They say they’re gonna put me in the movies,
They’re gonna make a big star out of me,
They say they’re gonna put me in the Big Time
And all I gotta do is act naturally.—Russell & Morrison (derivative)
Once upon a time, say around 1970, I happened to marry an occasional fairy princess, an ex-fashion model named Harolyn Locklair, who liked to ride horses. She had a little riding mare named Odessa and I bought her a Tennessee Walker dubbed Sundancer, a brilliant palomino who would gallop two miles to see you at the beck of a whistle, especially if that whistle came at feeding time. We boarded the two at a stable just west of Gainesville on a property that is now the Oaks Mall. Eventually, as the Subterranean Circus prospered, I bought a 40-acre farm just off the southern shore of Orange Lake, about equidistant between Gainesville and Ocala in Marion County. That’s when the fun began.
A friend of mine, Shelley Browning, long a thoroughbred enthusiast, one day said “Gee, Bill, you’ve got all this land for a couple of riding horses. Why don’t you buy a couple of mares and get into the racing business?” Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. So I went over to an OBS auction and bought a pair of mares, Bonquill, who would almost immediately become a stakes-producer, and Time For School, who would not. Having no background whatsoever in agriculture or with horses, I thought it might be a good idea to read a little. I spent endless hours devouring tomes on the great breeders and their methods, digesting books on a variety of trainers and their tactics, inspecting pedigree charts, checking over stallion statistics, advice on feeding, what grasses to plant, how to develop your farm, what to look for in a veterinarian. One book advised pulling up all the poisonous plants by the roots, so Harolyn and I went out and unearthed five hundred crotaleria each on Saturdays and Sundays. Another advised picking up all the rocks out of your fields after they were plowed and the grass had been planted, an arduous, plodding procedure, made less so one day when Harolyn became too hot, removed her upper garments and slung the rock bag over her shoulder like a native from National Geographic. Who says there can be no intimate moments amid the drudgeries of agriculture? Anyway, during all the studying, the various considerations on how to proceed on this matter or that, there was always one constant—the weekly thoroughbred journal called the Blood Horse. Based in the heart of thoroughbred country in Lexington, Kentucky, the Blood Horse contained a little bit of everything you needed to know: how to prepare young horses for sales, the differences in various hays, the statistics for the top 100 stallions in the country, who was winning what stakes races where. The Blood Horse covered the various sales around the country, interviewed the most successful breeders and trainers and editorialized for progressive and sensible paths for the industry. The magazine got even better when they recruited an editor named Kent Hollingsworth, a wise and articulate man capable of reading the equine tea leaves and attempting to steer the industry in a propitious direction, often in the face of significant resistance. Hollingsworth also had a great sense of humor. His weekly column was the highlight of the magazine, he gave the publication a soul the likes of which it had not seen before or since his tenure.
From 1975 to the middle eighties, I had a subscription to the Blood Horse. Fifty two of them a year, times eleven or twelve years, over 650 issues lined spine to spine in and under what other people would call their china cabinet, my prized possessions. Until one horrible day when the music abruptly died. While I was in Miami for a few days and nobody was living in my two-story turn-of-the-century Gainesville house, temperatures fell into the middle teens for two consecutive nights. An upstairs pipe froze and when temperatures rose, broke, dumping tons of water into the bottom level of the house. Many of the magazines were protected by the cabinets but scores were ruined, their pages stuck together in a permanent marriage. I bought a batch of fans, turned them toward the soggy mess and hoped for the best. I sat there fanning the pages, prying them loose, one by one, but it was a hopeless task. Many were ruined forever. After this crushing defeat, I guess I eventually let my subscription expire. Oh, I checked in on the magazine every so often, just as you would with any old friend. He was always at the horse sales, hanging around the back of the pavilion. Lost a little weight over the years, but still looked pretty stable. Most of the competition had faded away, not that there had ever been any real challengers, and the Blood Horse remained top of the heap. I still enjoyed reading it, but the onset of the Great Flood and the departure of editor Hollingsworth rendered it never the same, consigned to the dusty bins in the History of Bill.
