, of the American "wisdom" that dictates that a good horse's best days are during that third year.  As an eight-year-old, he won the American Handicap and the Hollywood Turf Cup. He was also named Champion Male Turf Horse. 

As if to put an exclamation point on his bold statement of superiority, John Henry won--earned--$2,336,650 when he was nine years old.  That is absolutely unheard-of in American Thoroughbred racing.  In fact, many three-year-olds retire with a bankroll that size after two successful years--and use the figure as bragging rights in the stallion advertising pages.  

But in that ninth, final season of racing, John Henry won the Golden Gate Handicap; Hollywood Invitational; Sunset Handicap; Budweiser Arlington Million; Turf Classic and Ballantine's Scotch Classic.  That year he trounced the competition in these six extraordinary races, and was once again named Eclipse Champion Male Turf Horse and Horse of the Year.  

Hialeah Turf Cup Handicap (1980)

San Gabriel Handicap (1980)

Oak Tree Turf Championship (1980, 1981, 1982)

Hollywood Invitational Handicap (1980, 1981, 1984)

San Luis Rey Hanicap (1980, 1981)

Santa Anita Handicap (1981, 1982)

Arlington Million (1981, 1984)

Jockey Club Gold Cup (1981)

Turf Classic Invitational (1984)

Sunset Handicap (1984)

(Note the two Arlington Millions and two Santa Anita Handicaps--and the prestigious Jockey Club Gold Cup.)

*  two as Horse of the Year (1981 and 1984)

*  four as Champion Turf Horse (1980, 1981, 1983, 1984) and 

*  one as Champion Older Male. (1981)

In more recent years, other horses have surpassed his earnings--but he still holds the records for turf horses or for geldings.

So how did retirement set with John Henry, whose only documentable moments of joy were known running with the wind in his mane and his back-end facing his opponents?  

Rather well, as it turns out.  The great hero spent the last 22 years of his life being adored by legions of fans at the Kentucky Horse Park in Lexington.  From his stall on the end of the Hall of Champions, John could reach out to nip an unsuspecting passer-by, to neigh jealously when Cigar or another warrior was being admired.  He was as close to his public as he'd ever been--at last, the throngs who'd worshipped him at the track could get (almost) up-close and personal with the one horse in racing who genuinely represented The Average Guy.

With his own (large) paddock outside his backdoor, John Henry could run around, enjoying the luscious Kentucky sunshine, tearing the famous Blue Grass out of the ground and impressing visitors with his prowess.  His ability to show off the moves that brought him fame and fortune diminished nary a bit through the years, until the summer of 2007, when kidney problems set in following a vicious heat wave that sapped him of his energy and ability to process fluids correctly.  

This writer met him in person just four days before he was euthanized in early October that year--and even four days before his end, he was standing; interacting intelligently and genuinely; and eating and drinking with the voracity of a pirate on shore leave.  If he was in pain, he didn't let on--he was true-to-form right to the end.

John Henry was euthanized at 7:05PM on October 8th, 2007, surrounded by many who loved him.  Jockey Chris McCarron, who'd ridden the warrior horse in many remarkable stakes races, had the opportunity to spend several hours with him before the veterinarian arrived.  He was buried on the night of his death, in front of the Hall of Champions and right in front of his paddock.  Above him there is a stone inscribed with these words,

"If tears could build a stairway, and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to Heaven, and bring you home again."   

There is also a statue of him standing proudly--how else could he be depicted?--holding court, staring at the throngs that flocked to see him wherever he appeared.   Engraved under the bronze are the words used to describe his classic brilliance in his 1984 Arlington Million win: 

John Henry was living, breathing, kicking proof that pedigree doesn't tell the whole story.  

Contemporary horse purveyors and buyers would do well to look only as far back as 1975 - 1984 to realize that a horse is as good as he thinks he is.  No amount of math, science, ritual or genetic calculations can accurately predict if the mating of This Mare with This Sire will produce That Champion.  We have ample examples of horses who brought millions of dollars, only to trip over their own feet the first time they walk out of the stall, and languish with a lifetime of bucked shins.  

No, a Champion, as John Henry proved time and again, is born--not of great parentage, but of spark, guts, spirit and sheer will.  There was no reason, by conventional breeding "wisdom," why John Henry should have done anything other than cross the road with some level of intelligence.  Truly he represents America more than perhaps many Americans would wish to admit.  Many in the US have risen from a birth of ashes to prominence and uncountable wealth--but they work hard to hide the story of their humble start.  If anything, John Henry would have them proudly display their blue-collar heritage, because it is that gritty beginning, that hard-knocking, ugly-duckling determination--that is the stuff of a true Champion.  

Anyone can buy pedigree, but no one can buy (with any degree of accuracy) a Champion if the horse doesn't have the soul of a predator.  Indeed John Henry was a predator, a hero, an example for Everyman.  He was born a serf, and died the Emperor in the Sport of Kings.

I was further inspired to think about this topic today, when I checked Google Analytics for this blog.  In the last 24 hours, people from 76 different countries read this blog (a fact for which I am grateful)--but the thing that struck me, a slap right in the forehead, was that many of the countries represented by those 76 people, "hate" each other.  That is, the administration of Country X is a sworn enemy of Country Y.  And yet, individuals living in their nations love horses, and are out here in CyberSpace, that neutral territory--reading stuff about horses that soothes their souls, and makes them smile.  Seventy-six nations, some of which have the ability to destroy our Earth.  But the good people of these nations, well, they just-plain love horses, and seek horse info on the Internet.  We meet in CyberSpace, and there's no problem.  We are unified by The Horse, and I am blessed to know so many wonderful people who feel passionately about horses.  I wish I could meet every person from each of those 76 countries, and warmly discuss our mutual obsession for The Horse.

Yes...wars and nations and sorrow...ad then we have The Horse.  Ironically, The Horse is one of the most-quiet and timid of animals on this orb.  A horse may be enormous, compared with a human in stature--but the personalities are still those of a prey animal, whose best wish on any given day is to Get Along, and to live in peace.

So I was delighted as I watched Sanford and Son, even saying aloud, "Cool.  Someone connected to that show knew about Thoroughbreds!"

Now we fast-forward only about a week later, when I became aware of a wonderful mystery novel, Fender Mason, by Bernie Orenstein.  Hmmmm...the name, "Bernie Orenstein" rang a bell, but I could not figure out why.  So I Googled the man, and, well--Synchronicity, Man, Synchronicity--Bernie Orenstein produced and wrote many of the television shows with which I grew up, and watched in high school.

It seems that his first major gig as producer (or one of the first) was at the helm of none other than That Girl--no kidding.  And yes, Sanford and Son was his production, as well.  No wonder the show had the ring of Truth about it--he was the horseman who made sure that those facts about Thoroughbreds were accurate.  (Would that, 40 years later, Hollywood was as conscientious when throwing around Horse Facts.)

Add to this the fact that he's a legitimate horseman--his Sheridan Farms produced some nice Thoroughbreds, indeed--and you have the formula for a mystery book  that rings true on every page.  Bernie has chops in entertainment, racing and writing, and currently shares his storehouse of knowledge with lucky students at Long Island University, where he acts as Associate Professor of Television History.

Fender Mason is the most-fun read I've had in a long time.  Yes, it's a legitimate murder mystery--our hero, Fender, gets his first taste of horse ownership and the Saratoga high life, all while dodging danger and solving a murder.  I love it that Fender is an Everyman: just a guy, not spectacular in looks or savvy.  He's a mensch,  trying to make his way in life.  That Dame Fortune puts him in a sticky situation, and leaves him to solve it--makes his profound humanity all-the-more appealing.

If you love great writing, and enjoy murder mysteries--this book is for you.  

If you love horses, and don't have much use for murder mysteries--this book is still for you.  As you get excited about the horses, and Lexington, and Saratoga, and identifying places that you know, you'll find yourself drawn into the plot.  Like a spider, winking and giving you eye contact in order to lure you into her web--Fender Mason, the book and the protagonist--will catch you off-guard.  You like him because he's so real.  You stay for the story to unfold because you really, really want him to do well.  

And before you know it--you're hot on his heels, solving a mystery for which he didn't really sign up--but which he takes on because, well, it's his destiny to be in that place, at that time.

You can read reviews of Fender Mason on Amazon.com (see link, below), or you can check out Barnes & Noble online, or Xlibris.  The book is available on Kindle and Nook--and my all-time favorite way to read a book--good, old-fashioned paper. 

If you read one book in 2012--a book that should become a movie, if anyone in Hollyweird has the smarts to do it--this is the book.  (Bernie, if you can hear me--I'm beggin' to write the screenplay with you...)

