Arabian Chestnut

Deep green as they were, those large rolling hills, dropping to valleys so close to the highway on which I rode, they ensconced me in peril. I hold them as clear and vivid as the most brilliant image of the late summer of '72. Uncle Joey drove so close to the rail, I looked down in fear at the fog covering the land far below. Like driving atop clouds, his large, copper-colored Chrysler New Yorker, cruised elegantly down interstate 90. We journeyed from afar, at least far enough for a twelve-year-old boy. Late August was bringing me the angst of a new school year; an anxiety vanishing as our adventure continued.

The Journey

We began very early, at two in the morning, leaving Greece, New York and the home of my Aunt Laura and Uncle Joey. It was a journey to the past living in the present. The steamy warmth of the late-summer night gave way to the approaching cold dew of the fall intermingled as it was, with my worries of September and the new school that awaited. The worries were displaced by the exuberance of our journey to the horses. I remember now, not sleeping the night before our quest, imagining what I've experienced before on prior summer trips to the horses in the hills. It was the journey itself that exited me the most. My eager excitement was in watching the landscape slowly change, from flat farmlands to rolling hills, onto foothills, then large rolling forest-covered mountains, driving fast and furious, cutting through the very fog that separated summer from autumn, thick clouds that overwhelmed the earth, hiding the steep cliffs and allowing my imagination and fear to kindle an adrenaline rush that clings to me now, forty years later. The fog outside was matched with the fog within. Billows of smoke from the front seats of that massive New Yorker, as my Aunt and Uncle puffed away on non-filtered cigarettes. Not so eagerly, my sister and I inhaled second-hand smoke in mass quantities; the scent of leather and spent tobacco as fresh now as then. We watched in vain out of the closed windows peering through smoke and fog for remnants of the "Ghost Mountains" beyond. Suddenly, as the dawn broke, we could see the tops of majestic peaks, fighting through the white blanket below. The sun began to win the battle as it burned away the shroud; and we discovered nirvana. It was no different than reaching another planet, another realm, something from the fairy tale books read to us by our Aunt not so long ago. We arrived in a magic land. Our resplendent copper-colored coach flew elegantly along the highway and our speed was now evident as we past each large peak. My head perched upward, chin resting on the leather edge of the door, watching as the mountain-tops flew by, bare rock mostly yet now, rather than blanketed in white, they were dressed in sublime green pines, each pointing like thousands of cathedral spires at the mountain peak and exuberantly worshiping the majesty of its height. The higher the peak, the more afraid was I to look the other way, craning my neck downward to see churches and farms far below us, patchworks of farmland as if viewed from a plane, and all of that just on the other side of two thin cables... a "railing" that amusingly pretended to keep us from falling. My uncle seemed to be in a life or death race to the horses yet he fooled us with jokes and his soothing humorous demeanor. His wife matched Uncle Joe's demeanor. Aunt Laura seemed to fear everything yet when with her husband all fear languished. She lovingly was his straight man and often the brunt of his innocent sarcasm. He and I would often flirt with pretty woman when out to dinner just the three of us, at the expense of his loyal wife, and she wistfully played along, though even at my young age I knew it was contrived. Still, they laughed and joked with us as we all anticipated the destination, furiously yet smoothly flying along the highway "in the sky".

Arriving

Irony was always a part of my childhood and I remember the arrival in Saratoga. It was as anticlimactic as it was immensely exhilarating! Though the cars and the people juxtaposed the setting, a child's vivid imagination made them vanish and see it as it truly was, a place and a time long ago; as if, not only had we arrived on another planet in a fairy tale, but in another time and dimension. Gorgeous old buildings barely visible behind massive oaks and elms full of late summer mature leaves darkened the ground in their massive shadows, a canopy of dark green giving way to buildings mostly painted white, ages and ages of thick coats of paint making tall square columns on front porches look slightly rounded, the age of these building revealed by chipped paint, painted ten times over. All of this framed by the whistling sounds of seventeen-year cicadas brooding now and adding magic that will ever encompass the timeless scene. Yet in the distance the unmistakable smell of horse manure captured the moment. The excitement was building. We found our motel, always a bargain because Uncle Joe had no idea how his luck would turn. It mattered not. This was an age of extravagance held in check. We would dine like royalty that night should the horses grace Uncle Joe's wallet, or McDonald's would await if they abandoned his soul. Yet, right now, my sister Tina and I turned our attention on the motel pool, which was one of the goals of our mission.

