It’s a peaceful afternoon in the barns at Belmont Park.  You hear the leaves rustling in the wind. The birds are having the time of their lives singing and chirping away. There is the soft plodding sound of hooves as a horse walks quietly in the shed row. In the distance, there is someone singing in Spanish. Across the street, you can hear snatches of French as trainer Christophe Clement gestures to his phone.

Sometimes it’s good to go back to your roots. When I was a struggling college graduate, I took several jobs at plant nurseries. The manager probably thought I was barely qualified with my degree in music and humanities, but he let me suit up daily in a yellow rain suit and water the fuchsias. Later, I was promoted to planting color pots with annuals. I found the work stimulating and loved the deep, rich, earthy smell of the greenhouse every morning. My mom also worked in a greenhouse and we spent many wonderful hours talking about the newest trends in plants and flowers.