This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, type Stranger in a Strange Land into Lull’s search function on the right.
Horses make me cry. I think it’s because they seem like perfection to me—their proportions, their character and beauty, their majesty.
Now I’m living in the Horse Capital of the World. I can’t get through the day without being reminded of this:
1. Streets are named after racehorses.
2. Subdivisions and malls are named for horses and stables.
3. Equine-related businesses are everywhere—insurance for horses, brokers for stud service, horse artists, horse auctioneers, riding apparel, riding instructors, guided tours of farms and stables, vets…
4. The public library and bookstores offer loads of publications written on the subject.
5. Statues and public art of horses abound.
6. Horse-related gifts are sold in every retail joint.
7. Within a five-minute drive from the downtown you can see the real thing.
This is a far cry from living in a metropolis known for its gangsters and a basketball star, neither of which I ever related to.
But horses? Mm-mmm. They’re another story.
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