“Summertime, an’ the livin’ is easy….”
On Summer afternoons in Central Florida, the weather is regimented. Thunderstorms line up in a row like little toy soldiers and march through the territory, giving life to the dry, weary grass in our paddocks, replenishing the aquifers, blowing the bugle that quickly awakens idling plants and flowers and stands them at attention. Little ponds form where for long there were none and sweating horses gambol in their cool beneficence.
The temperatures rise up to impossible levels, mid-nineties, higher, and the world slows down to accommodate them. Serious work is done before noon, bottled water is procured in cases, lakes and beaches suffer pilgrimages from thousands of sweltering worshippers.
In California, the roaring waters of May beside Yosemite’s Mist Trail have abated sufficiently to allow negotiation of the pathway to Vernal and Nevada falls without drowning. In Montana, the last hint of snow has disappeared from the Going To The Sun Road, though a determined hunter can still find a fistful behind the visitor center at Logan’s Pass on the Continental Divide. At Yellowstone, the nights remain cold, mid-forties, but the daytime temperatures threaten 80, signaling the rambunctious bison that mating season approaches.
On the racetrack, Lady Eli, the best horse most of you have never heard of, dominated the Belmont Oaks on the turf last Saturday, winning in sub-two-minute time. Undefeated in six starts, Lady Eli was content to run ninth down the backstretch, well off a fast pace, accelerated into the far turn where she was forced six wide, powered to the lead inside the eighth pole and extended the margin to the finish. If she were running in the colt division, she would be second-best only to American Pharoah, now tuning up in California for his return to racing in Monmouth Park’s Haskell Invitational on August 2, a race his trainer, Bob Baffert, has won a record seven times. AP is expected to follow that race with an appearance in Saratoga’s prestigious Travers Stakes on August 29 and finish his career against older horses in the Breeders’ Cup Classic in November.
On the local front, Cosmic Saint is training in New Jersey with Eddie Plesa, looking for her first start around the end of the month. Recently purchased Chambered, is jogging at Gulfstream with Larry Pilotti and should be ready a month later. The yearlings, Ava and Micki, have been advised there is a mere 90 days left for tomfoolery before their own training begins in mid-October.
Vacation time for Bill and Siobhan is just two weeks hence. The eventual destination, Acadia National Park in Maine, will be preceded by stops in New York and Boston and another at Bill’s old digs in Lawrence, Mass., where he and childhood pal Jack Gordon will stomp through their old neighborhood, likely for the last time barring a quantum leap forward in age-reversal technology. There may even be a one-day Cape Cod trip to Provincetown thrown into the mix, and, if someone up there will kindly awaken the Red Sox and they suddenly become competitive, there’s always Fenway.
Alright, then. There’s lobster to be eaten in Maine, pizza at Tripoli’s in Salisbury Beach and fried clams at that shrine to the delicacy, Woodman’s, in Essex, Mass. Cadillac Mountain waits to be climbed, as well as Katahdin at the terminus of the Appalachian Trail. There are new places to visit, wedding dresses to be located, sisters to argue with. You can’t do these things in the Winter when record snowfalls are piling up or even in Spring or Autumn, when temperatures often dip to precipitous levels and New England ocean water is icy cold. No, it’s the Summer which is required and the Summer which is here in all its radiant splendor, promising much and asking little. Waste these exotic days at your own peril; life’s merry-go-round brings them by only so many times.
Hola, Summer!
Among the many boons provided by the season, Summer notoriously draws out the bizarre, the spectacular, the insane. In East Dublin, Georgia, we have the annual Redneck Games, which began in 1996 as an offbeat way to raise money for charity and has now grown into a vast phenomenon emulated by other backwaters. You won’t want to miss the exciting Hubcap Hurl or the frustrating Bobbin’ For Pigs Feet Fest. If you’re good at horseshoes, try the redneck version in which toilet seats are tossed at metal poles. East Dublin likes to tell you that “Everyone and their butt crack is welcome—even Yankees.”
Not to be outdone by the Georgia rednecks, the folks in Wayne, Nebraska hold The Wayne Chicken Show on the second Saturday in July. Events include the World’s Largest Chicken Dance, live chicken flying, a Best Chicken Legs competition and the National Cluck-Off, which sounds a little scary.
August 6th is National Mustard Day in Middleton, Wisconsin, and about time, too. We have always felt there is too little consideration of condiments in our society, so hurrah for Middleton. During the festival, hot dogs with mustard are FREE, while dogs with ketchup—a true aberration justly punished—are a rightful ten dollars a pop, clearly illustrating that Middletonians have their priorities straight. Puerile humor is the order of the day with much singing of the glories of the town’s fictitious college, Poupon U. For the absolutely fearless, Mustard Custard is the dessert offering.
