Pass the cake, please

Barby Hardy passed away last week. She was 62. I knew Barby for many years through her job with Fayette County Schools. She loved books and had a passion for reaching children through the school library system. She was very much loved and will be greatly missed.

One of my friends, who knew Barby much better and much longer than I did, was reminiscing about her yesterday. She shared something interesting with me.

It seems that Barby had a fondness for (in addition to books and children) birthday cakes. My friend said that it wasn't unheard of for Barby to purchase a birthday cake anytime of the year, just to eat and enjoy.

What a great story! I think I'll take it to heart.

I've never been one to avoid birthdays. I love them. On my birthday people give me cards that tell me (a) I'm wonderful or (b) if I were a chicken I'd be a nugget by now. Either way, bring on the cards.

On my birthday I get a lot of attention from my friends. My children come home. My husband takes us all out. I eat birthday cake. The next day I eat leftover birthday cake.

Start skipping birthdays because I'm getting older? Never!

I've had 55 birthdays so far. I figure the odds are against me having 55 more. So maybe I'd better start upping the cake quota. Having it every 3 or 4 months instead of once a year. Or maybe just when ever I feel like it.

Vanilla cake with buttercream icing and raspberry filling. Or chocolate cake piled high with chocolate shavings. Strawberry cake with real strawberries. Angel food cake with whipped cream. Baskin Robbins cake with chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

The choices are endless.

Life is to be celebrated. Every day. Join me for cake?

Let's hear it for the girls!

I read with interest the article in Monday's Herald-Leader regarding the 100th anniversary of the statue of John Hunt Morgan.

Just a few weeks ago, Steve and I found ourselves spending the night at the General Morgan Inn in Greeneville, Tennessee. In the lobby there was table top statue of Morgan on his horse.

While we in Lexington claim Morgan because he spent much of his life here and is buried here, folks in Greeneville claim him because he died there by the hands of the Union army.

I noticed this horse was a mare while the large horse in Lexington was so obviously a stallion. (A fact that has been highlighted through the years by UK undergrads who paint the testicles blue and white). I wondered why.


Surely no one thought the patrons of this upscale historical inn were going to slip down to the lobby in the dead of night with tiny pots of paint and vandalize the horse.

At my next opportunity I googled “John Hunt Morgan statue horse penis”. (Not something I had ever foreseen doing). I learned what most people probably already knew. General Morgan's horse was a mare. Black Bess. The sculptor of the original statue thought it inappropriate that "a hero" should ride a mare. Hmmm.

I thought of the little statue again a week or so later when my minister made the comment in his sermon that "history is written by the winners". I guess that means the strong ones. The golden-haired ones. The ones that bask in sunshine.

It made me think how sometimes appearances are misleading. A strong heart can beat in the chest of an awfully small person. Great minds can be housed in the weakest of bodies (think Stephen Hawking). The tiniest bird in the world (the hummingbird) is the only one that can fly both forward and backwards.

So hurray for those of us that will never have a statue in our honor. Hurray for the kind-hearted teachers I work with. For the aides that empty bedpans. For the barista that always has a smile for me. For those of us that sing off-key.

Let's hear it for Black Bess. Let's hear it for the girls!