A Life at the Races

Musings of an Anxious Millennial Writer #08: Redefining what it means to be a "horse girl"

Hi.

It wasn’t my intention to have such a long break on here. I wanted to start this year off fresh, hitting your inbox early on in 2023.

Life often gets in the way of our plans.

Last month I unexpectedly lost my grandfather. “Unexpectedly” may sound weird because he was nearly 89 years old, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t still vibrant. That’s not entirely true either—my mother and I were beginning to confront the reality that things were starting to decline, mentally and physically—but not rapidly enough for us to think it was his time. Everything happened quickly, upsettingly, and unfairly. I’m not ready to get into details. One day I will be, but not right now. It’s still too new, too raw. We haven’t even had a funeral yet, and may never will (funerals, in their most traditional sense, are becoming more and more an upper-class luxury), and I don’t know when I’ll have the closure I need.  Maybe this will help.

I’m not going to use this space to write a eulogy. You didn’t sign up for that, you’re not here to be an unwilling audience to witness me work through my grief. This is a blog about nostalgia, and about nostalgia, it will stay. Instead, I’m going to talk about horses.

So much of my life has revolved around horses.

Before you paint the wrong picture in your mind, allow me to set the record straight. I wasn’t a horse girl in the way you might be thinking, no riding lessons, beige stirrups, and fancy blazers for me. Let me make this abundantly clear: so much of my life has revolved around racehorses.

A joke I would tell people often is that racehorses are common in my family—my aunt trained them, my mother tested them, and my grandfather bet on them. This was all coincidental but, nevertheless, true.

For a substantial portion of my childhood, my mom worked at the racetrack. For those familiar with the area, what is now known as Empire City Casino was (and still is) Yonkers Raceway, a harness racetrack that also boasts a slot casino. But while the now-MGM-owned casino is the big draw for many, I spent most of my time there in what was undoubtedly its peak: the 1990s.

In the ’90s, “The Track” was a magical place. It hosted a massive flea market every Sunday, which I alternated between looking forward to and dreading depending on my age. Sometimes it was a wish-fulfillment dreamland that housed all my wants and desires, namely in the form of slightly irregular Abercrombie t-shirts and $3 bootleg CDs of whatever edition of the Now! That’s What I Call Music was out. Other times I was ashamed that I had to buy the off-season, off-the-truck versions of things that the other kids in my school, which was in a more well-to-do suburb of Yonkers, could afford the authentic versions. “Jamie buys all her clothes at the flea market,” a girl who apparently studied teen movies and was hoping to live the part of the token mean girl said behind my back once.

At least, despite its popularity among locals, it was a place I could call my own. Everyone else could keep their overpriced Delia’s and Alloy catalogs.

But that wasn’t the only time spent there. As previously mentioned, my mom worked at “The Track.” A single parent and main breadwinner of our household (my grandparents lived with us and contributed, but neither of them ever had steady, salaried jobs), her part-time day job eventually led to full-time, followed by full-time, nights, and Saturdays, including getting my grandmother some part-time work there as well. Simply put, we spent A LOT of time in that small racetrack office.

My mother worked a normal secretarial job by day. By night, she was the much-feared “Black Box” lady. That meant that she would test vials of blood given to her by the resident vet to make sure none of the horses were, let’s just say, juiced up. On extra special occasions, she’d be handling the recording of the race outcomes, which involved a tiny set of binoculars, a high-up perch, and an ancient computer. I accompanied her for a lot of these jobs, from helping to “roll the dice” that determined the starting positions of the horses in a race, getting to drive in the starter car (that’s the car with the gates that leads the horses around the track to start the race—you ride backwards, it’s fun!), and what was probably my least favorite venture, actually riding in the cart behind a racehorse (that was about as fun for me as it was for the horse).   

What I really loved was Saturday mornings, when I’d accompany mom and grandma to the office for a few hours. It didn’t bother me to spend my weekend mornings there—not a child with many extracurriculars, getting to eat McDonald’s breakfast while watching One Saturday Morning and playing on a computer with internet access for three hours was fine by me. My Neopets were thriving. Swatting horseflies and the gentle waft of manure through the paddock door only added to the atmosphere.

But there was one time of year in particular that was the most wonderful of all: the Westchester County Fair.

A typically cost-prohibitive endeavor, my mom’s job gave her VIP access to the springtime event—which just meant that we’d sneak in through the paddock, getting a chance to see the horses up close before entering the makeshift petting zoo that welcomed us into the grand event.

