Category Archives: -Kelly Bixby

Falling in Love with Perfect Arrangements

During my college days, I became friends with a girl who was valedictorian of her high school class. She sometimes annoyed me with her intellect. After a test in our art history class, she and I milled about and fretted over how our individual results would rank on the class curve. She worried and said, “I think I failed.” Only later, we found out that she scored the highest in the class. This routine repeated on several occasions and I learned pretty quickly that her failing just wasn’t possible.

Besides being very smart, she was tall and beautiful. Guys noticed her and liked talking to her; however, I can’t remember her dating any of them. Devoted to her faith, she wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol and I never saw her break that rule. She and I didn’t have deep discussions about our beliefs, but I knew that she wasn’t Catholic like I was, at the time.

At some point during our undergraduate years, she confided that she was going to be introduced to a man whom her parents had arranged for her to marry. That revelation seemed preposterous to me. We were ambitious young women with career objectives! We were close to breaking free from dependence upon our parents—close to being able to support ourselves. An arranged marriage seemed like a step backwards in time. I couldn’t imagine marrying someone I didn’t choose myself; someone I didn’t know and love.

She began regularly meeting with the man and eventually said she had grown to love him. They married and I hoped her love for him was true. I wanted her to be happy.

When I knew little about arranged marriages, I viewed them as oppressive, stifling, controlling. During my recent attendance at an Orthodox Jewish wedding ceremony, my opinion changed. I saw great beauty in symbolism and tradition and in genuine expressions of love. This particular arranged marriage showed me that helping sons and daughters select a spouse is one of the most precious gifts parents can bestow upon their children.

The parents of the bride and groom had prepared and shared family résumés with one another. Then, their children exchanged personal résumés and became interested in going on a first date. But it wasn’t a typical dinner and movie; instead, it was a sit-down, serious discussion about hopes and dreams, faith, family, goals for the future. The children got to know one another through subsequent meetings and eventually decided that they wanted to wed one another.

Those steps, starting with the exchanging of résumés, may seem too calculating and business-like for our modern, American society—secular or not, conservative or liberal. Culturally we’re accustomed to finding a mate through spontaneity, chance encounters, being in the right place at the right time. We trust in love at first sight—we like what we see, then we take time to evaluate whether or not our love interest has the other qualities we’re looking for in a spouse.

If those measures don’t work, we embrace well-intended efforts by friends who play match-makers and we turn to online dating services. Why not consider the opinions of the two people—mother and father—who love their child most?

My seventeen year-old son recently told me that he was going to go out on a date, that evening, with a girl who I had never heard him mention. I asked him to show me a picture of her because I wanted to see how she represented herself to others. There was something revealing in that picture: pursed lips and a flirtatious, seductive tilt of the head. My son had shared that image from the girl’s Twitter profile. So, I had to wonder what he really knew about her, beyond finding her physically attractive. He admitted that he didn’t really know anything more, except that she attended the same high school.

Aha. Time for a little parental guidance. I told him that, before dating any girl who expresses her interest in him, I’d like him to know what qualities he’s looking for in a future wife. I reminded him that a common faith is very important; at least it was for his dad and me. Customs, habits, traditions, morals are influenced, in our case, by our faith in Christ. My son will have to decide for himself what is important, but I made it clear that my hopes for him are that he’ll consciously look for specific, admirable attributes in the girls he chooses to spend his time with.

With similar aspirations for their children, the Orthodox Jewish parents sought out a family that complemented their own. I’m sure they considered faith, first and foremost, as well as community involvement, personal education, and reputation. I’m not sure if finances were specifically disclosed, but the families’ respective priorities could be determined by the way they spent their time and money. The parents were responsible for helping their children find their intended spouses. But the young couple wasn’t forced to marry. Their opinions mattered.

The groom knew he didn’t have to marry the first woman his parents approved. His older brother had gone on dates with twenty-five different ladies before finding his own bride. The repetitive and time-consuming search may have been slightly frustrating to the parents, who were increasingly unsure of whether or not they would ever marry the elder son off. But they valued his input and supported him throughout the sensitive process.

