Free My Bluegrass Baby by Molly Harper Page A

will say that
     phrases like “squabbling children” and “unprofessional, shrieking fishwife” were used.
     But he was looking at Vaughn when he said “fishwife,” so I can’t actually be sure
     whether he was referring to me. I think at one point he threatened to ground us.
    According to Ray, we were ridiculously lucky that the commissioner was not in the
     building during our blowup and if we ever did anything like it again, being named
     director of marketing would be the least of our worries. We were told to shake hands
     and behave civilly, which we managed to do without squeezing each other’s fingers
     too hard, and then we slunk back to neutral corners.
    Through the miracle of e-mail, we came up with an idea for the Columbus-Belmont summer
     boot camp without actually speaking to each other. While he conceded that a fun, musical
     video would be appropriate for students, Vaughn suggested we also use era-appropriate
     military imagery aimed at adults. So Dorie Ann, our graphic designer, drew what looked
     like a circa-1860s recruiting poster, encouraging people to enlist in “basic training.”
     I changed the tagline to “Step into the past, make memories for the future.” We were
     only waiting for approval from the state park staff.
    In the meantime, Kelsey and I introduced Vaughn to the wonders of our annual Kentucky
     Derby party. The tourism commission helped organize several events over the course
     of Derby weekend, including a party at the track for high-ranking state employees,
     politicians, and members of the press. We tried to lure the horse owners in, but while
     the locals usually made a polite appearance, the rest tended to shy away from our
     domestic booze and room-temperature cheese. The main goal was to remind all parties
     involved how important tourist dollars were to the overall health of the state’s economy
     and how the track played into that. And to remind the politicians that we were perfectly
     nice people who deserved our jobs, and they might keep that in mind when they were
     passing the next budget.
    That year, the first Saturday in May dawned bright and clear and cool. I put on my
     trim yellow suit with a creamy linen picture hat from Macy’s. The hat cost more than
     the shoes and the suit combined. But Derby regulars could spot a cheap hat from miles
     away, and it was better not to subject inferior headwear to their scrutiny.
    There was always a buzz on the morning of Derby Day, an anticipatory excitement, which
     made no sense, really. Few people in the stands had actually ridden a horse, much
     less owned one. And unlike in NASCAR, the chances of one of the horses spinning into
     the infield were pretty low. There was a strange sense of urgency to the race. The
     horses had been training for this since they were born. They only got one shot at
     this particular race before they aged out of the running group.
    We got caught up in the pageantry, the traditions, and the foods that we enjoyed simply
     because it was tradition. What St. Patrick’s Day is to the Irish, Derby Day is to
     any self-respecting Kentuckian.
    Kelsey and I had arrived ungodly early at Churchill Downs in order to beat the traffic
     and to give ourselves time to negotiate the veritable maze that was the racetrack
     complex. Spectators were already milling into the infield entrance, leading inside
     the track itself, where tens of thousands of rowdy race fans would turn the small
     expanse of grass into an enormous, raucous, muddy party.
    We placed our bets as soon as the windows opened. The favorite—and potential Triple
     Crown contender—was a large chestnut from New York called Rock of Ages. I put my traditional
     five-dollar bet on a pretty coal-black entry from Lexington named Instant Karma, who
     I only picked because I liked the color of her silks (turquoise and teal). Kelsey,
     on the other hand, placed twenty dollars on Lemon Cakes, a Virginia long-shot scientifically
     selected as a