The Westchester County Fair wasn’t just a two-week-long carnival—it was a bacchanal of the senses. Looking back, I’m not sure how it’s possible something like that could have existed. It was as if the 1950s were brought back to life for a moment in time each year—there were fried foods a-plenty, the delicious smell of sausage and peppers permeated the air, hazardous looking rides that were built too quickly for the amount of centrifugal force used (no accidents were ever reported, to my knowledge), games galore, wax museums, makeshift circuses, high-divers, and, for lack of a better term, freak shows.

Most of the latter were fabricated, the snake lady was just a lady who could tolerate sitting in a hole with a snake around her as if it were her body. Years later, I’d learn that all you needed to apply for that coveted gig was to be cool while having a snake around you (my sister-in-law almost nabbed this job but opted to instead work at TCBY. Probably marginally better pay, but not nearly as good of stories). There was a “tiny” woman in a tiny house (that one always felt the cruelest. She was a sweetheart, but harkening back to the times of people being put on display for their bodies doesn’t feel great in retrospect). And the actual “freak show” section was all preserved and mummified oddities, with the occasional mannequin recreations. And the animal attractions, like the “chupacabra” and “rat king” (both were taxidermied if I recall correctly), the “world’s biggest horse” (just a Clydesdale, probably not even the biggest), and my personal favorite—the miniature horse. I’d pay my 25 cents, stare at the little horse for as long as I could, then leave, only to have my first experience of “cute aggression” (or I suppose "cute depression,” as it were, as I’d end up spending the rest of the night crying in awe of its adorableness and my concerns over its treatment and inability to take it home with me).

Also, my mom had this portrait of me done there when I was 5, which still has a place on her wall.

Eventually, the Westchester County Fair and flea market went away, amid rumors of stabbings and other nefarious goings-on. Those were likely true, but the reality was that they just wanted to focus their attention on the casino. What I wouldn’t give to live those experiences again (though with maybe more of an um, sensitive approach). My oddity- and antique-loving heart would appreciate it now more than ever.

My aunt’s work with horses was separate from any of this. One of her good friends and supervisors was a jockey, and she tended to his racehorses. While I had become accustomed to the horses’ treatment in racing, my aunt showed me a side I didn’t often get to see—the caring side. Sometimes when visiting during the summer, I’d spend Sunday mornings with her tending to her horse, feeding it carrots, watching it run majestically around in its field. Then we’d return to the stable where I’d stare in awe at the foals that would occasionally prance by (I fucking love tiny horses, ok???).

She no longer cares for horses in this way, but in her and my uncle’s retirement they now have a house that overlooks an open field with wild horses that stop by for occasional apples and carrots.

And then there was my grandfather.

Grandpa’s greatest joy was placing bets on horses, right up until before the pandemic. Eventually “retiring” (aka finally quitting his bartending job right before he turned 85), deciding it was time he stopped driving (a blessing not only for my family, but for everyone else on the road), and even losing his wife of nearly 60-years didn’t break his stride or slow him down any.

Instead, it was the moment he stopped betting on horses. Even after the world started to open more, going back to The Track to play the horses and place some bets on the slots became more of an effort than it was worth.

Grandpa was diligent about his health during the pandemic. He was up on all his vaccines, masked indoors, followed the news. I’m proud that even in his mid-to-late 80s he took these precautions and care. And if he, a guy who hated almost everyone he ever met, could care enough about his safety and the safety of those around him, what’s everyone else’s excuse?

Masking indoors for him was mostly for what was left of his usual routine: going to the local convenience store to buy his lottery tickets. Without a job to worry about, rent to stress about making, and car issues to plague his mind, he seemed to have little left to focus on. He’d spend most days thinking of things to worry about, and playing his lottery tickets was the only excursion that brought him some reprieve from that.

It was a pain in the ass for my mom, sure, but we both made sure we did what we could to get him to play his lottery every week.

Grandpa was the ultimate creature of habit. He was defined by his routines, and the more they eroded, the harder it was for him to find things to replace them with. Betting was always a part of his life, for better or worse, and it was the last string of normalcy left for him. Sometimes I wonder if he kept driving a little longer, if he kept making his way over to The Track just a bit more, kept betting on those horses and reading the standings if maybe things would be different now.

Make no mistake, I don’t condone gambling, nor the treatment of horses used for racing. And if you partake in these activities, I can’t stop you. But I can ask that you say a little prayer to Joe Ro before you place your bets; the Patron Saint of Placing Bets. He might just bring you a little luck.

And if the gentle waft of manure creeps up your nostrils while you’re walking past a ranch or farm, think of me.