When my son announced that he had cancelled his date with Twitter Girl, I was relieved and proud. He had taken what I said and thought about it. Then he had the good sense to call one of his female friends from our church’s youth group for additional advice. He described her as having “the best judgement of anyone I know.” She told him Twitter Girl wasn’t the kind of girl he should be going out with. I happen to love this girl from church and used to have her in mind when I would confide in my friends, “If I could only choose who my children marry…”

Now, more than ever, I admire the practice of a closely-knit community of Orthodox Jews who arrange marriages for their children. I respect the groom’s father, who I know as a kind and generous man.

During the wedding reception, I was blessed to see deeper into his heart.

“Your new daughter-in-law is stunningly beautiful,” I commented.

He was well-acquainted with her, smiled at me, and simply replied, “Yes, she is. Inside and out.”

Marital Advice for Grammarians

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I never want to be thought of as an annoying individual who likes to point out other people’s mistakes. With that in mind, when my husband recently said “…for you and I,” I stopped myself from saying, “You mean, ‘for you and me.’”

In that brief moment between hearing the mistake and wanting to straighten it out, I decided that I wasn’t about to trade marital bliss for a lofty disposition.

Does anyone—even a supportive husband—ever really appreciate unsolicited grammar advice? It may be meant as constructive, but when it’s directed at you, the unexpected input seems like full-blown criticism. As if you failed a test that you didn’t know you were being graded on. You feel disrespected by the Grammar Police, insulted and stifled from saying whatever was on your mind.

A member in one of my online writing groups recently posed a question to the rest of the group. I immediately noticed that his question contained a common error: using “there” instead of “their.” Pretty much everyone is prone to making similar mistakes. We forget to apply certain rules or are guilty of little typos. In those instances, we simply lower our guard and something slips, unchecked and uncensored, through our fingertips. I wasn’t about to publicly point out the blogger’s mistake since it wasn’t important to the ensuing conversation.

Another writer, however, was excessively harsh. This stickler rudely asserted his opinion that “someone ought to be using a dictionary to improve THEIR spelling.” Ouch! Point made, although it wasn’t really a spelling error but more of an error in word choice. Notably, no one—myself included—seemed bothered enough by that faux pas to make an issue out of it.

Similarly, there was no good reason that the there/their matter couldn’t have been addressed in a friendlier, less offensive, and perhaps even private way. By politely ignoring the situation altogether, the rest of the group sent a subtle message to the one outspoken member that perfection isn’t always necessary, especially in informal settings.

I was glad I had sided with the discerning writers who let both the original mistake and the poor response go unaddressed. But it’s hard for me to subdue my persnickety nature. I admittedly harbor some intolerance towards common grammatical mistakes. There are standards, and writers are expected to lead by example. We’re judged not only by our ability to tell a story, but also by our mastery of punctuation, spelling, word usage, and sentence structure.

We have decisions to make over the tiniest details. For example, do we use a numeral or spell out the number itself when referring to a centennial home as being one hundred years old? (Usually it is spelled out, but there are exceptions.) Should e-mail be hyphenated? (Yes.) Can we abbreviate okay as Ok? (No. Capitalize the entire abbreviation, as in OK.) Is the title to a blog italicized or placed within quotation marks? (The name of the Web site is italicized and an article posted on the site is placed in quotation marks.) Do we trust our phone’s spell check when it inserts an apostrophe into our family’s last name…when we’re not showing possession? (No! The Bixbys don’t like that.)

A writer’s ability to convey clear and concise thoughts is dependent upon all these things, in addition to understanding the basic parts of speech. It is our job to expertly unite a myriad of facets—nouns, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, and interjections—so that our work reflects both definitive grammar and intuitive usage.

There is a lot to remember, so let’s find support in reputable guidebooks, like The Chicago Manual of Style. Then understand that despite our best efforts, occasionally, you and I are going to mess up. We should strive for—but not expect—personal perfection, be kind when offering advice to others, and relax with the people we love.

Shark!

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Every time I travel to a tropical destination, I wrestle with the way I’m drawn to the ocean while simultaneously being wary of it. A mysterious world lies hidden below its surface. Fish, coral, invertebrates, various species that live in the warm shallows and others found only in the deepest, darkest depths. Is exploring it worth risking a menacing confrontation with a barracuda, the sting of a jellyfish, or a bite by a shark? The payoff could be stealing a glimpse of an eel as it slithers along the crevices of a reef or, even better, spotting an elusive octopus that makes a rare morning appearance before quickly disappearing.