;)

Onward, through the fog, through the thick, black Kentucky and Saratoga nights--with my new friend, Fender Mason.  This is one bet for which winning is guaranteed.

http://www.amazon.com/Fender-Mason-Bernie-Orenstein/dp/146284846X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1326404159&sr=1-1

Fender Mason by Bernie Orenstein, (C) 2011

Xlibris (publisher)

ISBN:  Softcover:  978-1-4628-4846-1

          Hardcover:  978-1-4628-4945-1

Anyway.  Take the need to write, and complicate that place of perpetual insanity by the passionate, no-holds-barred love for The Horse.  Now you have a potentially dangerous person on your hands:  while the rest of the world may view the horse writer as a quiet, mousy introvert who keeps to themselves and lives with a cat...  

...the reality is that you have a person who would run over another human with a train if a horse was in danger--and who would park the train immediately, and whip out a notebook or iPad computer, to document the experience while it's still fresh in the mind.  Then turn the notes into a screenplay, "...the next great horse movie."

No, writers--as one of my heroes, Richard Castle (the fictitious--or not?--lead character of ABC's "Castle," expertly played by the gorgeous Nathan Fillion)--as Richard Castle would say--we writers are a wily, dangerous bunch.  Never underestimate us.

As anyone who knows me knows, I've been a lover of Thoroughbred horses and horse racing since I was four.  That would make me a fan, since I celebrated my fourth birthday almost 52 years ago. 

But, as you also know--in the last three years, I've fallen in love with Arabian horses.  And I love Arabian horse racing, and the amazing community of people from all over the world who make it happen.  As much as I adore my peeps who do Thoroughbreds--I have to say I've never felt as welcome in the Thoroughbred world as I feel with the Arabian race horse family of lovers/owners/breeders/trainers/jocks/bloodstock agents/etc. 

I am blessed with an awesome group of friends, with whom I hang at the races--especially in Our Backstretch--I wouldn't trade them for the world.  Ad I know some dear, sweet trainers, owners, exercise riders, etc.  I am never happier than during those six weeks in August, surrounded by thousands of horses and many humans whom I adore and respect.

But the Arabian racing community welcomed me as Family from even before I met them in person.  No, really.  Every single person I've met in Arabian racing treats me like a long-lost Family member.  Hugs, kisses, gracious hospitality.  I feel like a combination rock star/beloved sister/niece/friend.  I'm not sure where I fall in the Arabian racing world--all I know is that, from the first time I extended my hand to shake an Arabian owner's hand--and got a hug, instead--never have I felt like an outsider.

I'm still learning about Arabians and the sport of racing them--but no one treats me like a newbie, or someone who can't learn the ropes.  I look forward to every Arabian race with joyous anticipation, because I know that I'll get that warm, genuinely-fuzzy, not-faux feeling of warm acceptance.

Nice feeling to know.

And that, my friends, is precisely why I started an organization for peeps like me.  

Effective immediately, the Arabian Turf Writers' Association is in session.   We have a fine example to follow:  the National Turf Writers' Association is for writers who cover Thoroughbred racing, and they do some wonderful things along the way.  (I'm not a member...yet.  Not sure how that process plays out, even.  Perhaps I'm not eligible for some reason?  Note to self:  Figure out the  NTWA, and how to join.)  

But even though I'm not-yet a member, I've attended the  New York Turf Writers' Dinners in Saratoga, and witnessed first-hand the fact that the group encourages sister-and-brotherhood among the members.  People who are wild about horse racing, and about writing about the sport.  Camaraderie with  people of like mind.  They do good for many others--horse and human, alike--AND strive with the race tracks and everyone else in the sport, to help grow the industry.

(Really, every professional sport should have organizations of people who write about the sport.  Not that I give a tiny rat's patootie about any sport that doesn't involve a horse.  Gigantic male people and a ball of some shape--but no horse?  Who cares?  Just sayin'.)

;)

The United States Harness Writers Association, as well, covers Standardbred harness racing, and works with that industry to assure that their sport has maximum exposure.  So many well-penned articles and publications--by people who are knowledgeable and passionate about their horses and their endeavours.  Now, that, too, is what I'm talkin' about.

And then we come to Arabian horse racing.  Ironic that the oldest-extant breed of horse on Earth--the Arabian, whose countenances can be seen gracing Egyptian jars from 5,000 years ago,  the breed that has inspired millions of people for over five millenia--should not have an organized effort by writers to share the love.

One of the main jobs of writers is to inspire--someone--to do/think/do/want--something.  The National Turf Writers' Association has many members who inspire people to learn about Thoroughbreds, and the sport.  To come on out to the track, and become part of the family.  Ibid., The United States Harness Writers Association--they are helping to grow the sport of harness racing in America, by sharing their joy and the fun of harness racing with readers from all over the world.

So I sat back and looked at these things...and I Googled the heck out of various configurations of the words, and of phrases...and could not find an organization, anywhere on this blue marble we call, Earth--that addresses the need of those who write about Arabian racing, to come together as a sororo-fraternity.  And I think that is a darned shame.

It's a shame because there are many of us out there, I'll bet, who write about Arabian racing.  You may be in Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Sweden, Iraq, Qatar, Russia, Bahrain, Australia, the United States, Canada--or Mars.  You may have a blog, a regular column in a local newspaper or own a magazine, for which you write the majority of the content.

And most of all--I want us to put our words together, and to help grow the sport of Arabian horse racing.  Yes, in man parts of the world, it has a solid foundation and centuries of followers.  And in other parts of God's Green Earth, it's still in the growing stages.  And that's cool--wherever Arabian racing is in its path, we want to help it to prosper and achieve the biggest dreams possible.

I know one thing:  if the National Turf Writers' Association states as one of its goals, that they aim to participate in the growth of Toroughbred racing--then so, too, should those of us who write about Arabian racing aim to aid this sport.   We should state as a goal that we promise to  work with race tracks, owners, breeders, bloodstock agents, jockeys, exercise riders and other media--to help enlighten the public to this beautiful sports. 

If you write about Arabian horse racing--or if you want to--I invite you to join the Arabian Turf Writers' Association.  If you love Arabian horses, and never thought of writing before--but would like to be encouraged, and perhaps to find your way in the sport as a turf writer--please come along, we will encourage you.

If you love three other breeds of horse, and follow a dozen other disciplines--but still, Arabian racing has caught your fancy--yes, we want you to write with us, to become part of the sport.  We welcome you into our society of Arabian turf writers.

There's nothing, anywhere, that states that you can't be a rabid fan of two or more breeds of racing horse, my friends and colleagues.  I am living proof, that the heart can be wholly handed over--and passion shared--to both my beloved Thoroughbreds, and now to my treasured Arabians.  I write about Thoroughbred racing, I write about Arabian racing--and I see no conflict there.  Anyone who tells you that you must pick one is, well, acting like a 12-year-old.  

Wherever you are on the planet--if you love Arabian racing, write about them or want to--please join the Arabian Turf Writers' Association.  In the coming months, we'll elect officers for the first year; design website and all that.

But for today, we have a declaration:  the Arabian Turf Writers' Association has broken from the gate...and...we're...OFF!

:)

P.S.  The second book in my children's series (The Alpha Mare Series) stars Alia, an Arabian horse who was born to race.  I anticipate that Alia's book will be released early in 2012.  And, yes, the heroine of my book is named for HRH Princess Alia Bint Al Hussein of Jordan, with her permission and blessing.  I did a phone interview 11 days ago with HRH Princess Alia, and am turning that into an article for the next issue of Desert Mirage magazine.  Stay Tuned for more Arabian racing stuff--and write me at

The Alpha Mare Series on Caballo Press:

http://www.caballopress.com/AboutClaudeClydesdale.html

Desert Mirage magazine:
www.desertmiragemagazine.com

Once here, the horse quickly found favor (again) with the indigenous people, the Native Americans.  The horse and human were reunited in a way that would serve both of them well:  the horse had found the human community that would appreciate and nurture her--and the aboriginal Americans had their perfect colleague.  Whether in war or peace, the horse and Native Americans were side-by-side, for the next 400 years.

The role of the horse in America always has been as builder, companion traveler and warrior.  Sgt. Reckless was not the first of her species to come to the aid of her fellow soldiers: the noble equine has accompanied American soldiers in virtually every war that has taken place on this land--and where Americans fought, elsewhere--until recently.  The French and Indian War; American Revolution; War of 1812; the Texas Revolution; the War Between the States; Spanish-American War--the list goes on.  Whether the cause was right or wrong, when the administrators sent soldiers into battle--the horse, without judging or rejection of the assignment--accompanied their human counterparts without flinching.   They fought and died at Ticonderoga, Saratoga, Gettysburg, the Alamo, Pusan and the Philippiines.

