No ID Required

The other day morning we lost power at the house. There were no ice storms, high winds or other weather related calamity associated with living at the forty third parallel. Earlier the scream of sirens ran through the woods, escaped sounds from Route 9, the road down the hill from the house. The disturbance mixed with the stuttered chatter of leaves, conversations of fall arriving on the fresh breath out of Canada. “A car most likely wrapped around a telephone pole,” I told Dad. We cranked the generator so I could take a shower before work.

I left for work. At the bottom of the hill an EMT flagged me when I signaled to head south. I rolled the passenger side window down to let the man dressed in rubber boots and a huge yellow jacket explain.

“Road is closed.” I imagined a mangled car fused to a pole. The jaws of life munching metal. Probably some tourist. Maybe a drunk, but it wasn’t even noon.

“How are far down Northern Pines do I need to go? Worth Road?” I knew the detour. Northern Pines was a parallel route, and once a back road that now carried a volume of traffic to and from the condos and fabricated homes that sprouted in the old corn fields and abandoned dairy farms. Springtime dandelions didn't grow as fast.

“No, The accident is at Worth.”

Hell, I thought to myself. If I got to do that I might as well go all the way into town pass the elementary school and come out by the mall. Do I need anything? Before I could compile a list to pick up at Wal-Mart, the EMT asked, “Are you a Perez?”

Okay, here’s the point of my blog. I was eighteen when I left Saratoga, and although I have lived here part time for the last three years I’m more recognizable than the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted. If I didn’t know better I’d say my face was pinned to a wall in the Post Office. It’s certainly not my one-book authorship or my blog reader ship, or my run-away twittering cat or even my right wing conservative hate monger activities in Washington DC that promotes my fame. No, it’s my genes.

That’s right, I look like my father. Everyone tells me. No matter how causal the relationship people will tell me this. The greeter at Wal-Mart. An ancient member of the Wilton Historical Society. All the Bank of America tellers. The owners at Allerdice, the local hardware store. They all recognize me as Manny’s daughter. I even have people I don’t know, like the clerk at Lowes, ask me “How’s your dad?”

With this kind of recognition who needs to carry identification? It won’t get me through any airport security, but it gives me the privilege of using his credit card anywhere in town, no questions ask.

The EMT explained he was a Hellenek. Since he looked a good ten years younger than me, I figured he had to have been eight when I left town. I didn’t recognized him. Oh well.

Being told I look like my father isn’t bad unless I take it that I look like an 86 year old man.

Lest We Forget

On the street, a row of middle class homes, no flags dance on the front porches in the early morning breeze. The skies are as clear and blue as they were a distant nine years ago. We may not want to admit it, but we are forgetting. Memories faded away like the flags I once posted in the windows of my Jeep. The very fabric of our lives was torn that day, September 11, 2001. We are somehow different, although we won’t admit it because we are tangled in our own righteousness. It's a change no one promised.

Some things have been mended over the past nine years, but like a tear carefully woven back together it never is the same. The thread’s hue is slightly off, a bit brighter than the original and that’s not right. The texture a bit softer and that’s not right. It smells a little fresher than the old and even that isn’t quite right. Yet somehow, the cloth is stronger where the tear had been, exposing the entire fabric as weak. The flaw is unnoticed by the wearer, but seen clearly by the enemy.

In a country of "me, me, me" we excuse ourselves and make amends by saying "you, you, you". And that clearly doesn’t work. Nine years later we have the fractions of protests and outrage instead of consolidated reflection and prayer. What united the country as one nation under God, indivisible has been able to expose naivety about our very history, principles, values and worth.

It’s not about me. It’s not about you. Lest we forget, and we have, we are doomed when we forget to hold ourselves to the higher standards and principles on which this country was founded. It’s not about our first amendment right that frees us from a government that makes “no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech,”

When free men assemble in prayer and in voice they know that such a privilege is given to them by other free men. Both know and acknowledge the freedom is not owed to them, but given to them by the other, without interference or precious price. It’s called respect. It’s not a right, it is an obligation borne by all. It's not about what feels good. It is about what is good.

So when mosques are built in sacred places or Korans are burned by fools remember each has that right, but sadly each has forgotten their obligation as free men to his fellow citizen. And sadder still we have leadership that inconsistently addresses both, reminding us of one man's rights, admonishing the other for exercising his and ignoring the obligation of both.

May our Lord never treat us in the same way that we treat each other, in an arbitrary selfish manner.

I thank my God, He doesn’t.

