First race. Brighton bet horse number two to win. He came in second.
…without a rider. The jockey fell off the moment his got out of the gate. The horse just ran the rest of the race for fun I reckon.
What’s the name of the fanfare that is played? The fanfare that gets everyone’s blood pumping with excitement. Everyone shimmies to the paddock to watch the horses come in. It is Call to the Post.
Such a distinguished looking man laying on the trumpet before every race. I wonder if he ever tires of it?
My race came up next. I bet Tollgate Molly to win or My Sassy Girl to win. Two separate bets. TM won and MSG placed.
Do I know how to pick’em or what?
How you asked?
I like their names. That’s how I pick my ponies, People. And it has served me well.
I won six bucks. You can’t tell me that was blind luck.
Drunk with my success (and my success only) I decided my betting days were over. Brighton and I took an informal survey from a few men eating corned beef sandwiches and washing them down with copious amounts of Bud Light. Evidently the best sandwich-the one labeled ‘world famous’ was made with the marbled rye bread and had sour kraut on it. (Wouldn’t the addition of sour kraut make it a reuben by default? Or is it the thousand island dressing?) I had to admit, the two bites I had were pretty tasty, but I still don’t know what the devil corned beef sandwiches have to do with anything.
People watching is usually a dandy way to pass the time between races. Today was no exception. This man is Bubba. I call him that affectionately because he is a stereotypical Ozarks man. Bubba has trimmed his hair and beard and is wearing a clean pressed shirt, a good pair of jeans, and his best boots. His shirt is tucked in and he’s wearing his good hat. Well, it's actually his grandson's hat. But this one is clean and his wife ‘Irlene’ told him to wear it because they were going out in public. The others are stained with the sweat of his brow. Sweat earned from making an honest living at a blue collar job. The job that allows him to bring ‘Momma’, the aforementioned Irlene, to Hot Springs for a couple of days in March.
I’m the very picture of stealth when I take my photos. I’m very nosy you see, but shy and reserved. So I sneak pictures. I find my subject and then starting in the opposite direction, I scan the crowd, stopping periodically faking a picture. That way no one thinks I’m shooting them. It’s all very random and non-threatening.
None was needed with this next shot. I kind of think this fellow was asking for attention. It’s also ironic because just a few posts ago I shared my encounter with another man in a fur coat. Imagine my excitement when I saw this.
My favorite-the tractor races!