Even today, a police horse, walking city streets anywhere in America--with their uniformed rider, ready to take down the bad guys--is a reminder of the storied past, of the shared toil,  bravery and possible death faced by those equines who did not volunteer, but who served without faltering.

It goes without saying that, without horses, America, itself, might not exist.  When not performing military duty, they helped create this country in ways that no other species--including human--could.  On their backs, the west was forged.  Farms from New England to California were plowed because of raw, original horsepower.  The strength of the mighty equine was the envy of every strong man, and his savior on many occasions.   Their role even played out in the creation of American English language, itself:  the steam train was referred to as the "iron horse."  And "horsepower" still is used to measure the sheer force of an automotive engine.

It should be argued that the horse was the single-most valuable tool in the creation of the United States--and the fighting of her wars.  If the phrase, "no hoof, no horse" is true (and it is)--then we might also coin the phrase, "no horse, no country."

And yet, like the Korean War, the vital role of America's horses has become all-but forgotten--or at least, ignored by those who stand to profit by the species' destruction in various venues.  This most-valuable of animals, who, because of their very nature, become beloved members of families, combat units, work crews and athletic contests--should be revered, loved and treasured.

Five-thousand years ago, Bedouins in the Middle East found it very easy to bring the horse right into their tents, their families and their communities.  They recognized the deep connection between our two species--their descendants today adhere to that philosophy of reverence.

We in the United States should not have to fight to protect our horses--both wild and domesticated.  The species has served us long and well, proving itself time and again to be far-more loyal than any dog; stronger of body than any human could fathom and more intelligent than the majority of the people with whom they live and work.

And yet...and yet this otherworldly gift, this friend, this loving animal, this...horse...is fighting for the right to live--just live--in 21st Century America.  

As cattle ranchers and the Ag Lobby require more and more land, the wild horse is labeled a pest.  The grasses that they eat, it is reasoned, should be reserved for the cattle who will be butchered and sold for a pretty penny.  The horses take up space, and so they must go.  This is not the opinion of 99% of the American people--but unfortunately that opinion is not acknowledged.  (A few enlightened politicians, listening to their hearts, try to help the wild horse--but they are crushed, time after time, by their colleagues who--I doubt not--are luncheon guests of lobbyists. And it's a dangerous thing when politicians get into bed with special interest groups, the goal of which are to destroy God's natural world.)

The wild horses are fighting for the right to exist, and American nobility such as Madeleine Pickens and Bo Derek are fighting tooth-and-nail to secure the safety of these most-precious of our natural resources.  If money, alone, could make the wild horses' plight "all better"--the horses would be safe.  But the issue at-hand is the politics of it:  Madeleine and Bo fly all over the country, speaking to politicians and citizens.  They go to the House of Representatives, itself.  God knows that their hearts are in the right place:  they're using their own resources--financial, spiritual and emotional--to save the wild horses.   They even offer to find and provide places for the horses to live out their natural lives.  

But if the politicians are dining with the enemy--and if the BLM (the government agency) is not made by Congress to toe the line and actually to do the job for which the Bureau was created--to protect America's wild resources--then the horses will continue to stampede each other to death as helicopters fly low over their frightened, exhausted herds.  Horses are the living embodiment of kindness, gentleness-of-heart and loyalty--running them off their land is tantamount to the destruction of Goodness, itself.

And then we have the slaughter issue.  I could describe the horror of horse slaughter, the inherent cruelty of the event.  The fact that only a sadist could carry out the exsanguination of a horse.

I could, but I don't have to--because you've seen it a hundred times via video.  Those who anesthetize themselves to sleep at night because they buy horses to sell to Mexican and Canadian slaughterhouses call themselves, "brokers."  That's what they have to put on their business cards, because the phrase, "Killer Buyer" doesn't look pretty when printed right there, for everyone to see.

The auction houses at which the Amish dump their horses, after  nearly driving them into the ground--the houses don't care whether you buy that filly for your daughter to ride, or to be shipped thousands of miles in obscenely illegal conditions, to face a fate that no living being ever should meet.

Horse slaughter has got to end in the United States.  Americans don't eat horsemeat.   We are not cannibals--we don't eat our companions.  

So for the Congress of the United States to allow language that waffles  just enough to allow the shipment of horses to the other two countries in North America where horse slaughter is legal--is nothing short of betrayal of the very constituents who voted those same politicians into office.

I wonder if the act of betraying your constituents can be considered to be an offense as severe as treason?  Someone check the Constitution, we may have precedence to impeach the lot of them.  If a Congressman or -woman (or anyone who actually has committed treason) is unnerved by  the thought of facing a firing squad because they've committed that crime against the People of the United States--I wonder if then, they might consider the terror in the heart of a horse who is about to be bolted in the forehead, throat slit and strung up by a rear hoof as their blood flows out of their bodies while they're still alive.

And those in Congress who vote in favor of slaughter, as it tries to sneak its way back into the United States--and takes horses, every single day, to the killing shed--those people should be ashamed of themselves.  They have betrayed not only the People of our country, they have betrayed the nation, itself.

For what is a nation, if not the collective history and contributors to that story?  If horses had not been here to fight, die, plow, forge--for humans whose ambitions saw one nation, under God--there would be no United States of America.  

American horses are the forgotten veterans of American wars, the heroes and heroines without whom we would not exist in this place, on this day.  Veterans' Day just past here in the United States, and at 11PM that night, I thought about The Forgotten Veterans.  I cried for the horses who generously, without malice or resentment, helped humans create greatness for themselves.

And today, those who inherited that greatness--who live off the fat of the land, a generation who know the benefits but saw not the sacrifice--those descendants of the warriors, who fought side-by-saddle with the warrior horses--are willing to let the government tell us that the wild horses should be extinct, and that "unwanted horses" should be slaughtered.

News bulletin:  there's no such thing as an unwanted horse.  Someone, somewhere wants that horse.  One-hundred years ago--50 years ago, on a frozen hill in Korea--someone needed that horse.

Americans, do not allow our horses, wild and those on the slaughter truck--to be forgotten.  Before the next Veterans' Day comes around, let us commit ourselves to saving both our wild horses--the descendants of those creatures whose manes flew free as they rode under Native tack--and the horses whose plaintive cries as they are beaten and slaughtered are heard only by the spirits of those horses from long ago, those who created and molded this land.  

If Americans can't or won't step up to speak for the animals to whom our nation owes a debt so large, it never can be paid--then we are no nation, no community.  

No We, the People, at all.

Surely, the Adirondacks of New York--the pristine, green mountains, lakes and rivers--must offer a respite from the radiating heat coming off the sidewalks in your city.  However you got there--the thought of all that green, cool air and interesting people made the long trip worthwhile.

Now, I have no idea how the notion came about, that Saratoga Springs should become the site of American's first formal racecourse (specifically created to race horses).  I don't know what transpired in the minds and conversations of the men who started the whole glorious thing, but I'm grateful that it did.

But here's how it played out, in the fantasyland between my ears:  It's August of 1863, just one month after Gettysburg's morale-destroying bloodfest.  That damned war is raging, but up here in Saratoga, well, it's possible to forget, at least for a while.  

John Hunter and William R. Travers are hanging out, smoking stogies and "taking the waters," as it were, with their water-drinkin' buddy, John Morrissey.  (Spike that mineral water with some good ole' Kentucky bourbon--war or no war, this is Bourbon.)  

So the three fellows are running out of entertainments, and waiting for their respective wives to show up for the evening supper on the enormous verandah of the Grand Union Hotel on Broadway.  

Travers turns to Hunter, and says simply,

Hunter, one eyebrow raised, removes his cigar from his lips, almost laughing at the thought of Travers' horse having the ability to best his prized steed:

And...BOOM!  Like the Big Bang at Moment One, from this one conversation, and the need for two friends who had everything--but craved the thrill that comes from whipping the tar out of your best friend--grew the oldest and most-respected sporting venue of any kind in the United States, and therefore, the oldest racetrack in America.

Now, granted, this brief dialogue is my take on the Founding Moment--but I can't imagine that the beginning of the whole shebang could have come about any other way.  A simple challenge,man-to-man, that altered the course of history, and for the good.

Hunter would go on to become the first Chairman of the Jockey Club,and Travers--well, he would be honoured with a race named for him, the oldest Grade 1 stakes race in America, at the track he founded.

However it played out, in 1863, in the middle of a horrible war, America was a land of broken hearts and shredded dreams.  In 1863, Hunter and Travers gave their countrymen something--not just a distraction, a whimsical experience--they gave the people Hope.  It may have sounded frivolous at the time, even to some of their companions--it may sound frivolous to you even now.

