flashquake Nonfiction flashquake |
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I grew up many years ago in Jeffersontown, outside of Louisville where my father worked for the Veterans Administration. In my recollection of being three, four, five — at least under seven when we moved to North Carolina — The Derby was the event of all events, one that I believed my mom and dad attended every year.
Clear as the sunny day itself, I can remember the crowds of people, how they'd rise up from their seats and cheer and scream as the horses ran the final yards directly in front of the stands. I remember how hard it was, through throngs of suits and black silk dresses, to see the racing horses for myself. How hard I had to strain to hear my father's voice as he, too, stood and willed them to the finish: "Patty, I think number four's got it! He's got it! No, he's almost got it ..." It's been many years since I followed The Derby. I think I lost interest when my father bought me a horse after we moved to North Carolina--one that was no thoroughbred by any means. One that took me at full gallop into a grove of low-branched trees that grew in a little cluster in the field. One that later took the liberty of grabbing my thirteen-year-old, well-developed, best friend by her left breast, inflicting bruises and leaving visible toothmarks. Then other things became important. Things like going steady, '55 red and white Chevrolets, Elvis Presley, slumber parties and smoking cigarettes, pedal pushers and crinolines, the prom, graduation, college. Once in a great while through the years since then, I'd end up at my parents' house on the first Saturday in May, where they'd watch The Derby on TV, and I'd always root for Number Four who won a time or two as I recall. They'd phone up their old friends in Kentucky and celebrate the race, find out who had the party this year, compare notes on the weather, express their surprise at who was in what nursing home. Then we'd have dinner and talk about other things. Today, I saw a post on the Internet from someone named Judy in Louisville, announcing the 128th running. She spoke of it with pride as though she herself were hostess to this grand tradition. I wanted to send a note and say "Thanks for the memories, Judy," but I thought that seemed maudlin. Instead, in the spirit of a toast to endurance--of horses, of tradition, of memories, however altered with the passage of time--I search among the cobwebs, the silverfish and dust for the scrapbook with my Derby ticket stubs. |
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© 2002 by Patricia Kozma HOME | Archives | Submission Guidelines | Contributors | Links | Contact Us | ||
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In truth, I learned years later, they only went to Derby parties, probably
much like Superbowl parties my friends have today. An old scrapbook I have
stored in a corner of my attic has a couple of Derby ticket stubs that
apparently someone gave me. But in my memory I was actually there, sitting
behind a well-dressed woman with red painted lips, long white gloves, and a
big fancy hat-watching "Number 4" (my lucky number) almost win.