And then, as if by magic, a few days ago, I got an interesting email from Shari Eisaman, wife of our local trainer, Barry. It included a note from a lady at the Blood Horse named Claire Novak. Claire was looking for “living, breathing” new writing relevant to the horse industry. She asked to be wowed. I sent her in the February 21, 2013 Flying Pie piece on The Fastest Horse In The World. She said it was great, subjected it to mild editing and promised it would appear in the magazine soon. So, after all these years on the outside looking in, I may be finally making my own belated contribution to what has been for almost 40 years my own favorite thoroughbred publication.
It goes round and round and round in the Circle Game.
Bugs Departs For Shangri-La
To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose, under heaven. A time to dance, a time to mourn. A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together. And, in the case of Bugs the donkey and his faithful caprine companion, Lola The Wonder Goat, time to move to new digs, fancy ones at that, just five minutes down the road at Cynthia Desguin’s Menagerie Headquarters. The two would be joined in this adventure by newcomer goat Bump, named by Cynthia for his inclination to get attention by coming up and, well….bumping a person, often from behind, which can take a little getting used to. I mean, you’re just standing there, discussing the events of the day and suddenly, BUMP! It makes you consider things like belling the goat.
Anyway, enlisting the aid of the Hollis Animal Transport Fleet of Captain Jennie and Donkey Wrangler Hal, we loaded ‘em up and headed ‘em out for new pastures, so to speak. The trio made the move without missing a beat and each has sent postcards out to a vast array of fans. The goats may move back here eventually once Bugs has grown accustomed to his new horse pals. These decisions are made higher up the command chain and I am only filled in on a need-to-know basis. Several of you have written in to say that Bugs is probably the luckiest donkey in the world, having been rescued by Siobhan and Jennie from imminent death and completely rehabilitated in such short order, and there is no doubt this is true. But we have also benefited, however briefly, from the pleasure of his company.
Git Along, Little Dogie! Please.
Bugs' New Home. Maybe We’ll Move Here, Too.
A Call To Arms
Hard as it is to believe, The Flying Pie is nearing its 200th installment, something which will be accomplished on April 3rd, the good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise. Since by then I will have written 199 of these things, I think I deserve a week off. Therefore, I am requisitioning aid in the form of letters from all of you out there discussing your very favorite column (or columns). Your comments may be as long or as short as you like, just don’t get ridiculous. Obviously, the sooner I get them, the easier it will be to arrange them into a column, but they must arrive no later than March 23rd. Do not delay, act today! And don’t think you can get out of it by merely ignoring this paragraph—I have been known to harass people by phone or in person. You don’t want me showing up on your doorstep at midnight with a pencil, a legal pad and coffee. Or, maybe in some cases, you do.
He’s Off To The Coxville Zoo
Yesterday morning, Cosmic Flash stepped onto a Lorraine Van and made the pokey eight-hour trek to Miami, which begs the question, what the hell do those van drivers do to stretch a five-hour drive into The Endless Bummer? Is there a movie-house on the way? You can drive to Key West in eight hours. Anyway, he’s down there all safely tucked away at Gulfstream Park, ready for a Saturday work. Hopefully, he will remain sound, make it back to the races by the end of March, win big and prove that he is, indeed, The Fastest Horse In The World. If not, well, an occasional check would be nice. Keep your fingers crossed.
The Day Of Wine And Roses
Here it comes again. Valentine’s Day, time for Love Potion No. 9 and all the attendant frippery. For Siobhan and I, that means the annual trek to Cedar Kay for dinner, one of our scant handful of traditions. Despite almost 30 years of living with me, I’d like to report that Siobhan is doing very well, indeed, in the peak of health, her business booming and none the worse for wear. For all of my alleged friends who contend that she is too good for the likes of me, you will get no argument from this corner. Below, I’m sharing a few pictures with you of Siobhan through the years, most of them taken over the last 15 (it won’t take a genius to identify the one which is not). They reflect her good humor and a continuing sense of adventure (besides which, she is cute) as we plod the path together. So here’s to you, Ms. Ellison, Jesus loves you more than you will know. And that goes for me, too.
