Jada Campbell

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🐎đŸ‡ș🇾 Good Twist & Frank Chapot: An American Show Jumping LegacyBefore there was Gem Twist, there was Good Twist — the inc...
10/31/2025

🐎đŸ‡ș🇾 Good Twist & Frank Chapot: An American Show Jumping Legacy

Before there was Gem Twist, there was Good Twist — the incredible stallion who helped define an era of American show jumping. Ridden by Frank Chapot, one of the sport’s true pioneers, Good Twist was known for his courage, heart, and consistency in the ring.

Together, Frank and Good Twist competed at the highest levels throughout the 1960s, representing the United States Equestrian Team with style and grit. Their partnership not only earned international respect but also left a lasting mark on equestrian breeding and sport.

Good Twist’s legacy didn’t end in the arena — he went on to sire Gem Twist, one of the greatest show jumpers in history, continuing a bloodline of brilliance that still influences the sport today. 🏆✹

“Good Twist was all heart,” Frank Chapot once said. “He gave me everything he had, every single time.”

A true legend — both in the ring and through the champions who followed.

She wrote "Freight Train" at 11, then didn't play guitar for 25 years.At 62, she was rediscovered working as a maid.At 9...
10/31/2025

She wrote "Freight Train" at 11, then didn't play guitar for 25 years.
At 62, she was rediscovered working as a maid.
At 90, she won a Grammy.
Elizabeth Cotten was born in 1893 in Chapel Hill, North Carolina—the youngest of five children in a Black family barely surviving the Jim Crow South. Her parents worked menial jobs. There was no money for luxuries like music lessons or instruments.
But Elizabeth wanted to make music. So at age seven, she started sneaking her older brother's banjo when he wasn't home. She'd cradle it awkwardly in her small hands, trying to figure out how sounds became songs.
There was one problem: Elizabeth was left-handed. Her brother's banjo was set up for right-handed players. But no one had told Elizabeth there was a "correct" way to hold an instrument.
So she just flipped it upside down and taught herself.
Her left hand—the one that should've been fretting notes—strummed. Her right hand—the one that should've been strumming—picked out melodies. It was backwards to everyone else. To Elizabeth, it was the only way that made sense.
By age 11, she'd saved enough money doing domestic work to order a guitar from the Sears catalog: a Stella parlor guitar, $3.75. She transferred her upside-down technique to six strings.
And she wrote "Freight Train."

"Freight Train" was about the trains that rumbled through Chapel Hill—the sound that meant somewhere else, meant movement, meant escape from the poverty and limitation of her childhood. The melody mimicked the rhythm of wheels on tracks. The lyrics were simple, wistful, longing:
Freight train, freight train, run so fast
Freight train, freight train, run so fast
Please don't tell what train I'm on
They won't know what route I've gone
Elizabeth was 11 years old. She'd created something that would outlive her by generations.
But first, she had to survive.

At 15, Elizabeth married. Her husband's name was Frank. They had a daughter, Lily. Elizabeth put down the guitar. Not because she wanted to—because she had to.
Black women in early 20th-century North Carolina had limited options: domestic service, laundry, field work. Elizabeth worked as a maid and housekeeper to help support her family. There was no time for music. No market for a Black woman playing upside-down guitar in the Jim Crow South.
For 25 years, the guitar sat silent. Elizabeth cleaned houses, raised her daughter, survived. The girl who'd written "Freight Train" at 11 became a woman whose hands scrubbed floors instead of playing strings.
Music was a memory. A childhood dream put away because adulthood required survival.
Then, in 1948, at age 55, Elizabeth got a job working for the Seeger family in Washington, D.C.

The Seegers weren't just any family. Ruth Crawford Seeger was a composer. Her husband Charles was a musicologist. Their children—Mike and Peggy Seeger, and their half-brother Pete Seeger—were already becoming folk music legends.
Elizabeth worked as their housekeeper. She cleaned, cooked, kept the house running while the Seegers made music.
One day, Peggy Seeger (then a teenager) was in a department store with Elizabeth when Peggy paused to look at guitars. Elizabeth mentioned, almost casually, that she used to play.
"Show me," Peggy said.
Elizabeth picked up a guitar. Flipped it upside down. And began to play.
Peggy Seeger was stunned. The technique was unlike anything she'd seen—melody in the bass, rhythm in the treble, everything backwards but somehow perfect. She ran home and told her family: their housekeeper was an extraordinary guitarist.
The Seegers invited Elizabeth to play for them. She played "Freight Train"—the song she'd written four decades earlier. The family was mesmerized.
Pete Seeger, already famous, asked permission to perform it. Elizabeth said yes. Within months, "Freight Train" was being played at folk festivals and coffeehouses across America.
Elizabeth Cotten, at 62 years old, was rediscovered.

