Heartfelt stories from the countryside
I’m 49, I make the best bourbon in Kentucky and I’ve never been married. I like it that way. My three aunts do not. At Christmas dinner, they unfolded a list. It had twenty-three names on it, and a deadline.
Two weeks before the Kentucky Derby, my best colt went down in his stall with a broken leg. The insurance investigators pointed at my trainer. My lawyers told me to fire her. I looked at her face and did the opposite.
After one fall in the kitchen, my son had the brochures ready: assisted living, $6,500 a month. I was 70 and tired of being told I was finished. So I sold my house and bought thirty acres of weeds and two old racehorses nobody wanted.