“Will I have to worry about anything dangerous or scary?” I can’t hold back from posing this question to nearly every snorkeling guide I hire, despite my knowing the answer.

The Atlantic Ocean nestles the southwestern tip of tropical island, Eleuthera. Photo: Kelly Bixby

In the twenty years I’ve been fascinated with the ocean, not one guide has cautioned me against getting in the water. Instead, they tell me of all the creatures they hope we’ll see. Because they know the habits and territories of the underwater residents, the guides sometimes graciously bring food and snacks for their hungry, finned friends—and we snorkelers get to take part in a neighborly little block party while we’re in town visiting. The guides say things like, “with any luck, we’ll find the seahorse” and “sometimes we see a nurse shark.” Whoa! I heard that! My ears perk up and my heart skips a beat in trepidation.

I’ve never faced any threat greater than having to dodge sea urchins, but I still can’t subdue the prevailing thought that makes me nervous to get in the salty sea: a potential encounter with a shark. You might think that the informational Discovery Channel series, Shark Week, would undo the damage to my psyche that the movie Jaws inflicted on me. But fear came before rationale, and now it’s very hard to get rid of.

During spring break in 2002, I was swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, off the eastern coast of Florida. I was warned that a small shark had chomped on someone’s ankle a week earlier. The bite occurred in the same shallow water where my husband, Greg, and our four children bounced along breaking waves and bodysurfed. Their giggles and carefree smiles indicated that, unlike me, they were not the least bit concerned. They had no idea there was potential danger. I wasn’t about to spoil their fun, but I recall feeling extremely relieved when we left Cape Coral Beach with all body parts intact.

Exhuma Sound (Caribbean Sea) and Lighthouse Beach, Eleuthera, Bahamas, 2011. Photo: Kelly Bixby

Nine years later, off the desolate coast of Eluthera in the Bahamas, Greg and I met two people—a doctor and his wife—on Lighthouse Beach. They looked to be serious, experienced snorkelers. Wearing full wetsuits, this couple was prepared to go into deeper, colder water than I could tolerate. Greg and I watched from the shore as they dared to go on the outer side of the reef. We relaxed on the beach for awhile and were just preparing to head into the Caribbean when the couple returned. They had been frightened by the sighting of a bull shark and decided they had had enough fun for one day. They left the beach, and Greg and I were completely alone.

At that point, I was a little intimidated to enter the sea. There was no cell phone coverage for miles; nobody to cry out to for help. The nearest paved road was a forty-five minute drive away on a rutted, dirt road squeezed down to one lane by dense brush and trees encroaching it on each side. Having a beach all to ourselves was both extraordinary and problematic.

I was apprehensive, but we had planned to snorkel, so that’s what we did. We stayed on the inside of the reef to avoid the deeper, colder, and predator-infested sea. And I prayed that God would keep the bull shark away from us.

While Greg never tired of the underwater wonders, my body’s defense mechanism eventually kicked in. I started shivering from being in the cold sea too long and had to return to the warmth and safety of the shore. Unscathed, I compared fish stories with Greg. Thankfully, neither of us came nose-to-nose with the ten-foot long behemoth.

By far, the most frightening moment of my life occurred a year earlier, off Siesta Key Beach, in the Gulf of Mexico. Once again, my children were happily playing in the ocean. They were standing in waist-high water, a couple hundred feet from shore and far beyond my protection as I entered the gulf. I froze in place when I witnessed a sinister dorsal fin rise above the smooth blue surface and travel directly toward them.

A bull shark anticipates an easy dinner as it waits for chum at the Cape Eleuthera Marina (formerly Powell Pointe Marina). Photo: Kelly Bixby

I was immediately terrified and panicked. My voice was the only weapon I had in the battle to save my children. There was no other way for me to intervene. Behaving like a lunatic, I frantically waved my arms and screamed, “Get out of the water!”

Part of me realized I could be making a deadly demand of them. Better advice would have been to have them stand as still as possible. No splashing. No fleeing. Be courageous and don’t become its prey. If all that fails, fight. Punch it in the nose or poke it in an eye. But I wasn’t thinking calmly. My children were in peril, and I was out of my mind with worry. Seconds seemed eternally long before the wind carried hope my way. From behind me on shore, a man spoke words, full of knowledge and reason, to inform me that the imposing creature was only a dolphin.