They’re gonna make a big star out of me,
They say they’re gonna put me in the Big Time
And all I gotta do is act naturally.—Russell & Morrison (derivative)
Once upon a time, say around 1970, I happened to marry an occasional fairy princess, an ex-fashion model named Harolyn Locklair, who liked to ride horses. She had a little riding mare named Odessa and I bought her a Tennessee Walker dubbed Sundancer, a brilliant palomino who would gallop two miles to see you at the beck of a whistle, especially if that whistle came at feeding time. We boarded the two at a stable just west of Gainesville on a property that is now the Oaks Mall. Eventually, as the Subterranean Circus prospered, I bought a 40-acre farm just off the southern shore of Orange Lake, about equidistant between Gainesville and Ocala in Marion County. That’s when the fun began.
A friend of mine, Shelley Browning, long a thoroughbred enthusiast, one day said “Gee, Bill, you’ve got all this land for a couple of riding horses. Why don’t you buy a couple of mares and get into the racing business?” Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. So I went over to an OBS auction and bought a pair of mares, Bonquill, who would almost immediately become a stakes-producer, and Time For School, who would not. Having no background whatsoever in agriculture or with horses, I thought it might be a good idea to read a little. I spent endless hours devouring tomes on the great breeders and their methods, digesting books on a variety of trainers and their tactics, inspecting pedigree charts, checking over stallion statistics, advice on feeding, what grasses to plant, how to develop your farm, what to look for in a veterinarian. One book advised pulling up all the poisonous plants by the roots, so Harolyn and I went out and unearthed five hundred crotaleria each on Saturdays and Sundays. Another advised picking up all the rocks out of your fields after they were plowed and the grass had been planted, an arduous, plodding procedure, made less so one day when Harolyn became too hot, removed her upper garments and slung the rock bag over her shoulder like a native from National Geographic. Who says there can be no intimate moments amid the drudgeries of agriculture? Anyway, during all the studying, the various considerations on how to proceed on this matter or that, there was always one constant—the weekly thoroughbred journal called the Blood Horse. Based in the heart of thoroughbred country in Lexington, Kentucky, the Blood Horse contained a little bit of everything you needed to know: how to prepare young horses for sales, the differences in various hays, the statistics for the top 100 stallions in the country, who was winning what stakes races where. The Blood Horse covered the various sales around the country, interviewed the most successful breeders and trainers and editorialized for progressive and sensible paths for the industry. The magazine got even better when they recruited an editor named Kent Hollingsworth, a wise and articulate man capable of reading the equine tea leaves and attempting to steer the industry in a propitious direction, often in the face of significant resistance. Hollingsworth also had a great sense of humor. His weekly column was the highlight of the magazine, he gave the publication a soul the likes of which it had not seen before or since his tenure.
From 1975 to the middle eighties, I had a subscription to the Blood Horse. Fifty two of them a year, times eleven or twelve years, over 650 issues lined spine to spine in and under what other people would call their china cabinet, my prized possessions. Until one horrible day when the music abruptly died. While I was in Miami for a few days and nobody was living in my two-story turn-of-the-century Gainesville house, temperatures fell into the middle teens for two consecutive nights. An upstairs pipe froze and when temperatures rose, broke, dumping tons of water into the bottom level of the house. Many of the magazines were protected by the cabinets but scores were ruined, their pages stuck together in a permanent marriage. I bought a batch of fans, turned them toward the soggy mess and hoped for the best. I sat there fanning the pages, prying them loose, one by one, but it was a hopeless task. Many were ruined forever. After this crushing defeat, I guess I eventually let my subscription expire. Oh, I checked in on the magazine every so often, just as you would with any old friend. He was always at the horse sales, hanging around the back of the pavilion. Lost a little weight over the years, but still looked pretty stable. Most of the competition had faded away, not that there had ever been any real challengers, and the Blood Horse remained top of the heap. I still enjoyed reading it, but the onset of the Great Flood and the departure of editor Hollingsworth rendered it never the same, consigned to the dusty bins in the History of Bill.
