Footloose in America: Dixie to New England (42 page)

During that time, the Watts had a going away party for us at the market. And a couple of friends had us over for dinner. But we knew the
farewell the boys had planned would be the best. It was at our campsite with a bonfire, lots of Mexican food, plenty of beer, some singing and a bit of dancing. It was a grand time.

The next day, we loaded up the cart then hiked up to the barn to get Della. It was a third of a mile from our camp, and by the time we had her cleaned up and got some last minute stuff taken care of, it was past noon. The boys had already eaten lunch and were in the orchard before we walked back to our campsite to hitch up Della.

When we rounded the bend on the orchard road near our camp, in unison Patricia and I said, “Where’s the cart?”

For a few fleeting moments, I really was worried, but then I came to my senses. “I’d say the Mexicans stole Loco Gringo’s cart.”

It was not hard to find. When the eight of them pushed the cart back into the orchard, they left behind a trail in the grass between the cherry and apple groves. When we got close I could hear giggling among the trees. Their trail turned into a row of Empires and there was the cart. Chooey was in it with his feet propped up on the dash, beer in his hand and little boy blush on his face. “You missing something?”

Suddenly, Pedro leaped out from under a tree and dashed toward the cart shafts. Behind him was Jose, swatting him on the butt with an apple switch. Pedro jumped between the shafts and grabbed them like he was going to pull the cart. Chooey yelled, “Hey Gringo! How about I trade you these two ass’ for that good looking mule?”

“I never trade down.”

They had two ice chests stashed under the trees. “Hey Butt, have a beer?”

“Nope. Got to go.”

I didn’t know if that hurt Pedro’s feelings or not. But while we harnessed Della and said our goodbyes, I noticed he was gone. I said nothing about it, because there was more than enough emotion in that orchard right then. Patricia and Chooey were really a mess. Chooey said, “We say goodbye in the trees. It’s best here.”

We had just emerged from the cherry grove and stepped onto the orchard road, when I heard from behind me, “Hey Butt!”

I turned around to see Pedro step out from under a tree. He had both thumbs up, a big grin on his face and tears in his eyes. “I see you at my house in Mexico. Okay?”

Then with his right hand, he held up his first two fingers. “Peace, brother!”

The boys headed for work. Pedro is the tall blond
.

CHAPTER 17

W
HERE
T
HEY
C
ALLED
H
ER
P
ATTY

M
Y WIFE WANTS TO BE
called “Patricia.” Not Pat. Certainly not Patty!

“I grew up with ‘Fatty Patty.’ I hate it!”

Nope. I give her all three syllables. Patricia!

“Patty? Is that you?”

The “No Patty” rule doesn’t apply if you’re from her childhood.

“It’s Rita!”

Patricia squealed. “I knew it when I saw that smile.”

They collided into each other’s arms in the middle of the road. Like little girls at summer camp, these two middle-aged women jumped up and down, while they hugged and giggled. My wife stopped, held Rita at arm’s length and said, through happy tears, “It may have been forty years, but that smile hasn’t changed.”

We were on our way into Driving Park, on the outskirts of Avon, New York, when we encountered Rita. Patricia was born in the Bronx, but she grew up in Up-State. When they lived in Avon, her big sister’s best friend was Rita King. It’d been four decades since Patricia had seen her.

“Patty, I’d know you anywhere!”

“Give me a break.”

“Really! Who else would walk into Avon with a mule and a man?”

Patricia lived in Avon during her first two years as a teenager. Back then, Driving Park was called “Avon Downs.” It was a popular track for
harness racing, and it was Patty’s favorite place–not because of the races–it was the horses that she loved.

Avon Downs was in the Genesee River Valley on the west edge of town. The village, and Patty’s house, were up on the hill a couple of miles from the race track. When she could get away, Patty would hike or bike to see the horses.

“It was best when they weren’t having races,” Patricia said. “Because then I could get closer to the horses. Sometimes, they even let me go in the barns.”

My wife told me that as we were setting up camp under a big oak tree in the middle of what used to be Avon Downs. The grandstands were gone, as were the rows of white horse barns and other buildings from back in Patty’s day. But the track was still there, and we camped in the middle of it.