Good-bye to those MIA

It seemed like everyone knew everybody. Obviously, that wasn’t true. I was new and so were many others. I recognized some from my training class, a cursory explanation of duties and responsibilities, the dos and the don’ts, some legal stuff and the difference between a misdemeanor and a felony. Totally useless stuff. The day had been mostly a rambling tale of incidences that had happened at the Saratoga Race Track. It could have taken ten minutes to summarize what they really wanted us to do. Above all else, as a security patrolman all situations are handled in the following manner. Call your supervisor. On my own I discovered what I needed to know. Where the phones were to make this call. And all the other needed stuff—where the bathrooms, the ATMs and the Customer Service booths—were located. Other than that, amuse yourself for a security guard is nothing more than a uniformed information booth to assure patrons have a good time, don’t get hurt or destroy any property.

When I showed up to my station everyone was settled in. I started later than others so introductions already had been made. And even if they were in my class, they were already working, learning the ropes. They had the basics…your name, where you were from, what you did before the track, how long you had been here and who’s that?

Yeah, everyone knew everybody. But at the end of the six weeks, I was part of the family of track hires saying goodbye to co-workers who dispersed to engage in lives beyond the red and white canopies set between Nelson and Union Avenue.

Yesterday ended my third year. We didn’t count down like we had previously. Sure Peter, the on-track judge, came down the horse path waving three fingers, then two, then one indicating the last races- The Hopeful, The Glens Falls and a conglomeration of maidens trying to leave Saratoga broken.

And then it was over. The goodbyes and the hugs almost taken and given as an obligation. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. I’ll see you next year. As casual as “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Taken for granted.

But then this year we missed several who never came back.

There was John Salerno, the overweight ticket taker at the restaurant called At The Rail. For two decades he serenaded beautiful women with his charm and his voice, breaking into song for any good reason. And there were many. His rendition of the Star Spangle Banner filled me with great pride and humbled my patriotism. And yet he could growl to reminded me that I was just a security guard, I had a place, and it wasn’t to casually mingle with the big shots that he could surround himself with. John died a day before Thanksgiving. Heart Attack.

There was Security Guard Dave, who become known as my Boy Friend. He would mysteriously appear at the gate coming out of the crowd like a Gila monster out of the desert. He carried the poison, a hot tip on a horse. Yet his tips were good as gold. If I wasn't there when he showed up, Dave never gave the info to anyone else. The other guards teased me, “Your boyfriend was here.”
“Who?” I would ask.
“The guy with two teeth and three missing fingers.”
Dave would return later, staying just long enough to stick five dollars in my hand and relay the info, “the five horse in the next race.”
I never knew how Dave knew. He just knew.
He and his wife changed their shifts and I never funded my retirement this year.

There were the Mount Rushmores, the name I gave the two old stone faced maître d’es. Slip them a fifty and you could enter their domain. Be dying of thirst and they would invite you to drink out of the bucket left for the outriders’ ponies. And there was the guy I called Joe Montana, because he looked like Joe Montana. He was the maître d' at the paddock tent of fine dining. It was replaced by the Blue Smoke and Shake Shack, the two hot snack venues flanked by a mutuel bay and a tented bar with beer on tap and no bathroom. Economic times took this Centerplate crew out.

And there was Lois, a sweet lady who quietly played the horses, something her husband had done years earlier. She came alone. Occasionally she came with her son who looked nothing like her and was engaged to a person not interested in horse racing. Lois watched all the races except the steeple chases. To watch the horses and riders sail over the hedges made her too nervous, afraid of the consequences should one hoof not clear the hazard. She sat away from the fence at the clubhouse horse crossing in a little blue chair tucked in the smallest space by the oak tree. I coaxed her to the fence to watch the post parade. We shared picks and hunches. At the end of last year’s meet she gave me a gift card from Target. "For making my time so pleasant." I used it in Hawaii this January. Lois never returned to the track this year. I never saw her son either. I may never know what happened.

On Friday afternoon I stood outside the Main Gate watching the race enthusiasm fizzle through the wrought iron. Yet I wished good evening to all and bid them good bye. There wasn’t much else to do out there, so I assumed myself, just like I had been taught. I asked a few if they funded my pay check.

A middle aged couple (okay, about my age) passed through the gate speaking French. At the last second, he turned and asked in English, “What time do the races start tomorrow?”
“1 PM.”
“And on Sunday?”
“1 PM.”
He was delighted with this information. I learned they were from Quebec. By then his wife was taking a photo of the entrance. I offered to take their picture. While doing so I continued to wish the other patrons a good evening. More times than not, my bid was briefly acknowledged.

As I handed the camera back to the woman she said, “You know everyone.”
I laughed, “Just about.”