But it was not frivolous, in fact, it was essential.  We have a contemporary analogy, in fact:  Iraq. Even as I write this, Iraq is beset with strife.  The country is torn in a million directions, with a government that's trying to give the people what they need to grow and prosper, again, as a nation.  The Republic of Iraq has been torn by war for far-too-long.

And in the middle of all this strife--the Baghdad Equestrian Club continues to race horses.   The BBC, NPR and USA Today all have done stories on the track, and the miracle that--in the middle of a literal and figurative warzone--the races go on.  People love their horses:  the races give them joy and hope--and for a few minutes, at least--life seems to be normal for the patrons, owners, breeders and administrators who keep this lively tradition going.  The Arabian horse, the 5,000-year-old breed that accompanied every Arab, every Iraqi, through five millennia of life, love, war and peace--continues, to this day, to offer comfort and joy to the women and men who breed, love and race them.

So horse racing and war are two concepts,the paths of which have crossed many times over the centuries.  And every time--it's the horses, and the racing, that keep the people going in a way that no USO show could do.

"There's something about the outside of a horse that's good for the inside of a man," said the venerable Winston Churchill--and he knew the power of that Truth.  He knew war, he knew horses, and he knew that horses may be the best soul-builder--whether the horse took you into battle, or brought your spirit out of it.

And so it was in 1863...and is, today.  And on August 3, 2013, Saratoga Springs will celebrate with NYRA--the New York Racing Association--the wonderful wisdom that was exercised by those men, one month after Gettysburg.  Saratoga Race Course--and thereby, racing in America--will be 150 years old on that golden day.  A sesquicentennial is cause for major celebration: the fact that this historic party will take place in one of the loveliest cities on God's green Earth--that just adds to the allure of the months-long party that's being planned by the Saratoga150 Committee.

The Saratoga150 Committee is comprised of some of Saratoga's--and racing's--most industrious and hard-working people.  This Committee is not a "name-only" group, folks who want the glory but none of the work:  au contraire, mon frere.  At a recent Committee meeting--to which the public was invited, and at which many Saratoga-region organizations were represented--the Committee came packin' packets of information, applications, calendars and guildelines for everyone who may wish to become part of the big, five-month-long party in 2013.

Charles Wait, President of the Adirondack Trust Company; Maureen Lewi of Lewi and Associates and Joe Dalton, former President of the Saratoga County Chamber of Commerce (now, JD Consulting)--led the meeting.  NYRA was wonderfully represented by Joanne Adams, as were every major racing and Saratoga city and county NGO.

Everyone in attendance reported that the air was electric with excitement--and anticipation.  (Funny,that word, "electric," keeps popping up.)  From the bantering of the Committee members to their gracious acknowledgement of those of us who braved an October snowstorm to attend--the dialogue was sharp, crisp and intelligent.  The Committee members were generous: they opened this meeting to the public precisely so that as many as wish to participate--can. This is not a secret society of socialites, but rather community and racing leaders who want to share the joy of celebration with their neighbors.

The names on the Saratoga150 Committee are illustrious, but that's not the point, or the Big Deal here.  The Big Deal is that these people--hard workers, all, who built businesses, racing stables and the city of Saratoga Springs, itself--are taking a year-and-a-half of their lives to create the greatest birthday party in the history of horse racing.

We who know and love Saratoga Race Course believe that it's the most beautiful race track in the world.   Saratoga150 will be our opportunity to participate as we feel called, and to welcome the world to our gracious, graceful playhouse.  So much history has taken place here:  the world's greatest Thoroughbreds;  the best jockeys; most accomplished trainers and owners--all have come here, for a century-and-a-half, because this place...ah, this surreally-beautiful place...represents The Best in American and world horse racing.  Almost from the moment of its inception, Saratoga Race Course has hosted the highest-standard of racing in the world--and it's just getting better.

Every year, Opening Day is electric.  The moment that Sam the Bugler plays Call to the Post for the first race on the first day of every meet--you can feel the excitement, bouncing off the hair on your arms.  Sam plays, the crowd screams and the horses begin their war dances onto the track--and into the history books.  

But,oh, just wait:  Call to the Post played on the first race on the first day of the year that celebrates 150 years of the races--our races--will be like no other moment in racing history.  Hearts will soar, as high as the rainbows that occasionally land right on the track.

No, Sam won't play those first notes on the exact 150th anniversary of the founding of the track--but it won't matter.  He'll play his first post call a couple of weeks shy of August 3rd--but no one will notice, for this First Call will be the one that kicks off the best racing season, ever.  The Saratoga150 Committee will have something special brewing for August 3--the exact date that our track was founded.  But during the weeks and months just prior, the committee will lead us in a series of parties and celebrations such as Saratoga never has seen before.  I am confident that the Committee will strive to welcome everyone who legitimately wants to help celebrate the founding of America's oldest and most prestigious race meet.

Saratoga150 is a party.  It's a concept.  It's a Committee of people whom I admire--and it's the  chance for the world to pay a visit, to meet Saratogians and to feel more welcome here than in their own homes.  If you're not from Saratoga, come in 2013, and stay for the longest, best sesquicentennial celebration, ever.  Savor Saratoga hospitality, and drink in the ambience of this unique place.  Attend the races, and every Saratoga150 event you can.  

Saratoga150 simply is this:  the home of America's oldest race course, the birthplace of American horse racing, a city and race track that welcome you, with arms wide open.

They're in the gate.  Roy, the Head Starter, is waiting for that golden nanosecond when all is calm--then he trips the trigger, and releases the energy as the horses explode from the gate, and into our hearts, once again.  How many times has this scene played out in 150 years?  How often during those years have horses carried human hearts on their backs, and over the finish line to victory?

Come here, and let the horses carry you away, as they've done  for 150 years.  Look back long enough to thank Hunter, Travers--and yes, Morrissey--then move forward with us, as we work together to assure that the next 150 years of racing does justice and honour to those whose vision, insight and inspiration changed American sports forever...on that blistering August day, so long ago.

Photo credits:  

Saratoga150 logo:  Thanks to Saratoga150 Committee
Saratoga Race Course Clubhouse photo and Saratoga Logo:  Thanks to NYRA/Adam Coglianese

1) to make the sport more nurturing for horses and 

2) to make the sport more egalitarian for women and girls.  Penny opened the doors for me to live my vocation, that of a horse-racing writer--and I'm trying to make good on my declaration of intent.

I doubt that I'm an influential woman in horse racing (either Arabian or Thoroughbred)--yet-- but I do know that, one at a time, I've helped encourage some women and girls to follow their horse-vocation dreams.  Every first meeting with these bright young women has occurred in a moment of opportunity, and, like Gharraa, (who pricks her ears every time she hears, Call to the Post) --my ears go up every time I meet a young person--girl or boy--who loves horses, and wishes they could figure out how to be involved with the horse world.

You and I, horselovers all, know the peace that comes from being around a horse.  I confess here that I am entirely selfish:  I write about horses for one reason,  that when I'm around them, they share their stillness with me.  I have found my vocation, and that calling allows me the indulgence of being around horses almost as often as I need.  

You who work hands-on with horses get to experience the quiet joy every day--how blessed are you!

Young people are no different:  those young hearts who hear the call of the horse yearn to be with them all the time.  

But chances are that they don't know that it's possible to forge a career out of their passion, using their God-given talents.  I'm an Alumna of Mount Holyoke College--a prominent women's school in the U.S.--and our equestrian team is usually #1 in the country. If not #1, pretty high-up in the rankings.  

Mount Holyoke equestriennes are among the best in the world.

But I've had many conversations over the past eight years, with Alumnae who rode while in college--and not a one of them dreamed that she could have taken that passion for her horse into her career life after graduation.  That doesn't even make sense to me:  how can the world's oldest college for women--an institution that offers a brilliant education--not inform its students who ride horses, that working with horses after graduation is an option?

On the flip side of that coin exist the children who've never even met a horse, but for whom the horse can be a source of healing and unexpected acceptance.  So many children, in so many circumstances--whether elementary school-age, or in high school--live marginal lives, with no access to horses. 

Entirely too many of those dear souls will end up in prison, or dead, because of unwise choices; circumstance or the feeling of hopelessness that enshrouds them from early-on. Too many of them will go from being lost boys and girls, sweet young children--to becoming hated and feared drug dealers, prostitutes with no hope or gang members who join because the gang is the only community that made them feel accepted.

Both of these groups of young people--those who already love horses, but are unaware of career choices--and those who are living on the edge, with no seeming way out--can be fulfilled, dare I say, saved--by the mighty equine.

This is where you and I come in, and the Million Mare--and Male--March Challenge.  Today is  October 17, 2011.  One year from yesterday, October 16, 2012, we will end the Challenge.  