In 1958, Folkways Records began recording Elizabeth. Her first album, Folksongs and Instrumentals with Guitar, introduced the world to "Cotten picking"—the name given to her unique left-handed, upside-down style.
She played with her thumb handling melodies on the bass strings while her fingers picked rhythm on the treble strings. It created a sound that was simultaneously complex and effortless, like two guitars playing at once.
Musicians were obsessed. Doc Watson learned from her. Joan Baez covered "Freight Train." Jerry Garcia cited her as an influence. Taj Mahal studied her technique. She became a legend in the folk revival movement—not as a novelty, but as a master.
Elizabeth toured. She played festivals. She appeared on television. At an age when most people retire, Elizabeth Cotten was finally getting the music career she'd deserved at 11.
She kept performing into her 80s. Her fingers, weathered from decades of housework, still remembered every note.

In 1984, Elizabeth Cotten won a Grammy Award for Best Ethnic or Traditional Folk Recording. She was 90 years old.
She accepted the award with quiet grace, the same way she'd lived her life. No bitterness about the decades lost to housework. No anger about being discovered in her 60s instead of her teens. Just gratitude that the music had finally found its way back to her.
Elizabeth died in 1987 at 94, in Syracuse, New York, surrounded by family.
"Freight Train" has been covered hundreds of times—by folk singers, rock bands, bluegrass groups. Most people who play it don't know Elizabeth Cotten wrote it at 11. They don't know she stopped playing for 25 years. They don't know she won a Grammy at 90.
They just know it's a beautiful song about longing and trains and somewhere else.

Elizabeth Cotten didn't come from fame or fortune. She came from poverty, Jim Crow North Carolina, and a childhood where a $3.75 guitar from Sears was an impossible luxury she had to earn herself.
She taught herself to play upside down because no one told her that wasn't how it was done.
She wrote "Freight Train" at 11 and didn't play it again for decades because survival required putting away childish things.
She worked as a maid into her 60s, cleaning houses for families who made music while she made their beds.
And then one day, someone asked her to play. And everything she'd put away came flooding back.
She was 62 when she was rediscovered. She was 90 when she won a Grammy.
She had heart. She had rhythm. And a $3.75 guitar played upside down.
Elizabeth Cotten proved it's never too late. That decades lost don't mean dreams dead. That the music you put away to survive can come back when survival allows.
She wrote "Freight Train" at 11. She played it at 90 accepting a Grammy.
The train she sang about—the one she wanted to ride away from poverty and limitation—finally came.
It was just 79 years late.

  in 1972, 2-year-old Secretariat raced for the first time on a sloppy track, handling the surface easily with an eight-...
10/31/2025

in 1972, 2-year-old Secretariat raced for the first time on a sloppy track, handling the surface easily with an eight-length victory in the 1 1/16-mile Laurel Futurity in Maryland.

Bob Maisel, sports editor for the Baltimore Sun, wrote that Secretariat only had raced on fast tracks in his career to that point, and the track at Laurel that day was as sloppy as a race track can get. Maisel then described how Secretariat answered any doubts:

"If anything, he liked it better than those fast tracks he's been eating up...[E]ven though he broke last, there never was a time he didn’t look like a winner. Big, strong and powerful, the chestnut, with jockey sitting absolutely still, started picking up horses whose riders were already driving. On the turn, he went to the far outside, actually continued to pass horses while shifting gears and getting position for the stretch run. Once they straightened out for home, forget it. [Ron] Turcotte looked back at the others, then just held on and steered for the wire. The margin was eight lengths, but it seemed even easier. If you want further proof of the class of this c**t, consider that without even feeling the whip, he covered the 1 1/16 miles over a sloppy track in 1:42 4/5, just a fifth off the track record of Yankee Lad."

Maisel also made sure to point out that Secretariat carried 122 pounds compared to the 4-year-old Yankee Lad's 116 when the record was set.