What faith I put in his observation. I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. Surely he was better than me at recognizing the difference between the gentle, arching movement as a dolphin rolls through water and the more rigid, racing, cutting precision a shark displays when it’s locked on a target. I could be wrong, but he must not be.

I saw my children vying to get to shore and meekly waved them off. I relayed the good news, “It’s only a dolphin!” but they continued on their way. Dread developed into laughter by the time they reached me. We caught our breath and watched other children who jumped into a kayak and quickly paddled towards the dolphin in order to get a closer look. They might have missed it, had I not made a spectacle of myself.

Shark tales like these are why I find comfort in hiring snorkeling guides when I’m exploring new places. Guides know how best to navigate narrow openings like those in between fire coral formations. They know the lay of the land. They’ve repeated the same route hundreds of times. I expect them to keep me safe, yet I also know my confidence in them is overrated. They’re not captains who will go down with their ships. They’re not mother bears ferociously protecting their precious cubs. They’re not any more prepared than a crazy mama like me in being able to fend off Megalodon.

The Rich and (In)famous

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Being able to travel is one privilege I never take for granted. As a writer, everywhere I go, I try to keep my eyes open for something unique. What better place to find material than a crowded airport? You never know who you’ll bump into.

The day after we attended the 141st Kentucky Derby, my husband, Greg, and I were shuttled from our downtown Louisville hotel back to the city’s international airport. We arrived at our terminal to check our bags curb-side and saw a lone skycap finishing with a young lady.

While waiting for him to assist us, I noticed a small group of people gathered outside of an SUV just beyond the skycap station. They caught my attention because they didn’t look like family sending one of their beloved off on a trip. There weren’t hugs or tears as they said goodbye to one another. The interaction was professional as each of the individuals shook hands and smiled pleasantly. Most curiously, the collective was made of four armed and uniformed police officers, a plainclothesman sporting a weapon and a badge, a man dressed in business-casual attire, and another gentleman wearing a very expensive looking suit. I wondered what all the fuss was about.

I first speculated that the plainclothesman was a highly ranked police official, had come in for Derby, and was on his way home. Then, I thought that maybe someone famous was still in the SUV, but I couldn’t see anyone else. My husband offered an equally likely scenario: “Maybe they’re transporting a criminal.”

Hoping to uncover the real story, I whispered to the skycap, “Who are those people?”

The skycap, who looked to be middle-aged like me, replied quietly, “They’re with Neno, the Rapper.”

As if I now perfectly understood the magnitude of this musician’s reputation, I nodded my head in agreement but replied, “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Neither have I, dear,” he admitted as he shook his head side to side. “Neither have I.”

Greg generally has no interest in hobnobbing with the rich and famous, so we didn’t spend our time lingering and hoping to catch a glimpse of Neno. We kept to our normal airport routine—cleared security, browsed through a few stores, and eventually got in line at Starbucks. To our surprise, we ended up right behind the crowd of officers we had seen earlier.

The entourage now surrounded and closely guarded an attractive man I did not recognize but assumed was Neno. He was dressed casually in dark clothes and a jacket, wore a baseball cap, and was quiet when he spoke. He didn’t seem preoccupied with drawing attention to himself. I got the impression that if women would leave him alone, he’d likely get through the airport without being bothered by more than speculative whispers and stares.

A barista was smitten. She stepped from behind the counter and asked Neno if he would pose for a picture with her.

A moment later, a woman older than me took out her cell phone and snapped a picture of the rapper as he smiled for her. I’m guessing that she couldn’t have known, anymore than I did, exactly who he was.

The excited reactions of the other women made me question whether or not I was missing out on a brush with greatness. I conceded that a photo with the celebrity could be something to literally write home about. “Okay then,” I muttered out loud and thought, “Why not?”

What’s not to love about Non-Fiction?

I approached Neno and asked if he wouldn’t mind taking a selfie with me. He was gracious and cool as he leaned in close to me and flashed a peace sign towards the camera. I couldn’t pretend to be a big fan, shower him with accolades, or carry on much of a conversation, so I simply thanked him and wished him a safe flight.

A moment later, Neno and his protective huddle walked away and business at Starbucks tried to return to normal. I placed my order and received it—incorrectly filled.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to calm down,” said Starbucks Girl.

“It’s OK,” I replied. “You’ve got googly eyes. I understand.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the starstruck young lady work to regain focus on her job. She successfully processed a correct order for me, and I strolled off to Google who this Neno could be.