Patricia was in the tent pumping up our air bed when I asked, “Did they ever take you for a ride?”

“Are you kidding? I would have passed out if anyone ever asked me. It was a thrill just to touch one.” The whoosh of the air pump stopped. A tone of nostalgia was in Patricia’s voice. “I remember how I’d wander around the barns and think there was no better place in the world. It wasn’t the barns, or the place, it was the horses. I used to think life couldn’t get any better than that–living with horses.”

For a few moments, in the center of Avon Downs, there was silence. Then my wife stuck her head out the tent door. “And now I get to spend every moment of every day with you and Della. My dream came true. It really doesn’t get any better than this.”

The half mile track was still used for training. On the west side of the oval was a long, modern, red barn with forty box-stalls. To the east of the track was a park with baseball diamonds, basketball courts, horseshoe pits, volleyball nets, a playground and places for picnics. And there were restrooms with showers that we were welcome to use.

Morning at the park began around 5:30 a.m. with hoof beats on the track. When I stuck my head out of the tent, the air was silver and thick.
The fog was too heavy to see the horse, driver or sulky (Horse folks call them “bikes”). But I could hear the percussion of trotting hoofs and squeaks from the bikes as they bounced around the track.

Before this journey, my wife was the one who always got up and made the coffee. But once we hit the road, it was I who fixed the morning brew. Probably because before coffee ever got started the mule had to be fed, or there would be no peace in camp. Every morning she would paw the ground until she got her grain. I don’t care where we were, or what was happening, Della had best be fed first.

But that morning, in the middle of the track, she ignored me. At first I thought she was sick. So I walked over and put my arm around her neck. “Hey Sis, are you okay? Want some breakfast?”

Right then, Della did something that I don’t remember her ever having done before, but now she does it nearly every morning. She bent her head down, leaned her eye against my chest and began to rub. Not a rough rub like she was trying to push me away or scratch some itch. She was gentle and affectionate. It felt like a hug.

While I poured Patricia her first cup of coffee, I told her about the hug from Della. Before she took a sip my wife said, “She sure does love you. I can’t blame her. What a great life you have provided for us.”

The fog was beginning to lift, and under its fringe you could see the horses, drivers and bikes. For a few minutes, neither of us said anything as we watched them fly around the track. Then I turned toward Patricia and tried to imagine what it was like to be her right then. This had been one of Patty’s favorite places in the whole world, and now we were camped in the middle of it.

Right then she looked up me with a smile and tears. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

The village of Avon was up on the ridge above the track and the Genesse Valley. From the town square was a tremendous view of the lush river bottoms. It was in that square that Patty’s dad played Santa Claus. Next to the
veteran’s memorial, the village set up a throne where Bob Myers sat and listened to the wishes of the little kids in town.

When WWII broke out, he enlisted in the Army and was trained to ride with the 101
^st
Cavalry. Bob from the Bronx had never been on a horse in his life, and they gave him a blind one. Patty’s dad didn’t know it was blind until the horse ran into a brick wall with him on it. Bob never had to ride in combat. The cavalry mechanized before then.

By the end of the war, Bob Myers had been awarded two silver stars, a purple heart and a citation from President Truman. Later he got a letter of appreciation from President Eisenhower. During the latter part of the war he was involved in developing the technology for night vision. Patricia didn’t know any of this until after his death. When they lived in Avon, all Patty knew was that her daddy was a traveling salesman.

Across the village square were St. Agnes Catholic Church and school. It was a big complex of old red brick buildings. Patty’s family went to mass and she attended the fifth and sixth grades there. I had just taken a picture of Patricia standing in front of the school, when she said, “Did I ever tell you about my dog, ‘Chance’?”

“No.”

“She was the first thing I ever won, and I won her right in there.” Patricia was pointing to one of the buildings. “I was in the fifth grade and they had a festival. For thirty-five cents you could buy a chance for a drawing. The prize was a black and white, six week old puppy–a mutt. I named her Chance.”