Whether you share your passion, your vocation and your horse with a youth who already loves horses, but has no idea that s/he can have a joyous career working with horses--or with a child from a rotten life situation (or, painful situation), who desperately needs the acceptance that only a horse can offer--however it plays out, you will have helped shape a young life.

This Challenge is issued to people who work with all breeds of horse, all disciplines, all over planet Earth.  

Whether you're a breeder, trainer, owner, jockey, exercise rider, dressage equestrian, barrel racer, reining pro, trick rider, groom, barn foreman, farm manager, farrier, veterinarian, administrator of a racing association, writer, editor, artist, photographer, handicapper, turf writer,  publisher, assistant starter, author, head starter, security guard at a racetrack, horse van driver, marketing professional, association director or polo grounds--whatever your sport, whichever your breed--you are needed to make this Challenge work. If you work with horses, or in an equine industry--we want you.

We've all said--and God knows, we've all jotted it down at some time on our Facebook walls--that one horse at a time, we can have world peace.  And I do believe that.  

As I write this tonight, and you read it, there are one million young hearts out there who need you--who need us.  (I know that my friends in the Arabian Jockey Club, who breed, love and race Arabians--will be on-board with this project.  The gentle equine imps who've ruled the desert for 5,000 years also rule the spirit of humanity, and guide their people to step outside themselves almost daily.   And I'm sure  that many of my pals in Thoroughbred racing--besides Gary Contessa--feel the same sense of commitment as my Arabian racing colleagues. Both breeds of horse lend themselves to healing the human heart.)  

And we know that all breeds have that ability, to reach inside a human and introduce wholeness, health and well-being.  It's we humans who sometimes need to make the conscious effort to put together our treasured steeds with a kid, or a teen.  

These youths, both little ones and teens--need horses, and they need a guiding hand to get them there.

I'm not asking you to take someone under your wing, to become a foster brother or sister to them.  The relationship need be only a one-experience moment:   I'm not demanding a commitment on your part that I could not make myself.  I don't have the time or resources to take a child or youth on a month-long junket to a ranch; to hang out with anyone one entire day a week, or adopt anyone.

All I'm asking is that you take whatever opportunity presents itself--or that you seek out--to help just one young person find her or his vocation, working with horses.  

OR that you take that opportunity to connect a child's hand and eyes with a horse, maybe for the first time.  That mutual sniff may be all a child needs to realize that s/he is not alone in the world, and there are gentle beings, these horses, who want to help them heal. 

I believe it was Dr. William J. Turnbull, the Founder of the Boys Choir of Harlem, who said, "If I show beauty to a boy, he will seek it the rest of his life."

We know that honest relationship with horses.  Let us show that same love, acceptance and sincerity to a young person, whose heart longs to feel the soft breath and warm, low nicker of an eternal friend.

If you decide to look at these next 365 days as a chance to share yourself (just once!) and your optimism, with a youth--to accept the Challenge--please drop an email to me.  Then, follow-up, with a report about what happened.  It might happen tomorrow, it could happen next October 15th.  I'd love to know that you're with us on this journey, and what opportunity presented itself.

Whether you're in the UAE, Paris, South Africa, Australia, the UK, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Texas, Sweden, Canada, VietNam, Nepal or Mars--if you work with horses, or somehow in a horse-related business--we are all on the same team.  The mighty equine, the Great Unifier, has brought us together.  We may have met via Facebook, LinkedIn, at a racetrack or in a tack shop somewhere.  

  

And just think--wherever you are on Planet Earth, one year from now, we actually may be able to celebrate together, because we will have been agents of change for 1,000,000 young people.  

And those young people, in turn, may grow to become great horsewomen and horsemen--and people of great peace--all because of one hand, one heart, and one pair of eyes through which they looked and saw Beauty--perhaps for the first time.

Thank you for sharing this article, sharing the Challenge, and for joining me on this very personal march toward the future.

Peace, friends-

It's a guarantee.  Trust me, I've been there.  Almost immediately, the relationship will go from bad to horrible.  The job, well, the boss will fire you, or you'll go nuts.  (One day you'll just jump up on your desk, sing  La Bamba  and do a jaunty little Flamenco.)  And the living situation?  The drug dealers will come right into your living room, via the BoGo offer they extend to your 13-year-old.

But if you do respect the "best if used by" date on the bottom of the packaging--including Life situations--you find that the next step is a perfect fit.   The next step most often reveals itself in a synchronistic fashion, and--if you're tuned into Synchronicity, divine orchestration--you end up not only moving on, but also sitting back in wonderment for a moment.  You know for sure that you're part of The Whole Enchilada, a vital, colorful thread in the Big Tapestry of Life.

Ah, it's a horse you want, to illustrate the Theory.  We're here:   Allow me to tell you about a groovy thing that happened to me this summer.  An expiration date arrived, and I'm grateful that I had the wherewithal to read the signs, and to comply--thereby I became part of The Plan, not just an observer, or roadkill on the Inevitable Highway.  

On August 4th I attended the Equine Advocates gala dinner in Saratoga.  Always a lovely affair.  I was seated with some media colleagues for the supper.  Nice folks, all--but I speak with these particular people all the time--most at the table were friends.  So I was jonesin' for some conversation with people I don't see very often.  

With joy in my heart, I welcomed the distraction when the beautiful Suzie O'Cain  beckoned me from her table, right behind.   She called on that part of me that feels...sassy...when she said "...C'mon over here!  We need a laugh!"

(Re. "sassy":  you see, the gleam in Suzie's eye always makes me smile, something about her brings out the Rowdy Girl in me, and many other women who know and adore her.) 

I moved over, and parked my gleeful self at her table, next to a lovely woman whom I knew I'd met somewhere before.  The minute Suzie introduced me to the gracious, funny lady--I knew that an Expiration Date had been dumped into my lap. Wow.

Let's step back for a minute:  this story actually began about eight years ago.  My friend, Landa, lived in Bedford, New York, across a dirt road from a Thoroughbred farm.  The main entrance to the farm was on a paved road--but her dirt road formed another border of the farm, 'way away from the barns and such.

Landa's a lovely person, not necessarily a horse fanatic like me.   She had in her home something that she'd found--and valued--in spite of the fact that she's not obsessive about horses, and she was eager to show it to me.

It was a bird's nest made entirely of horse hair.  A teeny, itty-bitty bird's nest--no wider than 2" across.  We guessed that it may have been a hummingbird's nest, it was that small.  We couldn't fathom how tiny and fragile had been the little eggs planted there by the Mother.

This nest was one of the most magnificent things I ever, ever have seen.  Not a twig, not a feather--no building materials except long, chestnut, grey and bay hairs from the tail and mane of a horse.

And the horse, Landa informed me, was a big old fellow who hung out every day beneath his favorite tree--right across from my her front yard.  His tree was quite a walk from the barns, but my friend said that every day, that gorgeous boy would leave his barn in the morning and walk across the enormous paddocks to get to his special tree.

Well, Landa moved to New England a few years later, and shortly thereafter, I received a light-weight box in the mail.  Inside bubble-wrap, inside tissue paper, inside a tiny silver cardboard box--lay that small nest.  Her note explained that, since she no longer lived across the road from the horse who kept her company every day--and that I was in Saratoga, and such a rabid horseperson--she felt that the nest was mine, by rights.

That brings us back to 2011, and to the party in Saratoga.  As Suzie introduced me to her friend, the horsewoman, I recognized her name and face.  I yelped, "You own a farm in Bedford, don't you?!?"  She may have been taken aback, but she laughed, smiled and allowed me to gush out the story of Landa and the nest.

She was so happy to hear about it:    she loved that old horse, yes, she concurred, he spent every day under his special tree.  I believe that she said his name was Nero--to be honest, I was so jazzed about this Synchronicity that I couldn't hear very well, for the rushing of blood in my ears.

I asked if she was going to be around Saratoga for a few days: yes, she was here for the horse sales.  

A few days later, I attended the Fasig-Tipton (horse) sales.   The second night of the sales, I had a million-billion things on my mind, and was tired.  It began to rain, so I decided to pack it in about 2/3 of the way through the evening.  I hated to leave, but I was utterly exhausted, and had a long few days ahead of me.

As I sloshed through the rain, I decided at the last minute that, perhaps I should duck into the women's room before I left the vicinity.  I dashed into the closest loo, an almost sinfully beautifully bathroom in the pavilion building.  (Well, I guess if you're spending a million bucks on a horse, you might expect to have mahogany-walled stalls, yes?)

As I whipped open the big door into the room, whom did I almost belt with the heavy door, and run over?  

Of course--the horselady from Bedford.  

She smiled, we hugged each other and agreed to meet the next day so that I could show the nest to her. 