I searched online sites through the convenient but tiny view afforded by my iPhone 5s. What I found was deplorable. Matthew Best, aka Neno the Rapper, had been arrested in 2013 in New York City’s biggest gun bust. His activities and his music lyrics reflected a parent’s nightmare—full of foul language, drug references, and disrespect.

Maybe I had misinterpreted Neno’s hand gesture in the selfie. What I thought was a peace sign could have been a defiant and crude way of flipping me off. His smooth smile masking truer intentions?

It seemed that my husband may have been right after all: the officers were transporting a criminal.

I was embarrassed that there were witnesses who had seen three generations of women make this guy out to be someone special. I couldn’t understand why Starbucks Girl was so enamoured with Neno that, after our paparazzi moments, she was still frazzled and had gotten my order wrong. At the time, her behavior was endearing. But now, knowing Neno’s background, I couldn’t accept that the girl was blushing over this gangster-type. What did she admire about him? Had he been falsely accused? Acquitted and on his way to testify against others? In my own brief encounter with him, Neno was polite and charismatic, not at all characteristic of the man splattered on nymag.com and other websites. He must have reformed from his sinister ways. I had to go back to Starbucks Girl for answers.

The line was now longer, and it appeared that the girl had regained her composure. She was too busy to confront, so I talked with one of her co-workers.

Going with a direct approach (who was I kidding, anyway?), I asked the young man: “Can you tell me what you know about the celebrity who came through here a little while ago?”

I learned that I had made a big, big mistake. The man that we ladies had posed with wasn’t the notorious thug, Neno the Rapper. He was Ne-Yo, the award-winning Rhythm and Blues singer.

Ne-Yo is associated with other huge personalities: Rihanna, Cèline Dion, Kanye West, Mariah Carey, Jennifer Hudson and more, lots more. He starred in Red Tails with Terrence Howard and Cuba Gooding Jr. and appeared on “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.” He sang on “Good Morning America” and “Live with Kelly and Michael.” He’s a popular artist who shares stories through his music lyrics.

I had come face to face with Who’s Who in Hollywood but had no idea who he was.

I looked up Ne-Yo’s latest album, Non-Fiction, on iTunes, and didn’t listen for long. Frankly, his sexually explicit subject matter and lyrics are far too liberal for my conservative nature. This celebrity sighting, however, reminded me of the critical need to verify facts when telling a true story. I decided to leave the heartthrob to the younger or more impressionable ladies and nearly admitted to my husband that he was right—some things are better left at the curb.

Run for the Roses

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(Photograph by: Greg Bixby) The 141st Kentucky Derby drew an all-time record number of attendees: 170,513.

Arriving for the 141^st Kentucky Derby, I caught a glimpse of Millionaires Row. I wasn’t at Churchill Downs, however. My commercial flight had just landed at Louisville International Airport and was taxiing to its gate. I peered out the window and saw row upon row of private jets that had been lined up and left by their affluent owners to taunt us commoners, and even the slightly more privileged first class passengers onboard. Impressive in number, there were roughly a hundred planes that I could see from my carefully selected exit row seat. Having paid extra for Delta Comfort+, I gained more legroom and a free alcoholic beverage. Not a bad way to start my first trip to watch the greatest, fastest, most exciting two minutes in sports, complete with Thoroughbred horses, mint juleps, live entertainment, and photo ops.

In preparing for my experience at Derby, I read pages of online information regarding the race’s history and traditions, betting tips, security procedures, and recommendations on attire. The official Derby website offered a host of pictures that supported the importance of hats for ladies and proper clothing for all. I looked through photos from last year’s event to learn what was acceptable amongst the crowd of spectators, which included highly successful celebrities and businesspeople, as well as ordinary women, like me. I wanted to dress appropriately enough to blend in.

Beyond the advice I garnered from the internet, my greatest ally was one of my friends. She’s a perfect southern belle–Maria knows Kentucky; she’s from Louisville; she’s passionate about Derby. Relying upon her expertise and guidance, I gained comfort in my evolving plans, which heavily focused on exactly what to wear, what to expect, and how to fit in.

In retrospect, Maria had started training me for Derby Day many years ago when I attended a Derby party at her home. Other than neglecting to invite Josh Groban to sing “The Star- Spangled Banner,” she provided the essentials. We decorated hats, drank one too many mint juleps, ate Derby pie, and cheered for the stars: the horses.

