Long before the hats, the laughter and the rising hum of voices waiting for the starting horn, there was a quieter moment, one that has stayed with me far longer than any Kentucky Derby Day celebration.
It happened in the mid-1970s, during a private family invitation to Claiborne Farm.
We were invited to see Secretariat — the legendary American Thoroughbred known, somewhat mischievously, for tugging shiny hoop earrings from ladies’ ears.
Decades later, I still remember the anticipation, and then, the sudden stillness as the powerful stallion appeared.
Led from the barn by his handler, Secretariat stepped into view not with the thunder of hooves that defined his racing days, but with a calm, deliberate presence. Up close, he seemed even more extraordinary, his gleaming chestnut coat catching the light, his sheer size and strength unmistakable.
There was a brief moment of instruction, and I realized I was the only one in our small group wearing hoop earrings. Quietly, I slipped them off, suddenly aware of just how close we were about to get.
And then, just like that, I was within arm’s reach of Big Red.
There was no crowd, no grandstand roar, just our family, the handler nearby, and the soft sounds of the farm. And yet, the weight of what he had been**, and what he still was,** felt unmistakable.
This was the thoroughbred who stunned the world at the 1973 Belmont Stakes, winning by 31 lengths in a performance that still borders on the unbelievable.
But that afternoon, greatness was quiet.
It stood in the barnyard.
It breathed.
It watched.
And it let us come close.
That memory returns to me every year around the Kentucky Derby, especially now, as the Northwest Corner prepares for its own celebration.
At the Salisbury Rotary Club’s Kentucky Derby Social on May 2 at Noble Horizons, there will be no starting gate, no Churchill Downs stretch run. Instead, there will be neighbors gathered shoulder to shoulder, creative hats adorned with flowers and flair, a shared countdown to the horn, and the kind of collective anticipation that, for a moment, makes the room feel trackside.
As Rotary Club President Bill Pond has observed, you might think the crowd is actually at the Derby.
But what makes it matter isn’t the imitation of the race.
It’s the purpose behind it.
In small towns like ours — from Salisbury to North Canaan, Sharon to Cornwall — tradition often takes on a different shape. We recreate big moments in ways that are closer, more personal, more rooted in community. The energy at Noble Horizons will not be about wagers or winners, but about something quieter and more enduring: neighbors supporting neighbors.
It is, as Pond describes it, a circle of generosity.
Proceeds from the event ripple outward to local food banks, scholarships, backpacks for students heading back to school, and organizations that quietly meet needs many never see. The celebration becomes something more than a party; it becomes a way of sustaining the fabric of the community.
And that is what brings me back, unexpectedly, to that afternoon at Claiborne Farm.
Because what stayed with me about Secretariat was not just the magnitude of what he had done, but the quiet dignity that followed — the way greatness, once achieved, settles into something steadier, something lasting.
Not loud. Not fleeting. But present.
In its own way, that same spirit carries through Derby Day here in the Northwest Corner — the excitement, the laughter, the hats, the shared moment when the race begins, and the quieter understanding that what we’re really celebrating is connection.
A shared experience. A tradition that gives back.
Secretariat once ran a race the world has never forgotten. And a few years later, standing just a few feet away in that Kentucky barnyard, I learned something else about greatness:
Sometimes, it meets you in stillness.
And stays with you long after the race is over.
Debra Aleksinas is a freelance writer for The Lakeville Journal.
A quiet moment with Secretariat, and a local Derby Day tradition