I knew, even as we exchanged that hug and conversation, that the next day I would give her the nest--it was not mine.  

Had I not left the sales early; 

had I not decided to use the women's room; 

had I not gone into that particular women's room; 

had she not been there, at that moment--

I might not have given the nest to her.

I might have convinced myself that the Expiration Date had not-yet arrived.  That it was just a cool "coincidence" that I met the woman who owned the farm where lived the horse whose hair had made my nest.

But that second meeting--ah, that was the synchronistic thump on the head from God, telling me that, yes, it was time to hand off  that lovely piece of Nature.  

The nest was no longer mine--in fact, I knew from the experience that the nest was never mine, in the first place.

I'm sure that Landa would have given the nest to the horse's owner, if she'd known her well.  But in her friendship for me, and knowing of my love for horses, she gave it to me.  Landa wanted the nest to have a good home, and it did--but really, I was just taking care of it for the rightful owner, until the time was right.

Five years after I received that delicate package in the mail, I sent the nest home.  The lovely lady and I met up the next day, and as I handed it to her, I explained that it was hers, not mine.

This tale-of-a-tail may sound overly sentimental to some of you, and to others, it will make perfect sense.  

I had in my possession something so dear, so special--a connection between two very different animals.  I loved it. It made me smile, every time I looked at it, and thought about the two beings and their relationship.  

But it was not mine, never was:  I was merely the (blessed) caretaker of the delicate abode, until time, space and God conspired to give it to its rightful owner.   It was entrusted to me for five years, and then it was gone.

The Expiration Date had arrived, and I went with it.  Had I not done as I was being instructed, I'd feel lousy today, because I'd had the opportunity to play a role in a small, yet spiritually-significant Horse Tale--and chose to ignore the signs.

Watch the signs for Expiration Dates in your own Life, my friends  Whether it's a relationship with another human, or with a possession, or even with your horse or pet cat--fear not the date, for as soon as you hand over the thing that you prize--you'll be rewarded with something far-more meaningful. 

Even if that thing is "just" a lesson, or the great peace that comes from having listened, and done The Right Thing.

In the video, a series of horses were being, well, in my opinion--abused.  In the name of "training," horses were being whipped, shanked, yanked.

Unacceptable.  Absolutely, positively--unacceptable.

Let's think about this like reasonable, supposedly-thinking, sentient beings.  I don't know about you, but if someone had a chain, rope or bit of any kind in my mouth--and was yanking it, or whipping me--I'd rebel.  I'd kick, scratch--I would respond, strongly.  

Now, put a horse in this situation.  Horses have no thumbs:  if they did, they could use their hooves to remove the offending equipment, turn around and kick the daylights out of the people who are whipping them.

But they're stuck, and--being that they're being yanked and whipped--they are frightened.  And confused:  they didn't do anything wrong, so why are they being hit?

Let's apply a little good, old-fashioned logic to this problem:  

A)  A prey animal--the horse--is being whipped by a human.  In this scenario, the human is playing the role of predator.

B)  The horse is scared.

C)  The horse responds as her instincts dictate:  to try to get away from the predator.
D)  The predator keeps whipping the (by-now) insanely-frightened horse, and

ERGO -- The human expects, somehow, that the horse will cooperate, to "calm down."

THIS, my thinking friends--doesn't even make common sense.  The horse's instinct is to get as far away from the source of danger as possible.  In order to do that, the horse must run, using all four strong legs and hooves.  The shaking head is the first indicator that the horse is fixin' to flee.

Domesticated horses want to get along with humans.  There's no soul more loving, cooperative and gentle than that of a horse.  The fact that the horse is willing to share its magical, mystical, spiritual world with we, mere humans--is a miracle, in itself, and a heavenly gift.  Horses are on loan from The Almighty,  a glimpse of Heaven, right here on Earth.

One need not beat a horse into submission--in fact, it may be possible, but not until the horse   has acquiesced sadly, and realized that she is in a relationship with someone who does not love her in return.  

How much more joyful is a task--whether that is work, or a sport--when we humans work as partners with the horse, rather than Master and Slave? 

It blew my mind to see this video--the people kept shanking, yanking and whipping their horses--and somehow, they were surprised that the horses acted up!  Does that make any sense to you, at all??  

They were trying to get a frightened horse to become UNfrightened long enough to perform her/his sport--and darned, they couldn't figure out why the horses kept looking wild-eyed, and trying to run away.  That's a real head-scratcher, eh?  

Hmmmm...pretty smart, horses.  Trying to run away from a whip.  

Even humans are that intelligent.

So let's try a new thing, shall we?  There are many of us in the world who realize that cooperation with our horses leads not only to winning races; earning ribbons and generally coming-in-first--but also to a loving, warm, fulfilling relationship with these magnificent animals who want so much to to be our partners.  

Domination never, ever led to a partnership, never mind to a life-long relationship that's worth having.  The one doing the dominating may have lousy self-esteem, or other issues that scream inside their heads.  The voices are telling them that they will only be seen as strong, smart, "in charge"--if they can make someone tow the line.

Some miserable souls hurt cats, dogs--anything smaller than themselves.  That's called sociopathy.  And then there are those who need to dominate something much larger than themselves:  buffalo won't put up with it.  Try it with a tiger.   (Be sure to write out your will before you try to beat a tiger into doing your bidding.)

But a horse--a-ha!  A horse is considerably larger than a human being--but, being that it is a vegetarian--ergo, a prey animal--and gentle of spirit, it can be dominated easily.

But those people have no right to be around horses, precisely because the horse is a prey animal.  It doesn't take much to frighten a horse--but a loving heart can earn cooperation with a stroke of the hand; sincere eye contact and--get this--by listening to what the horse has to say.

I'm one of those people who thinks that those who abuse animals should be imprisoned, for an indefinite period of time.  I wonder how the boys in prison treat a kitten-killer.  Not well, I bet.

So it should be no surprise to anyone that, if I see a video of horses being yanked and whipped into submission--I have to say something.  We all should say something, to whatever governing body is appropriate.  Unfortunately, this sort of thing happens with every breed of horse, every sport and endeavour.

Every day of the year.

Coopration, not domination, is the way to win a horse's heart--and to win medals, ribbons or your race.  The next time you see a horse being yanked, whipped or otherwise beaten--say something.  

The horse can only neigh loudly--and unfortunately, that neigh will earn her another lash across the face.

But they won't--they can't--physically beat us for speaking out, 'cause we're predators, too. We have big mouths to speak, and hands to write.  And those hands...unlike our equine friends...have thumbs.

"inclined to silence; reserved in speech; reluctant to join in conversation."

Leroy Jolley is the very soul of "inclined to silence" and "reserved in speech."  The man doesn't talk much, and speaks softly when he does.  But the words he speaks are full of wisdom and insight.  Warm with love for his horses, Jolley's few words speak volumes:  a smart horseman would set up a lawn chair and spend a week just watching the great master at work. 

Jolley is one of the few trainers who've been around since the 1950s--you might say that he's  old school.  He got his trainer's license at age 19--but by that time he'd been working with horses for 12 years.  He was born in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and learned his art in the barn of his father, trainer Moody.  His deep understanding of horses is the result of over half-a-century of in-the-trenches work, and the osmosis of information from his sire.  

One might speculate that he was destined to become a trainer--no other career option could have tempted the young horseman away from his treasured charges.

The man is old school, but not old-fashioned in his thinking or his methods.  Insight like his cannot be acquired by reading a book or attending classes.  His methods are a reminder that not everything (or everyone) who's new and modern is best.  Contemporary training methods may produce slick, runway model horses--but too often those horses are brittle.  Relatively few could compete with the great horses of even 30 years ago.  (Curlin, Rachel Alexandra, Zenyatta and Quality Road  being a few of the exceptions.)    Too many of the horses who race these days are the result of the "get 'em to the track fast" philosophy--and that way of thinking doesn't always produce a strong, healthy horse who can last, and make history.

Statistics about Jolley's achievements can be found at the Racing Museum 'site--but he's so much more than stats.  Numbers rarely tell the whole story:  a trainer may win 100 races in a row--but what's the level of those races, and of the horses?  The quality of the achievement and of the horses matters far more than mere numbers.

For those of you who need to see numbers:  he was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1987.  He's trained six champions--so far--including two Kentucky Derby winners, Foolish Pleasure (1975) and the brilliant Genuine Risk (1980).  (Genuine Risk, by-the-way, was the first filly to compete in all three Triple Crown races.  She came in second in the Preakness and Belmont.)

On any given day, whether up north or down south,  the legend can be found at his barn, doing the job that he performed originally for his dad:  hotwalking a horse.  Feeling down the horse's legs,  taking note of the fineness of the skin around the horse's nose.  Reveling in the quietude of the backstretch.  New York and Florida are blessed that a legend moved his tack from Hot Springs to the East Coast.  

