Every Day is Post Time
by Paula Renee Burzawa
One of Dad’s favorite places was Arlington Race Track’s Million Room: the betting, the beautifully groomed horses, the clink-clink of mimosa flutes, and guests dressed in their Sunday best. He loved it all. We’d visit for special occasions and I grew up making $2 bets while cringing with embarrassment as Dad stood at the glass windows and screamed in Greek at the horse that cost him the daily double. Otherwise composed and gentlemanly, he’d morph into vocal explosions at the end of every race, then return to himself. I never understood this behavior, nor why Dad didn’t share his wagering secrets, or disclose horses he hoped would win. When asked, “Dad, who’d you bet on in the 3rd?” “The winner!” is all he’d say.
Our last visit to Arlington with Dad was Father’s Day 2010, brunch after church with his rose boutonniere and all. My son was 9; my daughter 4. After he passed, we didn’t go back. Revisiting places we especially shared with a lost loved one is often painful. However, my son remembered the fun with his grandfather and always asked to return. Finally, last year, we did. The whole family came and my mom teamed up with my daughter to show her the ropes. Together, they picked winners in seven straight races. They were quite the team!
As I felt nostalgic sitting at the long, beautifully set table next to the large glass window that looks out to the racetrack, I couldn’t help noticing how uniquely my family selected their hopefuls. My son, now 17, and ever the analyst, read the stats, calculated odds, and had trifectas, boxes and exactas mastered into a science. He was Dad’s horseracing protégé and hadn’t missed a beat! My daughter bet according to color. She liked the grey horse. The grey horse won. She liked the fuchsia banner on the back horse. He won, too. In each race, my sister waited until the “2 minutes to post” call to place her bet. Nerve-wracking! My brother behaved like my Dad: quiet, non-disclosing, and stealthy. He lost repeatedly and grew quieter as his luck waned. Personally, I have an “instinctual” feel for the name of a horse that exudes an aura of win or loss. Sounds ridiculous, but perhaps it’s the writer in me. I believe so much thought goes into naming a racehorse that this element cannot be ignored. My family was shocked when I stood and yelled at the top of my lungs during the final stretches. Blaming it on the cheerleader in me, or perhaps a piece of my Dad, I couldn’t understand why surrounding families were giving me funny looks during dessert.
“Do you have any idea how LOUD you were screaming?” My bother asked.
“Was I yelling?” I asked. Honestly, I didn’t think I was.
My husband took an eternity to select horses. Ever the superstitious ballplayer, he wouldn’t share his choices, nor his program booklet, or let anyone touch his pen and printed out tickets!
I quickly concluded that how we bet is how we live our lives. Do we quietly plan? Do we keep our dreams to ourselves, or do we live out loud, putting all hopes on aesthetic aspects of life like color, beauty and instinct? Some look closely at details, approaching life with intent, calculating while believing in control and reasoning. We can’t deny our inner personality. If someone doesn’t fear deadlines, perhaps a few minutes to post doesn’t bother them. Likewise, if we live a life loving art and nature, we choose the shiny black horse with our favorite color banner, discarding all probability of performance. It shouldn’t have surprised me then, that a day at the track exposes our otherwise innermost approaches to life.
I’m certain my family will return to Arlington this upcoming racing season. The yellers will yell. The analysts will analyze, and the starry-eyed dreamers will continue to dream. There’s no denying who we are, not even at the track, because every day is post time!
Back to Paula's Page
Paula’s novels “Seasons of Sun” and “Tasso’s Journey” are available at www.barnesandnoble.com and www.amazon.com. Book-signing dates are listed at www.seasonsofsun.com.
Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright © 2018 All rights reserved.
by Paula Renee Burzawa
One of Dad’s favorite places was Arlington Race Track’s Million Room: the betting, the beautifully groomed horses, the clink-clink of mimosa flutes, and guests dressed in their Sunday best. He loved it all. We’d visit for special occasions and I grew up making $2 bets while cringing with embarrassment as Dad stood at the glass windows and screamed in Greek at the horse that cost him the daily double. Otherwise composed and gentlemanly, he’d morph into vocal explosions at the end of every race, then return to himself. I never understood this behavior, nor why Dad didn’t share his wagering secrets, or disclose horses he hoped would win. When asked, “Dad, who’d you bet on in the 3rd?” “The winner!” is all he’d say.
Our last visit to Arlington with Dad was Father’s Day 2010, brunch after church with his rose boutonniere and all. My son was 9; my daughter 4. After he passed, we didn’t go back. Revisiting places we especially shared with a lost loved one is often painful. However, my son remembered the fun with his grandfather and always asked to return. Finally, last year, we did. The whole family came and my mom teamed up with my daughter to show her the ropes. Together, they picked winners in seven straight races. They were quite the team!
As I felt nostalgic sitting at the long, beautifully set table next to the large glass window that looks out to the racetrack, I couldn’t help noticing how uniquely my family selected their hopefuls. My son, now 17, and ever the analyst, read the stats, calculated odds, and had trifectas, boxes and exactas mastered into a science. He was Dad’s horseracing protégé and hadn’t missed a beat! My daughter bet according to color. She liked the grey horse. The grey horse won. She liked the fuchsia banner on the back horse. He won, too. In each race, my sister waited until the “2 minutes to post” call to place her bet. Nerve-wracking! My brother behaved like my Dad: quiet, non-disclosing, and stealthy. He lost repeatedly and grew quieter as his luck waned. Personally, I have an “instinctual” feel for the name of a horse that exudes an aura of win or loss. Sounds ridiculous, but perhaps it’s the writer in me. I believe so much thought goes into naming a racehorse that this element cannot be ignored. My family was shocked when I stood and yelled at the top of my lungs during the final stretches. Blaming it on the cheerleader in me, or perhaps a piece of my Dad, I couldn’t understand why surrounding families were giving me funny looks during dessert.
“Do you have any idea how LOUD you were screaming?” My bother asked.
“Was I yelling?” I asked. Honestly, I didn’t think I was.
My husband took an eternity to select horses. Ever the superstitious ballplayer, he wouldn’t share his choices, nor his program booklet, or let anyone touch his pen and printed out tickets!
I quickly concluded that how we bet is how we live our lives. Do we quietly plan? Do we keep our dreams to ourselves, or do we live out loud, putting all hopes on aesthetic aspects of life like color, beauty and instinct? Some look closely at details, approaching life with intent, calculating while believing in control and reasoning. We can’t deny our inner personality. If someone doesn’t fear deadlines, perhaps a few minutes to post doesn’t bother them. Likewise, if we live a life loving art and nature, we choose the shiny black horse with our favorite color banner, discarding all probability of performance. It shouldn’t have surprised me then, that a day at the track exposes our otherwise innermost approaches to life.
I’m certain my family will return to Arlington this upcoming racing season. The yellers will yell. The analysts will analyze, and the starry-eyed dreamers will continue to dream. There’s no denying who we are, not even at the track, because every day is post time!
Back to Paula's Page
Paula’s novels “Seasons of Sun” and “Tasso’s Journey” are available at www.barnesandnoble.com and www.amazon.com. Book-signing dates are listed at www.seasonsofsun.com.
Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright © 2018 All rights reserved.