(Brereton C. Jones and wife, Libby Lloyd Jones)

Editor’s Note:

I want to apologize that it has taken me a few days to write my farewell to the late, and certainly great, Gov. Brereton C. Jones. I want to apologize to his beautiful wife, Libby, who is as graceful as anyone I have ever met. I want to say I’m sorry to his son, Bret, who epitomizes everything that his parents have stood for and embodied — professionalism and class. I want to tell his daughter, Lucy, whom I have never met, that I apologize for the delay. And, I want to tell his longtime friend and farm manager Tim Thornton that I never forgot, but it just took me some time.

I just needed some time to contemplate and consider. I just needed awhile to compose both my emotions and my thoughts. I just needed some time.

After all, they say time heals all wounds, right?

I don’t think “they” are right about this one.

But here are my thoughts. About a man who I will never forget. About a man who I owe so much. About a man who I will forever cherish. About a man who I loved.

Here goes it:

Story #1: 

As my Dad and I rode down Old Frankfort Pike one sunny day and many suns ago, the windows down and the wind flapping my hair (my dad always wore a “flat top” style; ain’t no flapping those hair spikes) and slapping our faces, my Dad leaned out the window and looked hard at the fields on his side of the car.

“You know, I was born on that farm,” he said. “Long time ago, that was. It has changed a lot.”

That was news to me. I never knew. I never had a clue.

It was long before my Dad’s “birthplace” was a Thoroughbred farm. That was long before the black, five-plank fences bordered the entire property. That was long before every field had a stand of bluegrass and some of the most beautiful horses to ever walk on God’s green earth. That was long before it became Airdrie Stud. And, that was long before it was known as the home to Governor Brereton C. Jones and his lovely, presidential wife, Libby Lloyd Jones.

But, sure enough, in 1927, my dad — Ira B. McLean — was born on that lush, green Woodford County farm. It was where one of the best “colts” to ever grace my life was born, to be sure. Although there is no plaque there to commemorate the spot, it was surely “the spot.”

When I told that story to Gov. Jones one day, he smiled a smile as big as their entire farm.

“You should bring him back out here and drive him around. I would love to see where he was born and raised. This farm can raise the best, you know.”

My Dad and I never made that trip. One of the regrets I have in my life. But the fact that Gov. Jones made the offer never escaped me. It never was lost on me. It always warmed my heart that he would make that offer, which was as genuine as the day is long.

That was the kind of guy Gov. Brereton C. Jones was.

Gracious to the core.

Always willing to share his “place” with others, if he thought it would make them feel better.

A class act. A beautiful man.

Story #2: 

When I was a kid, my Mom and Dad always drug me (literally, kicking and screaming) to the confines of the Midway Baptist Church. If the doors of that hallowed place were open, we were going in. Come heaven or high water. And, there was no discussions.

One of the first things that I noticed was the big book of songs that hung in every pew in the entire place. For some reason, it was not called a “Song Book.” It was referred to as a “Hymnal.” And, by God, it didn’t take long after the doors closed that we were opening up those books to warble us a tune or two.

Inside the front cover of that sacred book, I noticed a little “official acknowledgment.” It read:

“This hymnal was donated by General (Arthur Young) Lloyd.”

When the service was over, I asked my Dad who was this “General Lloyd” and why did he donate the song books. He told me about him, and that he purchased the books and donated them to the church because the church, at that time, could not afford them.

A few years after that, when the church could afford new ones to replace the worn and tattered ones that had been graciously given, I took one of the old books and gave to my friends — the Jones. It was as if I had brought them the original tablets that Moses had carved from stone. At least, that is the way Gov. Jones may be feel. He took the old Baptist Hymnal and carved out a place in his office bookshelf.

And, every time I came to visit to talk about horses; or government; or some issue that demanded our attention?

The old Hymnal was right there. Prominently displayed. In amongst all the historic and important books.

A class act. A beautiful man.

Story #3:

Once upon a time, I was a legit sportswriter. Not claiming to be a great one; or even a good one. But one. I was covering the Cincinnati Reds for “The Lexington Herald-Leader” one night and was stationed in the press box watching a baseball game when I got a tip that the Breeders’ Cup made be headed to Churchill Downs for the first time in 1988.

I started making calls to see if I could confirm it. I had several friends in the industry. And, I started reaching out.

At that time, the “Herald-Leader” required several sources before I could write the story and the paper would run it. So, I embarked. Call after call. Friend after friend. Source after source. I got one to confirm it. I got another one. I called my editors. They demanded that I get another one. One that was on the Board of the Breeders’ Cup.

So, I made some calls to people who I knew would know.

And, I got the final confirmation.