There's been much talk lately about horse racing's need for a Commission--OK, maybe I'm doing a lot of the talking, but it's still true.  We need Commisioner.  Not just a figurehead, but someone who is smart, experienced and strong. 

Horse racing is the only major American sport that doesn't have the protections afforded by such a governing body--don't you find that to be unacceptable?    State governments control racing:  those who want a Commission have stated that the sport needs not just a figurehead, but a hero to stand between the sport and the governments.  

The Commissioner should be a leader who can go toe-to-toe with the media, lawmakers, horsemen and disgruntled fans.   A horseman (or -woman), not a Madison Avenue marketing wonk.  

We need someone who genuinely loves horses--that should be obvious, and first on the list.  A person with a keen sense of real marketing--horse racing is in dire need of simple, solid marketing.  This sport could be overwhelmed with the sheer numbers of fans who flood any given track, on any given day, as in the 1930s.  (Saratoga is a rare exception.)  

The product is there, but too often racing officials are stymied as they try to figure out what the public wants.

Saratoga horseman Bill Higgins (a trainer who, himself, brings over 30 years of experience and love to the sport)--as suggested that Leroy Jolley should be Commissioner, and his idea has merit.  Jolley brings to the table a wealth of knowledge, and always--always--has the best interest of the horses in mind.  It's the "hay, oats and water" philosophy, applied across-the-board.  The basics--and most obvious--usually prove to be the best route to success.  

So, too, with marketing horse racing.  Five yeras ago, Jolley commented to me that no one loves a horse more than a  13-year-old girl.  He further stated that racing officials should market the sport to women and girls.  (My heart smiled, and excitedly, I weighed in on the conversation. Finally, someone understood what the Sporting Goods Manufacturers' Association had stated twice,in two different surveys:  that this demographic--females--comprise the majority of paid admissions at American horse race tracks--making horse racing the only major American sport for which females form the majority of the fanbase.)

Yesterday, as I frittered around pouring sweet feed for my virtual Thoroughbred, I realized that I'd really like to create a virtual Arabian, too.  I've fallen in love with Arabians during the last three years, so it seemed only right that I'd have bookend virtual horses, a Thoroughbred and her ancestral cousin, an Arabian.

And then I stopped dead in my virtual tracks, as I realized that I have barely enough time to tend to one virtual horse:  two would give me a very-real headache, running around in CyberSpace, trying to make sure that both virtual horses felt equally loved, and were equally well-tended.  

How inane is that?  What kind of conundrum is it, that anyone would opt not to create a second virtual horse because they're worried that they couldn't take good care of two virtual horses?

Except.  Except that that train of thought took me immediately to the concept that there are people who own real horses, for whom they can't care any longer.  For whatever reason--illness, lost the farm, divorce--some people have a horse, and really want to keep her forever.  But something happens, and they just can't.

I can barely take care of my cat and my virtual horse.  What in God's Name would I do with a real equine?  The thought is daunting.

This is where CANTER steps in.  CANTER is an acronym: it stands for Communication Alliance to Network Thoroughbred Ex-Racehorses.  With chapters in several states and regions of the U.S., they help trainers and owners who need to find Forever Homes for their horses.  Working with trainers, owners and racetracks, CANTER helps place retired Thoroughbreds in new careers, with people who will love them until their natural deaths.  

Finger Lakes has a similar program, a blessing in Upstate New York:  FLTAP.  (Finger Lakes Thoroughbred Adoption Program)

But the horses for whom these two groups find Homes--and new jobs--are loving, beautiful, loyal, real-live Thoroughbreds.  Descendants of the Darley Arabian, Godolphin Arabian and/or Byerly Turk.   They have noble blood flowing through their veins--some more noble than others. 

But nobility was never a reason to love someone, was it?  

So...here I am, worrying about the fact that I can't afford the time and energy to create a virtual Arabian horse...and then I saw a posting today by CANTER KY.  The posting made note of the fact that they have some fabulously lovable horses (my paraphrase) just down the road from Keeneland, where Bux Deluxe (again, my words) are being spent on horses, even as we speak.  And that, for a mere $500--a beautiful, loving Forever Friend can be acquired through CANTER KY.

And--flash!--a challenge came into my mind.  I'm sure this idea is not original with me--"...there is nothing new under the sun...", as a wise scribe wrote in the Book of Ecclesiastes (the Bible).  But the idea flashed into my head, perhaps inspired by the same One Who gave the biblical writer his mojo.  

This challenge is to those who attend horse auctions--not New Holland, please, legitimate horse auctions.   Keeneland, Fasig-Tipton, Tattersalls.  

Just think!  Two Thoroughbreds for $550,000!  Bargain-basement prices!  

I get alerts from Blood-Horse every time someone spends a chunk of change on a horse at the current Keeneland sale--those critters are going for $500,000+.   A few in the $1 million range.

If you have a million bucks to spend on a racehorse--please, please consider spending just another $500 for a horse who truly needs you.  Toss that horse into the trailer with your expensive new acquisition--they'll get along just great.  Company for the ride Home.

Give that $500 horse a stall, vet care, food, brushing and some hugs.  You won't have a new racehorse in your barn--but you will have a new best friend, a horse who will love you for the rest of her/his Life.  A companion for your racing horses, and a great night's sleep, especially that first evening when you hear the grateful nicker coming from your barn.

Now, I'm calling on you horsewomen and -men who are at Keeneland right now, and will be at Fasig-Tipton, Tattersalls in Europe--wherever you buy your racing Thoroughbreds.  

So no, this is not  a judgment.  I'm not saying that I'm saying that you're wrong to spend Big Bucks on horses. It's your money, you should spend it however you please.  

All we ask is that you take a breath and consider--after you've bought a Big Bucks horse, spend just a few dollars to rescue a horse who needs you.  That's all.  

Yes, I know:  care and feeding cost money, too--but I'll bet that that racehorse you just acquired will pay the bills for your "new to you"  horse.  (Garcon!  Sweet Timothy all around!)

Whether you choose to work with FLTAP, CANTER or another worthy organization, there are plenty of retired Thoroughbreds out there, waiting to be adopted.  One of them has your name tattooed on his heart:  find him, take him Home--and then enjoy the best night's sleep you've ever experienced.  

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P.S.:  Curious note here:  I wonder why we have no CANTER NY in New York State?  CANTER is present in New England, Ohio and Pennsylvania--why,  New York is surrounded by CANTERs!  Does anyone have any insight?  Thanks!

P.P.S."  I didn't mention retiring Arabian racehorses in this piece because, frankly, I know a lot of people who breed and race Arabians--and from what I've seen and heard, they tend to hang onto their horses.   And when they sell them--they make darned sure that they know where that horse is going, and who's got her.  

P.P.P.S.:  I know a gentleman who has 230 broodmares.  (You read that correctly:  230.)  I asked him how many foals this Spring--expecting that he'd say, 230--and he told me that he had 35.  Only thirty-five babies.  He went on to explain that it would be irresponsible to make that many foals, and that to use a broodmare every year would in essence not be caring for her body:  it would wear her out.  

Selective, careful underbreeding and respect for the broodmare.  Imagine that.

It's the night before the 10th anniversary of 9/11, the event that shook Americans to the core, and in many ways brought the world together as people from all four corners of the globe extended sympathy, empathy and assistance.

While I am not suggesting that we sweep the events of that day under the rug, or forget that many lives of many good people were lost on that day--I am coming out and saying that I believe that the equine world has something to offer, even tonight.

During the last few years, I've come to know many people who love horses.  The fact that someone is obsessively in love with the equine species is qualification enough for me.  My world view is very simple, really:  I love people who love horses.

(Yes, of course, I love some other people, those who either don't get it [the horse-loving thing], or who've just not-yet met a horse.)  But the majority of those whom I consider to be a friend are those who, at some point in their lives, looked a horse in the eye, saw the soul of that being--and shivered in recognition of something that they'd been missing before the encounter.

Eyes are the windows of the soul, and horses (as we know) are the most soulful beings on the planet.  My personal belief is that God created horses with the intention that they serve as metaphor, a symbol of God's own power, glory, beauty, strength and ability to love unconditionally.  

The love of The Horse transcends human cultural constructs:  horses speak one language, and they try very hard to help people to understand.  The whinney sounds the same--and means the same--whether the human in the exchange speaks English, Urdu, German, Arabic, French, Swedish, Spanish, Italian or Japanese..  The nicker, meaning, "Come here...I'm content, and want to share this with you"--sounds like "Huh-huh-huh" everywhere it is heard.