See more highlights and photos from the 1972 Laurel Futurity: https://www.secretariat.com/past-performances/laurel-futurity/

Boston Police Officer Frank Pomodoro comforting his partner and police horse, October 1989🐮 An Officer and His Horse: Th...
10/31/2025

Boston Police Officer Frank Pomodoro comforting his partner and police horse, October 1989

🐮 An Officer and His Horse: The Day Fritz Fell and a City Came Together

Over 35 years ago, Boston Police Officer Frank Pomodoro found himself living every mounted officer’s worst nightmare — his trusted partner and police horse, Fritz, had fallen into a construction hole.

It was an ordinary day outside the old District D-4 station, then located near Berkeley Street and Warren Avenue. The hole, covered by a steel plate, gave way beneath Fritz, sending the 1,500-pound horse crashing down.

Frank was inside the station when someone ran in, breathless, shouting that his horse had fallen. His heart dropped. He feared the worst — a broken leg would mean losing his partner of three years.

But fate had other plans.

“He was back to work in three weeks and, luckily, he only suffered a cut to one of his front legs,” Pomodoro says with a smile, still grateful decades later.

The photo of that moment — Frank kneeling beside Fritz, comforting him as firefighters and bystanders rushed to help — was taken on October 31, 1989.

“I remember it was Halloween,” recalls Frank. “I had to call my wife and tell her I wasn’t going to make it home in time to give out candy.”

What stays with him most after all these years isn’t the fear or the chaos, but the compassion he witnessed that day.

“Perfect strangers — even one guy I had locked up — came running over to help Fritz,” he says. “When the Fire Department arrived, they tied a rope around Fritz to keep him from slipping deeper. The rope stretched across the street, and there must’ve been 15 or 20 people holding onto it to keep him steady. The compassion of perfect strangers was unbelievable.”

But ropes weren’t enough. To lift a horse that size safely out of the hole, they needed something stronger.

By sheer luck, Shaughnessy & Ahearn, a local rigging company, had a crane job just around the corner. When they heard what had happened, they rushed over — and soon Fritz was lifted to safety.

“My mother was so grateful,” Frank says, “she sent a fruit basket to Mr. Shaughnessy, the owner, thanking him for what they did for Fritz.”

Today, Frank serves as a detective in the Domestic Violence Unit, nearing the end of a nearly 30-year career. He’s seen the best and the worst of people — but nothing, he says, compares to what he witnessed that Halloween day.

“I met a lot of really great people that day, and to this day, I have nothing but gratitude to those who came over to help Fritzie. I’ll never forget them.”

â€ïžđŸŽ

That photo — an officer comforting his horse in a moment of vulnerability — has become more than just an image. It’s a reminder of the bond between humans and animals, and of the compassion that can unite a community when it matters most.

1945, A Man And His Percheron In Coldwater Kansas.
10/31/2025

1945, A Man And His Percheron In Coldwater Kansas.

There is an old pony in a big pen by the barn. He has no real purpose. No kids ride him, he is not a companion to anothe...
10/31/2025

There is an old pony in a big pen by the barn. He has no real purpose. No kids ride him, he is not a companion to another old horse.
We have no history together. He came into my life by happenstance. There are no fond, warm fuzzy memories. I owe him nothing. But he’s polite and kind, and nickers to me as I come out the door in the morning.
He eats a princely sum of special food, and has a premium round bale of irrigated grass that the other horses can only dream of. His water is fresh, and warmed in the winter. I’ve gone out there late at night to make sure he has food, and he’s the first thing I attend to after morning coffee.
Why? Why not send him to the sale where ‘someone’ will want him? At 40 cents a pound, he’d be worth a nice steak dinner and drinks in town. They’ll load him on a truck with 30 other old ponies and horses, and somewhere down that line, if he doesn’t fall from his bad knee and get trampled in the transport, he will become dog food.
There’s a bum calf in our scale house on this cold frosty night. He’s little and scrawny, with p**p stuck to his butt, and a bit of a runny nose. There’s a heater in there keeping the temp above freezing. In the morning I’ll make him a bottle of warm milk replacer and try to convince him to eat some of the pony’s special food. Bob will clean his little house and put down fresh bedding. It would be easier to have left him in the field with the 500 bigger, stronger calves, to steal milk from the occasional tolerant cow, to eventually freeze to death and feed the coyotes that lurk about the herd for just such an opportunity.
There is a wild kitten in the barn who most likely jumped off a utility truck a while back. We’ve been leaving food just for him, and making sure the heated water bowl is full, so he doesn’t have to go outside and perch precariously on the horse waterer to drink.
I guess we sound like saps, the old cowboy and I. Sort of wimpy and un-ranch like.
I guess we are. But at our age, with certain infirmities starting to creep into our daily routines, and the realization that we are not perfect, we are thinking that kindness is a virtue and care is our purpose.
Care of not just the healthy robust animals that make money and pay the bills, but care of everything we are capable of caring for - those creatures that, like us, are in need of a bit more attention to get through the day.
We didn’t go about seeking these creatures- they came to us and landed here not of their own choosing, or ours. But here they are, and off I go to town to a business that provides enough to buy the expensive milk replacer, premium hay, and special pony food.
There may be some karma in all this, or maybe not, but in the end we’ll know we did the best we could for those that needed us.
Peace. Really, I mean it.
Credit - original owner

