Image of the bookish-appearing General Ignacio Zargoza. Courtesy of the Museo Nacional De Historia, INAH)

There is no gunfire this morning at Refuge Farm- at least not yet- to commemorate the 1862 Battle of Puebla, and the unlikely victory of General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguin over the professional soldiers of the Emperor of France, Napoleon Trois.

Don’t confuse this holiday with Mexican Independence Day, which is in September sometime. This is an important holiday, naturally, and as usual we have taken it to our bosom here in America as another opportunity for public displays of excessive alcohol consumption.

What with the Derby last night, I already got that out of my system. The Russians came by to witness the most exciting two minutes in sports- which is akin to a long suffering lover with a chronic case of premature conclusion, but watching the race was a fun (if brief) time.

We turned off the television and went back to the satellite radio once Orb had cooled down and been blanketed in roses. I am skeptical about the racing game. I did not think about it much in the past, but the rash of doping cases and evident institutional cruelty in the industry- the enterprise can only be called that, not the sport of Napoleons anymore- makes me leery of all the hoopla.

(The 86th Running of the Virginia Gold Cup yesterday at Great Meadow in Loudoun County. Photo Washington Post).

But I had a Julep or two anyway, just for the triple coincidence of Ignacio’s victory, the Derby and the event at Great Meadow up in Loudoun County.

You can feel the horse world getting the late arrival of Spring behind it. The rigs are rumbling down our little farm lane, headed for Rosemary’s Summerduck Run Barn and the first events of the season. Virginia’s Gold Cup at Great Meadow was this weekend as well, and they were predicting 50,000 stylishly dressed race fans to show up and man the rail.

For years, it was an event I loved. I would grab my camera and donned straw hat and seersucker suit for the event, and take the bus to hang on the rail, but my heart wasn’t in it this year. I do like to look at the lady’s hats, and the pounding of the hooves when the horses come by does thrill the heart.

It would not have worked. There was a full Panzer full of crap to be conveyed to the Farm, and a dozen complications I won’t bore you with, except that the freight elevator had been reserved for the move-in of a unit on the 7th Floor, and I was in a surly mood by the time I had crossed off one item on The Stager’s significant list of tasks.

Unloading at the farm made me appreciate how nice it is to be able to walk again, unassisted, and hanging on the rail for the six races leading up to the Gold Cup would not have been practical. Not that practicality has much to do with the world these days. The poor word has been abused almost as much as the term “common sense,” which normally now precedes some notion that isn’t.

Like when a political commentator starts out with the phrase “The fact of the matter is….”

But I am down on the farm and won’t have to deal with the idiots inside the Beltway until cocktail hour tonight. The interesting thing about moving is what surfaces. Objects are distributed in a certain sedimentary layering, and one of the things that fell out of the pile I was shifting from one dark place to another was a little blue box.

There was something in it, though I could not recall what it might be. I opened it up and discovered a butane lighter I purchase in Shanghai a long time ago. When opened, it plays China’s national anthem “March of the Volunteers” in a spectacularly tinny and irritating fashion.

I tried the button and the thing worked, after a fashion, and I slipped it into the pocket of my shorts with a shrug and got on with the day. Now it is at the farm, and still irritating, though the Great Helmsman’s steady gaze gives a certain gravitas to the breakfast table.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com