The C. V. Whitney Farm in Lexington, Kentucky was a very successful thoroughbred horse farm. I lived there for two weeks the summer of my thirteenth year. My friend, Bill, invited me to go with him and his family for two weeks in July. His maternal grandfather was the supervisor of the farm’s operations, and Bill’s family visited each summer. The horse side of the farm was left to others, but Bill’s grandfather was in charge of raising the crops, most of which, became food for the horses.
The most famous resident of the farm that summer was Tompion. He had run in the Kentucky Derby and Belmont Stakes a couple months prior to our visit.
Ridden by Willie Shoemaker, at age three Tompion won the Santa Anita Derby and the Blue Grass stakes. He was the favorite going into the 1960 Kentucky Derby but threw a shoe and finished fourth behind winner Venetian Way and runners-up Bally Ache and Victoria Park. After losing the shoe, Tompion’s hoof was injured by one of the nails and, as a result, he missed the Preakness Stakes. He went into the Belmont as the betting favorite but finished fourth.
Bill and I met Tompion face to face. His grandfather warned us not to get too close, because “Thoroughbred’s have a temper and Tompion might bite you.” We kept our distance and admired him from afar.
Bill and I helped bale hay for the two weeks. We rose early, and spent most of the day standing on the rig that joined the hay wagon to the tractor. The synchronized team consisted of three wagons, two tractors, and a baling machine. The crew of the baling machine filled a wagon that was pulled behind. When the wagon was filled, a tractor pulled up to it, and Bill ,or I, made the connection. The tractor driver, and his helper, pulled the wagon to the barn for unloading where another crew fed the baled hay on to a conveyer into the storage barn. We picked up an empty wagon and made our way back to the field. Meanwhile, a second tractor/helper crew was picking up a load.
Three hay wagons insured the baler could keep running as the bales were delivered for storage. Bill and I got to drive the empty tractor/wagon back to the field. That was the best part of my summer.
As we prepared to go to work each morning, we heard a dove cooing in a tree not far from the house. Bill’s grandparents lived in one of the homes supplied to key members of the farm team. There were five or six homes all in a neat little row. I could hear a neighbor in one of the houses yell each morning into the yard. He hated hearing the dove.
About half way into the trip, I heard the dove, followed by a blast from what we later determined was a shotgun. The hateful neighbor shot the dove and stopped his cooing.
One evening Bill’s mom and dad, his sister, Susan, his grandparents, Bill and I drove to a neighboring farm to visit a cousin. If you’re from Kentucky, you have cousins everywhere. The farm wasn’t as grand as C. V. Whitney’s, but they did have a horse. After dinner Bill and I asked if we could ride it. We had just earned our Boy Scout horsemanship merit badges. I still remember Cousin So and So’s answer.
“Sure. Just go out in the field and get him. Place this rope around his neck. Once you’ve rounded him up, I’ll put a bridle on him.”
The field was a couple of acres surrounded by a black painted fence. There appeared to be one way in, so we opened the gate and headed towards the horse. We got within about ten feet before he ran to the other side of the field. We made our way across the field for another attempt to lasso the horse and met with the same results. After our third, and final, attempt Cousin So and So came out. He walked over to the gate and let out a whistle. The horse came right to him.
He placed a bridle on the horse but no saddle. If we were riding, we were riding bare back. We didn’t do that in the Boy Scouts. Cousin So and So joined his fingers to form a stirrup to help us mount the horse. First Bill, then me. Bill took hold of the reigns, and I took hold of Bill. Sitting bareback was like what I imagined it must be like to sit on a greased pig. It was slick.
The horse took about ten steps and decided he didn’t like his load. He reared up like I’d seen the Lone Ranger and Silver do on TV. I was the first to go. Bill followed, but he managed to keep hold of the reigns to help break his fall. I just fell. I don’t remember if I cried, but I know I hurt enough to bring tears. I landed on my shoulder and the side of my head. I had a welt the size of Ohio just above the corner of my left eye. Polly, Bill’s mom, cleaned us up and we headed back to the Whitney Farm.
For much of the remainder of my life, I checked the spot where I hit my head. Scar tissue formed where Ohio had been. Each time I checked, the bump remained. The last time I remember feeling it was the morning of David’s wedding. That will be seventeen years ago in August, meaning the bump remained for over forty years.
I just checked. The bump is definitely gone, but I still remember the Whitney Farm, Tompion, baling hay, the dove, and the ten steps Bill and I rode bareback the summer of my thirteenth year.