Her party was a far greater introduction into the sport of horse racing than my husband Greg’s and my earlier attempt to figure it out on our own. We were still in college when we drove south from Michigan to Louisville Downs for harness racing. The first horse on which we placed a bet was injured during its race, went lame and settled in last place. Our next chosen hopeful literally collided with another team, quickly recovered from the accident, but was confused and ran in the opposite direction.

There were no cash winnings for us on that cloudy, gray day. I think it may have had something to do with our strategy for picking a winner. We simply relied upon dumb luck (had we won, it would have been “good luck”) to guide us in weeding through the names of the horses.

Winner or not, I remember feeling like an outsider, a northerner, a “Damn Yankee.” Nobody specific made me feel that way. I was self-aware that I didn’t fit in. Because I have a distinct, well-established, born and bred Midwest accent, I didn’t talk like I was from the South.

A few things have changed in the twenty-eight years since I whimsically bet on the horses in Kentucky.

First, there is no more Louisville Downs. As a horse racing enthusiast, writer, and blogger of Horse Racing Business, Bill Shanklin reports that, “Louisville Downs presented harness racing until 1991, when it closed. Today, the Louisville Downs site is owned by Churchill Downs and is used as a training center and occasionally as a simulcasting facility.”

(Photograph by: Kelly Bixby)
Louisville Visitors Center welcomes all.

Second, I’ve learned the biggest secret to blending in: pronounce “Louisville” correctly, y’all. Thanks to Maria, I’ve had that one down pat for years. “Say Louisville as if you have marbles in your mouth,” she once told me. I’ve practiced it ever since: “Looavul.” Got it.

In addition, my betting strategy for selecting a winning horse has improved. I’ve learned that, before the big race, it’s important to take a look at the horses in the paddocks, pay attention to the trainer’s and the jockey’s reputations, and consider the odds. Ultimately, going with a hunch can settle any last minute uncertainty.

What hasn’t changed is the fanfare and excitement of Derby Day. It calls to people worldwide and becomes a bucket list item for many, the super-rich and the not-so-rich alike. As a result, people-watching has become a highly anticipated form of entertainment.

(Photograph by: Greg Bixby)
Cheers to Derby hats!

As I walked around the grounds of the 141^st Kentucky Derby, my eyes gravitated right to the hats. I suspect that each hat revealed something about the personality of the one wearing it. One woman wore a creative hat that replicated the Twin Spires and had two brown horse heads protruding from the base. Another hat was playfully covered in larger than life-sized pink petals and looked like a giant flower. Plastic champagne bottles and roses were popular adornments for many other expressive people. Personally, I chose a fairly modest, medium brimmed hat topped with ribbons, flowers and feathers, all of which complemented the shades of pink and green in my dress.

(Photograph by: Greg Bixby)
Decisions, decisions. What do you wear to Derby?

I spotted an ensemble that I liked best on one of my male hosts. He wore a red and white checked sports coat, a white shirt and dress slacks, the latter of which he tucked into black riding boots. He completed his outfit with a hand-painted silk tie displaying the image of a winning jockey sitting upon a champion horse, blanketed in roses. The pair portrayed in the tie coincidentally resembled my favorite contender: American Pharoah.

How had I arrived at my favorite? I’d like to say that it was because American Pharoah looked powerful and intimidating; Bob Baffert trained him; Victor Espinoza would be riding him; and the odds were good at 5-2. In complement to all those strengths, I had found remnants from an interview in which five retired Hall of Fame jockeys and a retired Hall of Fame trainer admired and touted American Pharoah. But then Maria sent me a video clip of “Puppy Predictors 2015 Kentucky Derby Edition” from The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon. She pointed out that the results could jinx my horse.

(Photograph by: Kelly Bixby)
Second to finish, Gary Stevens, center, reaches out to the 141st Kentucky Derby winner, Victor Espinoza, number 18

In the end, I persevered through the decision making and stood strong with my original conviction to place a winning bet on American Pharoah. I had relied on more than a hunch to help me recover losses from the day’s earlier races. Since a friend had recently starred as Pharaoh in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, I knew all along upon whom I would place my winning bet.

Next year, I may simply look for a lucky tie.

Deadwood Writers Voices

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