LIFE IN THE COLE BIN

By Burton W. Cole

I plan to be knighted as a Kentucky Colonel. Not right away. I’m easing into it.

I continued acclimating as a newly julep-minted Kentucky boy last week by visiting Churchill Downs. Not for the Kentucky Derby itself. I’m new, but not crazy.

“I’ll take you to Thurby,” said my friend Wendy, who lives in Louisville. “Thurby is the Thursday before the Kentucky Derby. It’s for the locals to enjoy before those hordes from other states come crashing through.”

Trepidation galloped a few laps around my brain. Wendy is gorgeous, intelligent and very at ease in a high-class crowd. And I… I am Burt.

“How am I going to fit in with that crowd?” I asked.

“You’ll need a straw hat and a bow tie…”

Despite what kids’ picture books claim, we northeast Ohio farm kids did not sport straw hats. We wore baseball caps, usually with the logo of a tractor or seed company on the front. We bedazzled our headgear with baler grease, cobwebs and barn dust.

And while an eventual office job left me with dozens of neckties, not one of them is bowed.

But I aim to be a Kentucky Colonel. I began the hunt for a mint shirt, a bow tie and a white, straw fedora.

Years ago, when Terry helped me pick out a tuxedo for our wedding, I showed her this marvelous purple tux lit up in shiny paisleys. It came with a purple fedora.

“I hope your next fiancée likes it,” Terry growled, “because no groom is going to wear that THING in my wedding.”

At Churchill Downs, the tux my bride rejected would have been boringly normal. Guys strode the grounds in every crayon box color, especially in neon or pastel hues. They strutted in suits that appeared to have been made with material meant for a 6-year-olds pajamas.

I was among my people. I wished that Terry was still alive. I finally found a place where I could have worn that “outlandish” tuxedo.

Which still would have paled compared to the ladies and their hats. I’ve never seen so many oversized flowers, fluttery feathers, sprigs, twigs and who knows what else sprouting out of women’s heads. On purpose. It was a circus of elegance.

Instead of doubling over in laughter, I was awed by how stunningly well these women wore such imaginative creations.

After availing ourselves of ritzy clubhouse food, Wendy and I settled into our seats at the track.

We did not place bets. Life itself is enough of a gamble. But we wanted to cheer. So I chose who to root for by the highly scientific method of picking whatever names struck my fancy.

Racehorse names are like the ladies’ hats — colorful, amusing and entertaining. The program listed such horses as Fasta Lavista Baby, Melittlefrostgirl, Chasing Kitty and Emy. (“Emy” would be like the farmer’s baseball cap of horse names.)

Then I saw him — Brilliant Berti. A misspelling, for sure. If you’re going to name your horse after me, it should have been Brilliant Burtie.

The gates opened and the horses charged Berti pulled into fourth… then faded… back into fourth… third, no fourth again… homestretch… WOW! Burtie — er, Berti — won! Brilliant!

I should come back Saturday for the Kentucky Derby itself…

Whoa! Hold your horses! Thurby packed enough crowds and noise. I didn’t want to be anywhere close to Churchill Downs when all the interlopers from all over showed up.

I adjusted my straw fedora, straightened my bow tie and dodged a passing floppy hat the size of a row of potted plants.

Wendy and I exited — she gracefully, me like an old northeast Ohio farm boy flailing elbows upstream through a school of elegance, style and merriment.

If we do this again, I’ll check to see if that purple tux is still in stock. Do Kentucky Colonels wear paisley?

The Ohio farm kid is still trying to acclimate to his new Kentucky home. Offer tips on track styles and horse names at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.