Deep in the Heart

The recoil from the .44 Magnum was not as bad as I had expected. My sore right hand emptied the chamber and felt the warm shell casings. An acrid waft of spent fireworks from a New Year’s Eve parade flashed my senses. I examined my enemy. I was shocked and morbidly pleased at the accuracy of my work. A tight lethal cluster of pencil-punched holes spiked the head of a crazed blue alien on its paper target. A driver’s license allows you to rent a weapon at any gun range in Georgia. The gun was cheap but the ammo was expensive; $25 for a hundred rounds. Girls, you can always return on ladies night. Welcome to the South.

Snaking through the lush West Virginian mountainside at sunset provides the surreal sensation of driving through a full-scale model train set. With a “support the troops” sticker on your airport rental car you pass a church sign preaching, “Thou shalt not kill” in a dry county that produces whiskey. A road trip down South leads you deep into the heart where polarities easily unite.

A bored black youth in his Sunday’s best holds a cardboard sign and directs me into the lot of his church. I park and follow the other pilgrims on the annual route. It is a domestic landscape draped with oversized flags and vehicles made in Detroit. A Father with a smile as warm as the Kentucky sun welcomes you to pass through his toy littered yard. His proud young son attempts to sells you bottled water from his cooler.

Inside Churchill Downs, females of all ages strut charming ball gowns crowned with the colorful plumage of their native headdress. I am convinced the Kentucky Derby is all about the hats.

My quest leads me to their ceremonial drink, the mint julep. The ice-stuffed glass is already melting in my hand as I take my first sip of the frosty concoction. The bourbon potion is strong but the strength is tamed by a touch of mint and a kiss of sweetness. Each element is distinct but perfectly balanced. As it melts it mellows and goes down like ice tea. Dangerous! The drink mixes well with the sun and fun and I am struck by the absence of blacks in a Southern event of 150,000 plus.

There is more class distinction. Money. $14,060 affords you a Clubhouse Box. $59.95 gets you into the infield. No Southern belles haunt this mud and muck. Bring a camping chair and join the cheering tribe that rings the railings of this friendly battlefield. Temporary tents aid the wounded with their alcoholic Southern comforts dispensed in white plastic cups. Racecars whip by with a flood of soft rhythm as you rationalize that horses cannot possibly move that fast. Over the loudspeaker the echoed auctioneer speeds with Spend a Buck, Northern Dancer, and Foolish Pleasure. Steeped in their rituals I have to remind myself that the world’s most famous horse race is running down the line.