Away, I wrote. Not about the baseball game, mind you. About the Breeders’ Cup coming to Kentucky. Coming to Churchill Downs. As fate would have it, the story got an Associated Press Award. I was just lucky to have good friends.

A few days after the story hit, Jim Gluckson, the PR specialist and all-around great guy, and I ran into each other. He wanted to know how I knew. From then on, he has called me “Scoop.” From 1987 to this day.

A good reporter never reveals his or her sources, and I’m not about to start now.

But I just want to say reiterate this:

Gov. Jones was a class act. A beautiful man.

Story #4 & the Last One for Today:

In 1988, I reached out to some good friends in the horse industry to see if there were any possible jobs that I would or could fit. My son, Brad, had been born in May of 1985 and I knew my days as a sportswriter were numbered. After all, when do they play games? Nights and weekends. And, I knew I wanted to spend more time with my son.

I called James E. “Ted” Basset — the President and CEO of Keeneland, at the time.

I called Seth Hancock — the mastermind of Claiborne Farm, at the time.

I called my Midway friend, Brereton C. Jones — the Lieutenant Governor of Kentucky, at the time, and the patriarch of Airdie Stud in Midway, at the time, too.

It didn’t take long before my phone was ringing, too. It seems as if the job as the Executive Vice President of the Kentucky Thoroughbred Association and the Kentucky Thoroughbred Owners and Breeders’ Association was open. And, it seemed as if I had a chance to get it, too.

As history will have it, I got the job — although I was not prepared for it, either mentally or professionally. As history would have it, I must admit, I was the worst person to ever serve in that capacity. Over. My. Head.

Oh, we did some good things. We passed legislation to allow for simulcasting of horse racing. We passed legislation to allow simulcasting from other states. We passed legislation to allow the entire cards of races from other, out-of-state tracks to be televised at Kentucky tracks. We increased purses. We made Kentucky racing better.

But I also got a drink thrown in my face by a disgruntled and over-served trainer. I got a chair thrown at me from a racetrack executive, who hated my boss and didn’t want to sign a horseman’s contract. I got a daily call from the same racetrack executive, who threatened to kill simulcasting.

It was just awful.

But in 1991, Brereton Jones was elected as the 58th Governor of Kentucky. I attended his inauguration. I was one of the first to congratulate him. I was honored to call him Governor, as well as friend.

At his inauguration, Gov. Jones grabbed my arm and said to be, in no uncertain terms:

“We are going to pass legislation to create a breeders’ awards fund in Kentucky. And, I’m going to need your help.”

He didn’t have to ask twice.

To make the long story shorter, we passed the legislation. It created and enabled off-track betting to be located in rural Kentucky. Much of the money generated from the creation of OTB would go to fund a Breeders’ Awards Fund.

As soon as the legislation passed, Gov. Jones asked if I would consider starting up a new company — to be owned by the Commonwealth’s four major Thoroughbred tracks at the time (Keeneland, Churchill Downs, Turfway Park and Ellis Park).

He didn’t have to ask twice.

We started Kentucky OTB without an office or a pencil and paper. In less than two years, we had set up four OTBS in Corbin, Maysville, Jamestown and Pineville. We netted $1 million in profits for the tracks. We created money for the first Breeders’ Awards Fund — which is still active and much more robust and successful today, thanks to Sen. Damon Thayer, who single-handily modified and restructured its’ funding mechanism.

In 1995, I left Kentucky OTB and started my own lobbying firm. I got my first client that year, the Kentucky Beer Wholesalers Association. I still have them.

All of that would not have been possible without the undying support of my friend, Brery Jones.

I spent many days in his Governor’s office. Sometimes we talked politics and legislation. Sometimes we talked horses. Always, we talked about family and health. Every single time, he asked about my Mom, who worked at the Midway Post Office, and my Dad. Every single time, I asked about Libby and the kids.

I spent many days and nights in his Airdrie Stud office. Sometimes we talked politics and legislation. Sometimes we talked horses. Always, we talked about family and health. Every single time, he asked about my Mom, who worked at the Midway Post Office, and my Dad. Every single time, I asked about Libby and the kids.

I spent much of my professional and early adult life counting on the wisdom and counsel of Brery Jones. He never told me no. His door — to his office and his mind — was always open.

We sat in his office. Dog curled up on the floor. Fire in its’ place. The Midway Baptist Hymnal on the shelf. And, we talked.

He will never know how much he meant to me. Not then. Not today.

Gov. Brereton C. Jones was a class act. A beautiful man.

More than that, though?

Brery Jones was a great man, who was a great friend.

And, those people don’t come along often.

So long, my friend. You will be missed.

You will be missed by me.