Laura's Terror

Aunt Laura's greatest fear was water. She would take baths in but two inches of water so palpable was her terror of drowning. We never did delve into the source of her phobia yet it was always seen in her eyes. As Tina and I looked over the pool entering the motel, I quickly glanced at Aunt Laura and her eyes met mine. She looked at me as if we were on a plane that was about to crash, a death glance that shuddered me visibly. Quickly I turned my sister away from the pool and onto the distant mountaintops inquiring when we may drive to a peak. Yet, Uncle Joe being Uncle Joe, he insisted on bringing the conversation back to the pool asking if Tina had perfected her double flips off the diving board. Martina dutifully responded with the show-off grace I always loved in my younger sister. Aunt Laura looked away in disgust at her husband's obvious sinister tease. Sadly for my own wife's current curse, I learned well how to cunningly tease with love and cruelty mixed together thanks to my Uncle Joe. Yet they loved each other as no man and no woman ever could. As soon as Uncle registered us, we got into the room and each of us took turns in the bathroom getting our clothes off and our swimsuits on. We grabbed our towels and led by Tina we raced to the pool, not so eager was Aunt Laura who lingered until summoned by my Uncle. She then raced when he said the kids would be in the pool in mere seconds, she feared for our lives as well. As overwhelming as her fear of water truly was, Aunt Laura would put her arms around Uncle Joe's neck and let him lift her up, his two husky arms around her fragile thin body and under her skinny bare legs, and he would walk her gently into the shallow end of the pool. Her eyes were mixed with terror and trust in a look of faith that I will never ever forget. My Uncle not only taught me brutal sarcasm at the expense of his companion in life, he also taught me unconditional love and how to accept it as well as give it. After getting appropriately wet, Martina raced to the diving board and performed for Uncle Joe.

The Diving Ballerina

With Aunt Laura still clinging desperately, Uncle Joe, stood in the shallow end, waste above water, his blanket of chest hair soaking wet dripped as he stood. He watched in eager anticipation as Tina gracefully danced her approach to the end of the board. Like the ballerina she was, she effortlessly bounded into the air and with invisible wings flew high before bending majestically and spinning furiously upside down then right side up, twice, disappearing into the water with nary a splash. Quickly, she commanded the attention of other swimmers and before long she had quite the audience, none more enticed than her year-older brother. My first friend in life had so many talents and now it was evident she has another. Martina finished her performance with applause from the patrons. We all quickly returned to the room because the horse-racing began at one.

The Track

The charm of where the horses run is at once beguiling as it is almost infinitely sublime. Saratoga racetrack is old and immense, yet it hides sequestered in a forest of oaks. Its nineteenth century charm is slowly unveiled as one approaches; yet, even by 1972 an atmosphere of aloof indifference can be clearly felt. Most of the tens of thousands who descend on the track in its very short late August sessions are here not to become haunted by its transcending beauty, its overwhelming history and its undeniable haunting of past visitors, equines and their riders. Chain-smoking "mobsters" from New York City and their wannabe cohorts, cigars clenched in their teeth, myopically stare into racing forms, completely unaware and not caring of the heaven-like environment they inhabit. The smell of cigars mixing with hay and manure, scented slightly by the immense panorama of flora and trees, framed by the ever-present sound of cicadas; that is what fills my spirit as I walk with my three other companions toward the massive grandstands.

Arabian Chestnut

I search desperately for horses and quickly I find my first; deep chestnut it was, a foam covered body atop the thin, strong legs of an athlete; sinews of muscle bulge from its thighs as it tightens its skin warding off the army of flies seeking to sip the nectar of sweat dripping from its body. A man, darker than the horse, lovingly sponges the wetness from its tired body. Everyone except me orphans the horse and the man. It was not a winner yet its heart and soul were clearly evident to me that this chestnut warrior gave it everything he had. I sensed its own sadness as I watched it drop its head, swinging low from side to side, feigning to graze yet clearly dejected in spirit. I walked to it and desperately reached out but the old white picket fence that separated us made it impossible. His caretaker briefly looked at me as his sponge caressed its prostrated hide. He sneered at me as if I was irrelevant and at first I was insulted. But then it occurred to my young inquisitive mind it was a look of dejection, as if the caretaker lost the race. I suddenly realized these two were soul mates. I gave one last look at the sad eyes of the competitor and left the two of them alone to languish and recover to race another day.

The Magic

The three others had moved onward to the entrance of the horse palace and I quickly raced to join them. Once inside, echoes and shouts were abundant. Barkers yelled, "programs here!", other barkers ardently yelled above them, "Knickerbocker News here!" Mixed amongst this cavalcade of was the din of Italian American dialect mixed with the unmistakable drawl of New-Yorker bravado. Fat Guys were laughing and joking and talking about trifectas and odds, along with insults and swearing. Any children present were not seen or considered. This was Saratoga. And yet, the majesty and timeless allure of the grand old track always overcame the petty grit of wagering. An elite section close to where the horses entered the track and the oldest part of the grandstand kept its eloquence alive. The roof of the old grandstand rose like twin mountains, spiked with flags at the top of each. Fresh flowers draped the columns and elite men and women, the owners of the horses, the shakers and movers of the industry, friends and family, dressed as if everyday was Easter Sunday allowed the reverence for this gentlemen's sport to retain a dignity if not a subjugated caste system where those of the lower classes gave up their paychecks so that champagne would continue to flow, as it had for well over a hundred years. This was a trip that ever was, and a trip that will never be again. I will remember forever the majestic green mountains, the whistling cicadas, the smell of manure, and the sad chestnut Arabian, within which Saratoga was ensconced. This place lives on, yet the magic of the summer of '72 lives only within my soul.