The New Invisibility

 There was a time, not all that many years ago, when you wore your politics like clothing.  If your hair was  or wasn't a particular length, then it could be assumed that you supported or didn't the U.S, war in Vietnam.  If you wore beads around your neck, or shunned button-down  shirts or suits, then you must think this way.  Even your age, or there appearance of maturity would cause people to assume things about your values or beliefs.  

This is still true in some ways, especially for younger folks  sporting tattoos, or piercings, or wearing certain styles of clothing.  

With age, though comes liberation.  Case in point.  A couple of weeks ago I came to this realization on a freezing cold morning as I traveled alone across Oregon and on down to the Bay Area.  I'd spent the night in a cozy mountain lodge of a motel in Shasta City, the small town in the shadow of breathtaking Mount Shasta.  Anxious to get going the next morning, I awoke early and checked out about 6:30 am.  It helped that the storm the previous night knocked out TV reception and I had fallen asleep at 7:70pm.  

My car was encased in ice and looked like the small freezer in the old GE refrigerator I grew up with.  The little box that needed to be defrosted with an ice pick every now and then.

After deicing my car, I decided to stop for hot coffee and what I'd hoped would be an adequate breakfast at a local coffeeshop.  This little diner was as traditional as they get.  Int had been there forever, and parts of the premises looked like it.  There were four other people inside this cafe.  One cook. two waitresses, and one other old guy, like me.  

Back in the day, especially in some parts of this country, I'd have stuck out like a Democrat at a Trump Rally.  Not so any more.  My age and appearance, gray beard and all, gave me the freedom to blend in easily.  Now, this may not seem like such a big deal, but as someone who has lived much of my life in the role of "other," it was astonishingly refreshing.  As the waitress trope refilled my coffee cup, and the local country music station droned on with every song sounding the same, I realized I looked like I belonged.  The food was barely passable, and I left more on my plate than I usually do, but I also left a generous tip because, after all, these employees needed a break from a job that was hardly their dream version.  I thought for a minute about what kind of lives they lead, about the other guy who sat at the other end of the counter from me, and how many places around this country there were where this scene was repeating itself.  

It Happened

 "It's in the blood."  That's what a horseman once told me when I asked how he got started training race horses.  I knew exactly what he meant because it's in my blood too.  Now, I don't train horses but my interest and enthusiasm for them is certainly far beyond the norm.  

People often find that mystifying when they learn of this strong interest of mine.  "I wouldn't have expected that you'd be into horse racing,"they frequently say.  People make assumptions, don't they? I think, too, that many of their assumptions about horse racing are wrapped up in stereotypical beliefs and the tab ops of gambling.  For many folks, you can't be interested in race horses, unless you gamble on them.  Not so.  But then, I do bet a few bucks from time to time.  

"If there were no betting on horse races, I'd still watch them," I tell them.  I don't really think they believe me, but it's really true.  My interest in horse racing and thoroughbred breeding began early in my life well before the days of modern communication when I followed the local racing scent in Los Angeles through a once a week TV program and of course the daily newspapers we all read.  Papers...plural...is correct because about 60 years ago there were morning and afternoon papers and sometimes even a "Final Edition" late in the day.  

I knew my grandfather liked t play the ponies.  But he lived 3000 miles away and was more interested in trotters and pacers rather than flat running thoroughbreds.  New York, his home had more than a few standard bred tracks only a bus ride away.   think when he visited and stayed with my family for about a month when I was 13, he found his way to Santa Anita or Hollywood Park a few times.

 As a 10 year old, I began to follow the Southern California racing scene via the Saturday "Race of the Week'' broadcast on the local CBS channel.  My dad and I would watch together as the horses were introduced, some background given and then the race and post race coverage would follow.  We'd make our picks and then revel in our genius, or wallow in our disappointment,  We saw such local greats as Native Diver, TV Lark, The Axe II, and Round Table.  I knew the jockeys by name because among that colony were such icons as Bill Shoemaker, Laffit Pincay, and Johnnie Longden. Of course the legendary race caller, Harry Henderson, was very much in evidence too.  