Horses know no religion.  They have no religious right, left or  center.  They have no lunatic fringe, no rebels (with or without a cause).  They don't vote, and wouldn't even if they had thumbs.  Such human concerns as politics are but silliness to a being that is so far above it all.

They hold jobs, but only those assigned to them by the people in their spheres.  They don't shop, or care about the antics of "celebrities."  Fame doesn't impress them, even when there is genuine greatness among their own ranks.  They don't watch reality TV shows, and wouldn't believe that Snooki has a book on the New York Times' Best Seller List, even if they did watch TV.

Horses are The Great Equalizers.  They judge people not by what we wear, or do for a job, or where we worship.  They meet a human, give 'em a sniff, and decide from there whether that person is predator or friend.  Simple, to-the-point and efficient.  

Horses are also The Great Unifiers:  precisely because they are unconcerned with human activities, they are open to loving--and being loved-by--people of every color, creed and economic status.

A man in Finland loves a horse.  A woman in Japan--she loves a horse.  Men, women, children all over the world, speaking virtually every language known--love horses.

Sure, not all people love horses.  If they did, horse slaughter wouldn't exist, and the word, "cruelty" would vanish from all languages.

But those of us who do love horses--well, we know the lingua franca.  We may not nicker when we're contented, but we know the lingo of the mighty equine.  And we recognize therefore that, like music--Horse knows no boundaries.

Because of my affection for horses, I have friends in many countries.  Many adhere to religions other than mine, or live in economic situations to which I can't relate.

But we come together via email, Skype, Facebook, LinkedIn and in person because we all know how to smile, and talk excitedly about our shared passion for The Horse.  It started with the horse, and becomes a great, roundtable discussion for everything else that concerns us.

Because of The Horse, I have friends in Iraq, Dubai,  Qatar, Jordan, Australia, Hong Kong,  Abu Dhabi, Russia, Argentina, Spain, Germany, England, Scotland, Poland, France and yes, the United States.  My friends are Muslim, Christian, Hindi, agnostic, Sikh, Buddhist and Jewish.  

As we extend our hands to pat a horse, our digits touch and we feel the warmth of that moment.  Just like the whinney and music, smiles transcend differences--we share that knowing smile--the insider's wink, the secret handshake--of those who know and love horses--we are opening ourselves to new experiences, new loves, new experiences.

And, one person, one horse at a time--quietly we are working toward peace.

But for those of us who know, from the purest of places, how to love a horse--peace is always possible.  One of my dearest friends is a man from Iraq, whom I'd never have met had it not been for the Arabian horse.  A brilliant, intellectually astute, spiritual, kind gentleman, his friendship is a gift from God.  And from The Horse, the love for which fills both our hearts.  It is at that place--the heart of The Horse--that we met, and became colleagues first, then friends.

There are many who will never understand how a Christian woman who's serious about her faith and a devout Muslim man could ever be colleagues--never mind, become friends.  

I can regale you with tales of other relationships with which I am blessed: sparkling souls with whom I had but one thing in common, at first: The Horse.   From there, we gave each other a chance, and now see the fruits of those chances, growing.  

The list goes on and on, and not because I'm anything special.  The list is large because of the lure, the allure, of The Horse.  Every day I thank God for these friends and allies--and I know that, if I can befriend such fascinating, good people--then anyone can make similar connections via the Internet and shared affection for the equine species.

People who don't understand our connections with those so different from ourselves also don't understand the power, the draw of The Horse.  

Those who do know and love The Horse--well, you get it.  You, too, have loved ones of every walk of life, from all over the world.  A blue ribbon, or a win/place/show--is the same in every language.  The gentle nuzzle of a horse's velvety nose feels the same in Iceland as it does in South Africa.  You get it.  I get it.  Perhaps, one person, one horse at a time--we can help the rest of the world--to get it.

I'm not naive, I'm not a dreamer.  I'm a realist, and like all horsepeople, I know that horses are the most-real of living creatures.  We who speak The Language of Horse can help those whose spirits are broken, for whom fear outweighs the lure of peace.  (We know how a horse can mend a human soul, heal a broken heart:  imagine if everyone, everywhere experienced the therapy that's available to them in exchange for a pat on the nose.)

We have in The Horse the perfect example:  a being who treads the space between this physical world and the heavenly realms, whose seemingly-quiet demeanor belies the strength and power given him by the Almighty, Himself.  The Horse is no mere animal--our beloveds are a reminder that purity of intention, and genuine goodness do exist--can exist.  All that we mere mortal, fallible humans need do is tune in to that great equine example, and do likewise.

The Horse is a herd animal--and we humans who populate its Earth can be members of the herd--if, as individuals, we can go within, become quiet, and follow the leader.  

World peace is only one equicentric conversation away, if one-by-one we join in the silent conversation, our eyes on the heavenly prize that awaits.

The physical atmosphere is roasting, but the racing action is hotter, still.  A haze of lazy hangs over the renowned venue on Union Avenue--the kind of heat that settles into the bones and takes your breath away.  Only the horses are capable of moving at breakneck speed, as they race not only toward immortality but straight to the core of every human within eyeshot... 

This place may be managed by humans, but make no mistake--total ownership belongs to

 the mighty equines who grace the stage of this, America's oldest, most-photographed and surely most-treasured of race tracks.

Indeed, Saratoga Race Course is the oldest track in the United States:  it was founded in August of 1863, one month to the day after the Battle of Gettysburg, the bloodiest conflict of the American Civil War.  We don't know if the founders envisioned that almost 150 years later, race fans would still flock to this place--but their venture became a dream shared by millions of horse lovers and wild-eyed gamblers over the course of a century-and-a-half.   

This sport in this place is a community endeavor, as history is recounted and the future anticipated:  it never occurs to anyone that a day may come when the Clubhouse is no longer here.  Like the Pantheon, these historic buildings and sacred grounds have gone through changes and challenges--but never would it enter the human mind that it could be razed, replaced or just-plain no longer used.  

Saratoga Race Course is America's oldest racetrack--but more than that, she is the country's oldest organized sporting venue of any kind.   Unlike most stadia, she will not be replaced by a modern, "more efficient" model.  The whim of a single man will not bring her to the ground, replaced by glass and steel, plastic chairs and artificial grass.  The ghosts who walk the creaky wooden floors and hang from the slow, silent ceiling fans will never be evicted from their perches.

No, Saratoga Race Course is a monument to the founders, and to an era of elegance and heavenly architecture.  More than this, the serene loveliness of the place reflects the beauty of the horses, themselves:  eternal values such as these cannot be swept under the rug in the name of "progress," for the values will live long after the modernists are gone.  Saratoga Race Course is every bit as significant to the history of this country and the people who forged it as the Washington Monument--and more memories have been made here than on the lawn in D.C.

This magnificent place is as American as any other national historic site--but its appeal is international.  NYRA (New York Racing Association) and the horsewomen and -men who flock here understand that a horse's mettle is tested only when running against the best.

And the best may hail from the UAE, UK, France or Australia.  Horse racing, unlike other sports, has a common language:  the horses all whinney with the same accent, and their connections get that.   Equines  from around the world lead the charge--and their trainers, owners, jockeys and other staff  come along for the ride.

Oh, so many people from the world over come here and find a memory to take home and live with them when the weather is cold, for this is the track  where memories are made, fond remembrances that last a lifetime.  

Virtually everyone has a tale to tell of their mother, father or favorite uncle sneaking them into a betting line; teaching them to read the Daily Racing Form when they were only five years old or introducing them to the first horse who nuzzled them, and forever sealed the deal. 

So much could be written about the physical spaces that comprise the track:  a tour might be conducted, of the building and grounds.  Bullet-points, arrows and maps.  But this otherworldly place transcends words, lists and maps.  It defies genuine description, for what scribe can capture the eternal, adequately?   

Like a city set on a hill, Saratoga Race Course  shines even on a rainy day, for her comeliness comes, as they say--from within.  The foundation was laid in 1863 by men who saw an oasis--a place of refreshment on Life's long journey--and generously they shared their dream with the world.  Saratoga Race Course is America's oldest sporting venue--but, having no genuine peer, she is her own species.

Dismay not, race fans, if you missed the 2011 race meet in Saratoga.  The season has come

 and gone.  Sigh.  But  Saratoga Springs and Saratoga Race Course will be here in 2012:  come back and make a memory.   Deepen your relationships with your children or sit back and stare at the blue Adirondack sky.   Paupers and kings, sheikhs and bug boys--all love this place, and come together in the most egalitarian sport in the world--there's space for you, too.  However you celebrate this great place--you are encouraged to find your own way.  The horses will lead you there--they always do.  

Photo Credits:

Many thanks to NYRA and Adam Coglianese.