And There Were Roses
By Nancy McAtavey
Carbondale
Churchill Downs, The first Saturday in May
“This is it,” I thought as I entered the main concourse of the Louisville International Airport. I was ready to cross this item off of my bucket list, ready for “the most exciting two minutes in sports” — The Kentucky Derby’s Run for the Roses.
As long as I can remember, my family and friends gathered around the TV for this famous race. We listened to everyone: the weatherman who described the track conditions and the clouds in the area, the sportscasters who analyzed the horses, trainers, owners and jockeys, the statisticians who explained the odds board and the post positions.
But no one listened more intently than my mother. This was her day. She dictated the volume of the room, when we could shout and when we needed to just watch. And she decided the wagering — always “a buck a bet.” We threw our dollar bills on the coffee table, eager to see who would take home the big prize money when the winning horse crossed the finish line and was draped with a blanket of roses. Red roses.
From the time we arrived to our departure on Monday, red roses were everywhere. Urns, filled with dozens of long stems, flanked both sides of the airport walkway. The lobby of the Galt House, the official hotel of the Derby, showcased a massive arrangement of roses on a pedestal beneath the main chandelier. Tall copper vases filled with the deep reds marched down the divide of our dining spot at the Butchertown Grocery. And even the window of the hotel’s boutique featured a tuxedo jacket fashioned from a red rose printed fabric.
These were the flowers that defined my mother’s life. She was a rose grader/packer from the time she was widowed at the age of 25 until the day she retired in 1987. She sloshed water buckets from the walk-in coolers to the long grading tables where they were measured, cut and checked for mildewed leaves or deformed bullheads. Her hands were water-shriveled with thorn-punched fingers and broken nails. She handled thousands and thousands of roses of every color: yellow, white, lavender, pink. And the king of them all, the long-stemmed red.
The day of the race was gray and drizzly. Women donned plastic ponchos or dry cleaner bags to protect their dresses and hats. Flip-flops replaced high heels. Men paired their everyday baseball caps with their suits and jackets. Umbrellas popped up and down as the shuttle buses, taxis and limos pulled up to the front door. Chatter and laughter mixed with requests for another mint julep or cold beer.
Under the cover of the grandstand, I’m studying my racing program and the names of the horses I’ve either crossed out or circled for race #12. I’m second guessing the wagers that my husband is on his way to place at the window. I am living my dream: sipping a glass of white wine, people watching everyone around me and down in the mud-covered infield.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to find my Grandfather, my “Papa,” seated behind me. The man who helped my mother raise me. The man who died some 55 years ago. I blink to make sure I am still here at Churchill Downs, that I can still smell bourbon and the smoke from the mens’ fat cigars.
“Is that you, Papa? What are you doing here?” I ask. But there’s no mistaking him The bushy gray eyebrows above those deep blue eyes. The long face with the prominent nose, the deep wrinkles that frame the thin-lipped smile.
“Of course, it’s me.” He tips his straw bowler and gives me a wink. He’s dressed in his best navy blazer with white flannel pants and sports a white shirt and red tie. “I came to check on you. To make sure you got here alright, that you have a good seat. That you remember how to read the program and place a bet.”
I look around again. “But Mama? Where is she?”
“She’s down there in the infield, in all that commotion, having a beer and a smoke. She’s here watching after me, just like in the olden days when she would drive me home in the truck after the races. Sometimes I would have too much whiskey and she would take the keys and push me into the passenger seat. She drove the back road from the fairgrounds and we always made it home safe, even though she was too young for a license and her skinny legs barely reached the gas pedal.”
“But why didn’t she come up here with you? To see me?”
My grandfather looks down toward the infield. “Well, she was never one for fancy dresses. And I don’t ever think I saw her wear a hat. She didn’t want to come up here and embarrass you wearing her flannel shirt and
corduroy pants.”
“Well then, I’ll go down there to
see her.”
“No, little one. There’s no time for that.” He reaches for his gold pocket watch. “It’s almost post time.”
“But is she alright, Papa?”
“Don’t you worry. I keep my eye on her. She took care of me all those years.”
The rain has not let up. The track is puddled, muddy. And then comes the call“Riders Up” as the jockeys mount their horses and take to the track.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. Please stand for the singing of ‘My Old Kentucky Home.’”
I turn to the song printed on my program as the first few bars of the song echoes across the track.
“Will you sing with me, Papa? Do you remember the words?”
“No, I have to go now. You mother’s down at the rail waiting for me. I bet on that #4 horse for her.”
I start to sing along with the other 160,000 fans. There’s another pat on my back but when I turn he’s gone.
The horses were loaded into the starting gate and then came the two words I’d been waiting to hear: “They’re off!”
I looked across to the infield. Was that Papa’s straw hat? Mama’s plaid flannel shirt? I waved and then focused on the track and the Run for the Roses.