No matter how often I come upon this scene, it never
gets old for me. Maybe it comes from a vicarious desire to experience 19th
century life, but without any of the attendant ills. (Yes, a high concentration
of these horses used as transportation back then created their own noxious smells.)
Or maybe it derives from something genetic: the way my
late father’s eyes lit up in the Eighties on a drive deep into the rolling bluegrass
surrounding Lexington, Kentucky, getting out of the car and approaching a white
fence, patting the back of a magnificent but gentle animal, and remembering how
he felt as a farm boy so many years ago in Ireland.
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