This is short story about a father, a son and a moment in time. My father had harness horses and I was a farmhand by default. I learned at very young age that if I wanted to see my dad, I had to go with him to the barn. He worked at Fords; his real job. Horses for lack of a better word was his side hustle. It was his dream. After work he'd came home to have supper, load up truck with bunch of us kids, sometimes the neighbors kids too. The best part of hard work was seeing his horses race. I was always glad to a tag along. My favorite memories is hanging around the clubhouse and paddock with my dad.
I enjoyed our many trips to Windsor, Dresden and even Leamington raceway. I think I enjoyed Leamington the most; they had the best French fries. It was fun to watch the horses round the track. Especially, if one of the horses was my dad's. I think I enjoyed watching my dad painstakingly scribble his selections on the race form, while I randomly pick the winning horse the most. It was just a two dollars, little side bet. He'd look at me, scratch his head and go up to bet, to come back down, watch the race and scratch his head again. I was just a kid, not old enough to bet but apparently old enough to win. Of course, my reward was paid out in skinny fried potatoes and orange Crush pop. Eventually, the fun was over and it was soon time to return to my barn chores; cleaning horse poop.
I cleaned the stalls for one reason and for one reason only: fishing. My uncle had a pond that was feed by a nearby stream. The variety of fish were few. The few meaning two: Carp or catfish. Still, fish are fish and fishing beat working anytime. But most my time was squandered cleaning what seemed to be a clean stall, all over again. I waited for the words "go ahead" but the words "you call that clean!" were all too often heard. The funny thing is, I heard those same words uttered by my mother, looking at the pig sty, I called my bedroom.
My youngest brother didn't help too much and keep bugging me to give him a wheel barrel ride. I don't know why, the wheel barrel was full of manuer.
My dad, always close by, could be seen shoeing or preparing a horse to train. Shooting the shit with his brother and or other various horsemen who happened to pop by.
The barn air was filled with the scent of poop, pee and sometimes the exhauled vapors of cheap whiskey.
Every bare ankle and shin was slathered with Asorbene Jr and wrapped with bandages. The horses that is.
A little side bar. I don't ever remember being congested at the barn. In fact, if they could make a concoction of Asorbine Jr and horse shit and put in a bottle, I think they could have given Buckley's a run for the money. I can almost see the tagline "Junior's horse poop rub, it smells like shit and it works" Now back to the barn.
One of my favorite memories is sitting on my dad's lap holding the reins attached to standard bred horse. This was even better than fishing. I was a small kid learning the ropes. All I could see was hobbles, boots and a big horses ass. The horse that is. My dad held the whip in one hand and me with other. He never used the whip. The threat of use was enough to get the dust cloud brewing. My father would make a cheeky sound and that was all he needed to do. Around we went father, son and a horse named TrueDough. Not the prime minster, that's horse of another color.
TrueDough apparently was a mudder. I'm not sure if his mother was one too. You just knew I had to say that. One rainy muddy day at Leamington raceway TrueDough made some real dough; he won. I was there to see it. What a great day. I got my picture taken along side my dad infont of one sweaty muddy horse. We all were winners that day.
I think my dad secretly wished I never grow up. He wanted me to be driver or a jockey like my uncle. Luckily for me science help me out. That's another story. I will call this story part one of two. My second trip to the barn is about a different barn and a different time. All I can say is, I'm no farmhand.
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