You may already know about the fabulous Roswell UFO Festival, just concluded July 6th. This was the 20th Anniversary of the event and everybody raved it was the best one yet. While Roswell has the usual costume contests and carnival games, the natives take their UFOs seriously, one of few communities to be found with an actual UFO Museum. Science Fiction devotees flock to the town and authors of the genre speak about sightings, alien abductions and the like. Why Roswell? Well, in 1947, a flying saucer—or weather balloon, depending on who you believe—crashed at a ranch just outside town. Rancher W.W. Brazel later said he found debris from the crash scattered over a large area as well as a shallow trench several hundred feet long which had been gouged into the ground. The information was passed on to the U.S. Air Force, which promptly closed the site for several days while the debris was removed, then announced a weather balloon had gone down. That was a knee-slapper to Roswellians. As one of them who had been at the site inquired, “When’s the last time you seen a weather balloon with a gazillion big metal pieces?” Okay, not lately.
The Summer Of Bernie
“Well, I’ll be dammed!” said the brook as the fat lady fell off the bridge.
And that’s pretty much how partisans of Bernie Sanders felt this week after eyeballing the startling attendance totals at the senator’s recent stump speeches. The last of these, at Portland, Maine, drew 7,500 people and Maine is chock-full of Republicans. You couldn’t get 7,500 people to show up in Portland for all the GOP candidates put together, unless, perhaps, you greased them up and let them wrassle. Bernie is on fire and everybody wants to know why. It’s easy. You can get straight answers from the man, the same ones every night. What a concept! Attendees at Bernie’s rallies often say they don’t agree with all his policies but they appreciate his candor. The constant evasiveness of virtually all other candidates has worn thin, Sanders is a nice alternative. Oh, wait a minute. Donald Trump has been consistent, too. He doesn’t like Mexicans. He didn’t like them yesterday, he doesn’t like them today and he won’t like them tomorrow, come hell, high water or a dysfunctional Miss Universe contest.
So far, Bernie has not been subjected to much pounding by the opposition. Hillary Clinton doesn’t want to offend his Liberal supporters and the Republicans are happy he’s making the lady uncomfortable. There’ll be plenty of time later for anti-socialist propaganda and swiftboating if Sanders carries the Democratic day. Nobody thinks Bernie has a realistic chance but a lot of people dismissed Barack Obama as well. Oopsy. Hillary’s lead over Sanders in the N.H. Primary polls is down to a fidgety 8%. If he wins there, it’s every man for himself. Hopefully, we’ll get two intractable candidates: Sanders vs. Trump. It’ll be bigger than Rodan vs. Godzilla, better than Abbott and Costello Meet the Wolf Man. I’m picking Bernie off a double body slam and an Indian Deathlock. Go ahead—bet me!
Requiem For A Heavyweight
This morning, July 9th, 2015, our old pal, Chuck Lemasters, rose up to battle the day alone for the first time in a very long while. Yesterday, his close associate, Lucky, was finally overtaken by the double-whammy of old age and misfortune and departed for greener dog parks, leaving his devoted master soggy with regret. See, Lucky was not just any dog. He was Tonto to Chuck’s Lone Ranger, his crimefighting buddy Robin, his faithful Filipino valet, Kato. Without Lucky, Lemasters was Clark Kent, with him, he was Superman. The two were inseparable; Chuck would turn down any invitation which did not include Lucky, and vice versa. We’d call it a match made in heaven if Lemasters believed in the place. So much for those callow miscreants who dismiss True Love.
Lucky sits on a high rise now, on the other side of the Great River, wondering what happened to his old trail boss, the man with the plan and the dog food can. Oh well, he’ll surely be returning by dark. Back at home, Chuck slowly picks up the pieces. He is frail now, his lungs worth maybe fifty-cents on the used organ market, oxygen canisters at the ready. His legion of friends engulfs him in messages of hope and support. Time heals, they say, and, of course, that is true. Sometimes, alas, Time is not in too big a hurry to get the job done.
All dog owners have felt the scythe fall and the experience draws a little spark from one’s soul. Sooner or later, they will be replaced, of course, but it seems improper to hurry. When our last Rottweiler, China, died, Siobhan said she would not be looking for another dog for awhile. Seven days later, she went out and bought Lila. The new companion cannot truly replace the old one but it helps to fill the void. Ergo, the following suggestion to Chuck, first published here April 4th, 2013:
The Evil Dissipation Blues
If your life is collapsing around you
And you haven’t a clue what to do,
If your wife has run off with the pool man
And left you incredibly blue;
If your children will no longer write you
And your mother is locked up in jail,
If your business has recently folded
And you don’t have the money for bail;
If your car burns more oil than McDonalds,
If your house is about to fall down,
If your health is a bit of a shambles,
If your boss thinks you’re Bozo the Clown;
If there’s nothing to enhance your spirits,
If the road winds eternally down,
If you can’t fill the bill with a happiness pill
And the bars are all closed in your town;
If you don’t think you’ll find satisfaction
In a lemur, a goat or a guppy,
Resort to the Ultimate Weapon--
Just go out and buy you a puppy!
That’s all, folks….