In the summertime, I'd wait for the afternoon newspaper to arrive and go immediately to the Sports section to see the race results from the previous day and then look at the entries and handicapper's selections for the next day.  It was great fun, cost nothing, and gave me something to look forward to.  Sure I was a bit more involved in major league baseball scores and college sports, but following the races was often just as joyful.  

As I reflect back on my love affair with horse racing, I recall something from the 10 year-old days of my life.  In our living room, we had an oval, sort of brown woven rug.  It sat in the middle of the living room floor and I occupied the center of that run while watching TV with my family.  In those days (late 1950s) the family TV was a piece of furniture.  It was often encased in wood with double doors to shut out the screen when desired.  That rug became a race track on which to re-create memorable races I'd seen.  I had a small stash of plastic cowboy vs. Indians, complete with their plastic horses.  Most kids growing up in that era had them.  I'd long eschewed the people and just played with the horses.  The rug made the perfect racing surface.  That oval was home to my recreations of the Kentucky Derby and other big events.  I'd line up between 10-20 horses and then with the roll of a pair of dice the horses would one at a time make their way around the oval.  Stir of a horse race in slow motion.  But...it provided some thrilling finishes and gave me the opportunity to become the announcer.  My little track on a rug was much more fun than any of those spin a wheel paper horse racing board games available at the time.

At age 15, I was invited to accompany a neighborhood family on their trip to Del Mar, the beautiful oceanside track near San Diego.  My mom gave me a few dollars to which I added about 4 or 5 others I'd saved.  My friend's father placed a bet for me on the first horse race I ever witnessed in person.  $2. to win on a horse called Never Happen.  He won; I got a huge adrenalin rush, and haven't been the same ever since.

Community Anyone?

 Community is a word with mostly positive connotations.  Despite the fact that its root also produces such loaded words lime commune and communism, people generally feel good about belonging to a community.  A sense of community is regarded as a good thing.  We all belong to several communities.  I suppose there is a community of bloggers, just as there is a community for most subcultures in this world.  I know people who work in the horse racing community have a strong sense of their shared values.  It's an alternative universe and like most communities, they take care of their own.  Most people only see the frontside of a racetrack, that is, the grandstand, turf club, bleachers, and apron in front of the racing surface.  But over in the barn area is the "backside" aka "backstretch" where dozens of grooms live and work alongside vets, trainers, exercise riders, and vendors of feed, tack, and even food.  Clearly a small town.  

In the last few months a community has developed in the morning Tai Chi classes offered in my neighborhood.  Probably because there are many seniors with common interests, but nevertheless a tight-knit little community of people who show up despite the ailments of old age and sometimes the challenges of transportation.  These folks really care about each other's well-being and after only knowing one another for a few months they are beginning to share more time and depend on one another.

In my neighborhood, we have a "Safer Together" community that is related to our emergency response team.  Your neighbors are your first responders in case of major emergency and it's important to know them so you can be there for them if needed.  

Many teachers I know consider their students and classrooms as a community.  English teachers I worked with all saw their classrooms as "a community of writers."  In community there is help, safety, and comfort.  We define ourselves by other people, so it makes sense that we feel positive about spending time with them.  To do otherwise seems unnatural.

"Man is by nature a political animal."  So said Socrates.  He meant not that we love and are political, but rather we are meant to live in community.  The polis, (Greek city-state) is where we desire to live, among others.

In the little postwar So. California town where I grew up there was a grocery store called The Community Market.  It was larger than a mom and pop store, but smaller than today's huge big box versions.  It truly served our community, selling everything from canned goods, to 45 rpm records.  There was a butcher shop within, and a mini hardware store.  We relied on this business for everything until sleek newer chain grocery stores came nearby drawing off many of the customers.  Yet the Community Market continued to exist long into the next few decades.  I'm pretty sure it's gone now, but in this current climate on online ordering for everything it would have been doomed anyway.  BUT... This just in, a little research, as evidenced by this picture reveals what I knew as the grocery store called Community Market is now called the Community Center.  At the same location, it appears to be a food bank serving the current community.

Next month I hope to begin teaching a writing class for seniors.  If my local Parks and Recreation department can survive all the current budget cutting, this idea of mine might actually happen.  If so, I imagine it as a community of people who want to stimulate their cognitive thinking skills by remembering the important stories of their lives.  Of course, any age can do this, and I welcome anyone who wants to join the community.