Before Secretariat ever thundered into legend, there was Penny Chenery, fighting to save a family farm. And before he ca...
10/30/2025

Before Secretariat ever thundered into legend, there was Penny Chenery, fighting to save a family farm. And before he came along, there was a gentle bay with a white blaze named Riva Ridge, the quiet hero who kept Meadow Stable alive.

Riva won the 1972 Kentucky Derby and Belmont Stakes, steady and brave. He didn’t capture headlines like Big Red, but he captured Penny’s heart first. A year later, Secretariat would explode into history, but Penny never forgot the c**t who paved his path.

Her bond with both horses ran deep—not just as their owner, but as their believer. Riva Ridge gave her hope when things looked bleak. Secretariat gave her glory when the world was watching.

And Penny gave them both something back—unshakable trust, fierce loyalty, and the chance to show the world who they truly were. Together, they weren’t just racehorses and a woman. They were a story of courage, connection, and the power of conviction.

Read more in the comments↓↓↓ Secretariat Belmont ~ Somewhere In Time When time itself seemed to have all but stopped .Se...
10/30/2025

Read more in the comments↓↓↓ Secretariat
Belmont ~ Somewhere In Time
When time itself seemed to have all but stopped .
Secretariat has just tied the world record for nine furongs. He is running now as if in contempt of the clock. Those watching him are only beginning to fathom the magnitude of the effort. He is moving beyond the standard by which the running horse has been traditionally judged, not tiring, not leg weary, not backing up a stroke, dimensionless scope, and all the time Turcotte asking nothing of him. The crowds continue to erupt. Looking, Turcotte sees the hands shoot up in the grandstand, the thousands on their feet, hundreds lining the rail of the homestretch with the programs waving and the hands clapping and the legs jumping. He is still galloping to the beat of 12. Aglide, He turns for home in full flight. He opens 21 lengths. He increases that to 22. He is running easily. Nor is the form deteriorating. There remains the pendulumlike stride of the forelegs and the drive of the hind legs, the pumping of the shoulders and the neck, the rise and dip of the head. He makes sense of all the mystical pageant rights of the blood through which he has evolved as distillate, a climatic act in triumph of the breed, one horse combining all the noblest qualities of his species and his ancestries – of the unbeaten Nearco through Nasrallah and Bold Ruler, of the iron horse Discovery through Outdone and Miss Disco, of the dashing St. Simon through Prince Rose and Princequillo, and of the staying Brown Bud through Imperatrice by way of Somethingroyal. He defines the blooded horse in his own terms.
By Bill Nack

Robert Frost wasn’t the kindly old poet America imagined — he was a man who clawed beauty out of heartbreak.His poems so...
10/30/2025

Robert Frost wasn’t the kindly old poet America imagined — he was a man who clawed beauty out of heartbreak.

His poems sounded calm, but his life was anything but. Frost grew up poor, anxious, and fiercely intelligent — a boy who read by candlelight and lost faith in stability before he even found it. His father drank himself to death when Robert was eleven. His mother turned to spiritualism. By the time Frost was twenty, he had already buried his first child. The rest of his life would be a tug-of-war between creation and collapse.

