A Day at the Races without the Marx Brothers

The Old Baguette loves the Kentucky Derby.  She doesn't live within galloping distance of Churchill Downs, so she can't go to the track.  She watches the race on television with her best hat on her head and a mint julep in her hand.  She wants to be part of the glamorous scene. Make no mistake. Everything, absolutely everything and everyone at Churchill Downs is glamorous on Derby day.  The horses with their shiny coats and skinny legs, the jockeys in their colorful, patterned silks, the women in their elegant hats, the men in their tailored suits, Churchill Downs itself.  The Old Baguette loves the sounds, too. The strains of My Old Kentucky Home, the bugle's call, the clanging of the gates, the squeaks of saddles, the pounding of hooves.  Eventually, the winner crosses the finish line,  is led to the winner's circle, and is blanketed with roses.  Great silver trophies are presented.  What an event!

While Arlington Park in the Chicago area wasn't Churchill Downs, it used to be a lovely race track.  Perhaps it still is.  Going to the races at Arlington was a way lots of families celebrated the 4th of July.  The Old Baguette doesn't know why, but every year 50,000 or so would show up.  They bet on the ponies or simply watched the horses run.  The Old Baguette's family went occasionally.   They, like everyone else,  went to Arlington to have fun.  None of the women wore fancy hats.  The men weren't particularly dapper.  No one wandered about sipping mint juleps.  No one gave a hoot about glamour.  Too bad!

One of my school friends, her mother, and her grandmother went to Arlington on a particularly hot 4th  of July.  As race followed race, Granny got hotter and hotter and more and more excited.  She kept jumping up and down as she cheered on her favorites.  Then, in the middle of the 6th race she slumped to the ground.  Oops!  People all around her mobilized.  The stretcher bearers that were always there to take care of injured jockeys materialized and carried her to the track's office.  Had she had a heart attack? A stroke?  Had the heat "done her in?"  The track manager got on his  microphone and called for a doctor.  In about five minutes, a doctor, one man in that mob of 50,000,  responded to the plea.  When my friend's mother saw him, she almost fainted.  The doctor was Granny's own, personal physician.  Imagine that!  Granny never got over beating the odds so completely.  "I was in a crowd of 50,000.  I collapsed.  When I regained consciousness, my own doctor was bending over me.  I didn't know he liked going to the races."  The Old Baguette can't remember the diagnosis, but Granny was quickly cured.  She made it back to the rail in time to watch the last race.