And then, as if by magic, a few days ago, I got an interesting email from Shari Eisaman, wife of our local trainer, Barry. It included a note from a lady at the Blood Horse named Claire Novak. Claire was looking for “living, breathing” new writing relevant to the horse industry. She asked to be wowed. I sent her in the February 21, 2013 Flying Pie piece on The Fastest Horse In The World. She said it was great, subjected it to mild editing and promised it would appear in the magazine soon. So, after all these years on the outside looking in, I may be finally making my own belated contribution to what has been for almost 40 years my own favorite thoroughbred publication.
It goes round and round and round in the Circle Game.
Bugs Departs For Shangri-La
To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose, under heaven. A time to dance, a time to mourn. A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together. And, in the case of Bugs the donkey and his faithful caprine companion, Lola The Wonder Goat, time to move to new digs, fancy ones at that, just five minutes down the road at Cynthia Desguin’s Menagerie Headquarters. The two would be joined in this adventure by newcomer goat Bump, named by Cynthia for his inclination to get attention by coming up and, well….bumping a person, often from behind, which can take a little getting used to. I mean, you’re just standing there, discussing the events of the day and suddenly, BUMP! It makes you consider things like belling the goat.
Anyway, enlisting the aid of the Hollis Animal Transport Fleet of Captain Jennie and Donkey Wrangler Hal, we loaded ‘em up and headed ‘em out for new pastures, so to speak. The trio made the move without missing a beat and each has sent postcards out to a vast array of fans. The goats may move back here eventually once Bugs has grown accustomed to his new horse pals. These decisions are made higher up the command chain and I am only filled in on a need-to-know basis. Several of you have written in to say that Bugs is probably the luckiest donkey in the world, having been rescued by Siobhan and Jennie from imminent death and completely rehabilitated in such short order, and there is no doubt this is true. But we have also benefited, however briefly, from the pleasure of his company.
Git Along, Little Dogie! Please.
Bugs' New Home. Maybe We’ll Move Here, Too.
A Call To Arms
Hard as it is to believe, The Flying Pie is nearing its 200th installment, something which will be accomplished on April 3rd, the good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise. Since by then I will have written 199 of these things, I think I deserve a week off. Therefore, I am requisitioning aid in the form of letters from all of you out there discussing your very favorite column (or columns). Your comments may be as long or as short as you like, just don’t get ridiculous. Obviously, the sooner I get them, the easier it will be to arrange them into a column, but they must arrive no later than March 23rd. Do not delay, act today! And don’t think you can get out of it by merely ignoring this paragraph—I have been known to harass people by phone or in person. You don’t want me showing up on your doorstep at midnight with a pencil, a legal pad and coffee. Or, maybe in some cases, you do.
He’s Off To The Coxville Zoo
Yesterday morning, Cosmic Flash stepped onto a Lorraine Van and made the pokey eight-hour trek to Miami, which begs the question, what the hell do those van drivers do to stretch a five-hour drive into The Endless Bummer? Is there a movie-house on the way? You can drive to Key West in eight hours. Anyway, he’s down there all safely tucked away at Gulfstream Park, ready for a Saturday work. Hopefully, he will remain sound, make it back to the races by the end of March, win big and prove that he is, indeed, The Fastest Horse In The World. If not, well, an occasional check would be nice. Keep your fingers crossed.
The Day Of Wine And Roses
Here it comes again. Valentine’s Day, time for Love Potion No. 9 and all the attendant frippery. For Siobhan and I, that means the annual trek to Cedar Kay for dinner, one of our scant handful of traditions. Despite almost 30 years of living with me, I’d like to report that Siobhan is doing very well, indeed, in the peak of health, her business booming and none the worse for wear. For all of my alleged friends who contend that she is too good for the likes of me, you will get no argument from this corner. Below, I’m sharing a few pictures with you of Siobhan through the years, most of them taken over the last 15 (it won’t take a genius to identify the one which is not). They reflect her good humor and a continuing sense of adventure (besides which, she is cute) as we plod the path together. So here’s to you, Ms. Ellison, Jesus loves you more than you will know. And that goes for me, too.