He tried everything but poetry first — farmhand, schoolteacher, newspaper editor — all failures. By 38, broke and desperate, he sold the family farm and took his wife and kids to England. That decision changed everything. In a rented cottage near Beaconsfield, Frost wrote the work that would make him immortal: The Road Not Taken, Mending Wall, After Apple-Picking. His poems looked pastoral, but they hid razor blades inside — loneliness, indecision, the violence of choice. He once said, “A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.” His began in pain and ended in survival.

Tragedy followed him like a shadow. Two more children died young. His wife, Elinor, whom he adored, grew frail and depressed. One son took his own life. Frost carried that grief into every poem. That’s why his woods felt real — not as scenery, but as sanctuary. He wrote about nature not to escape people, but to forgive them, and himself.

In 1961, at 86, he stood in the freezing sunlight at John F. Kennedy’s inauguration, ready to read a new poem he’d written for the moment. The glare blinded him, the paper shook in his hands, and he couldn’t see a word. So he lifted his head and recited “The Gift Outright” entirely from memory — turning what could have been humiliation into one of the most moving performances in American history.

Robert Frost wasn’t a soft poet of snowy woods. He was a survivor who stitched philosophy to grief.
He didn’t write about nature’s peace — he wrote about how to keep walking when peace is gone, and the only sound left is your own heartbeat against the cold.

“I Just Wish I Had a Horse
” — And John Wayne Made That Wish Come TrueHe was only ten.A rare illness had weakened his le...
10/30/2025

“I Just Wish I Had a Horse
” — And John Wayne Made That Wish Come True

He was only ten.

A rare illness had weakened his legs.
Doctors said he’d probably never run again.
But in his heart, he was still racing through the canyons — a cowboy, wild and free, just like the ones in the movies.

One day, a nurse asked,
“If you could have one wish
?”

The boy didn’t hesitate:
“I want a horse. I want to ride like John Wayne.”

Word of that wish somehow reached the set of a nearby Western — where John Wayne and Ben Johnson were filming.

They didn’t make a show of it.
No press. No announcement.
Just two legends slipping away quietly one afternoon.

They drove to a small ranch outside town and picked out a gentle, chestnut-colored horse with wise eyes.

Wayne ran his hand through the horse’s mane and said:
“Doesn’t have to be the fastest
 Just be the best friend that kid’s ever had.”

Ben Johnson looked over and smiled:
“Let’s call him Lucky — because today, that boy’s the luckiest kid on Earth.”

No cameras followed them.
Just the wind, and the sound of hooves.

Later that evening, they arrived at the hospital.
Two tall cowboys, a small horse, and a stunned crowd of nurses and doctors.

The boy couldn’t speak.
He just wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck, tears falling onto its coat.

Wayne knelt beside him, put a hand on his shoulder, and whispered:
“You don’t need to ride to be a cowboy. A cowboy’s someone who never quits. Just like you.”

The story was never published in the papers.
It was told years later by that same nurse — who said it changed the way she viewed kindness forever.

The boy recovered better than expected.
And Lucky stayed by his side for years.

No film crew.
No headlines.
Just two men who chose to live the roles they played.

John Wayne and Ben Johnson didn’t just act like heroes.
They were heroes.

đŸŽâšŸ Nothing says tradition like the iconic Budweiser Clydesdales making their grand entrance at the ballpark. A perfect b...
10/30/2025

đŸŽâšŸ Nothing says tradition like the iconic Budweiser Clydesdales making their grand entrance at the ballpark. A perfect blend of America’s pastime and timeless heritage. đŸ»

Milton Hershey knew failure. His first candy business in Philadelphia went bankrupt. His second in New York collapsed. B...
10/30/2025

Milton Hershey knew failure. His first candy business in Philadelphia went bankrupt. His second in New York collapsed. By 30, he was broke and back living with his parents in rural Pennsylvania. Most people would’ve quit. He tried again. By 1900, he’d built the Hershey Chocolate Company and an entire town to go with it.

He married Catherine “Kitty” Sweeney, the love of his life. They had everything but children. So in 1909, they founded the Hershey Industrial School for orphaned boys a real home, not a charity.
When Kitty passed, Milton kept going. In 1918, he gave away his entire company, worth $60 million to a trust for the school. Every Hershey bar sold would fund children’s futures.

Today, the Milton Hershey School serves over 2,000 students completely free housing, food, healthcare, education, and college scholarships funded by a $17 billion trust. Milton Hershey never had kids, but he became a father to thousands.
Every Hershey bar is sweet but his story is sweeter.

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