Afterward —The Eight Horse Runs Again

The Eight Horse rounded the final turn of yet another race, tucked toward the back of the pack as was common for him. 

As the dirt flew all around him, he smiled inwardly with a knowing confidence that he would somehow find his way through the crowded field of thoroughbreds in time to cross the finish line as an unexpected first-place winner.  He was spurred on by the echo of an affirming voice that had once foretold his unlikely victory …  "Two dollars on the Eight Horse to win, please." 

If those two dollar bills could tell their story, here is the true tale they would tell.

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It was a late September day in 2008.  The stiffly curled-up envelope crouched quietly in our mailbox, excitedly waiting for me to find it.  I reached in with no particular expectation, completely unaware that I was about to get such a wonderful surprise on an otherwise very dark and sad day.  It's curious how a single piece of mail can instantly cause a heart to skip a few beats. 

“How could I possibly be getting a letter from Dad today?  He has been in a coma for nearly a week!”

Dad had been battling a lung disease called emphysema, along with a few other serious medical challenges, for quite a while. With his lungs failing, he was hospitalized and was now unconscious. It seemed his body was on the verge of final surrender after a long battle.  I was working out plans for making the drive from Boston down to Long Island, New York in a few days to visit him. 

So you can imagine my surprise when that large envelope addressed to Grace and me in Dad's handwriting arrived in our mailbox!  I knew right away what it was, but it was surreal getting it after Dad had been incapacitated for nearly a week.  But I guess Dad just had a bit more left to say to us. 

Over the years, for each of his eight kids’ wedding anniversaries Dad carefully fanned out a set of dollar bills and taped them to a manilla folder, each bill representing one year of marriage.  It seemed to be his small-yet-meaningful way of encouraging us to stay faithful and united in our marriages.  Grace and I were married nineteen years earlier, so the corresponding nineteen crisp bills still weren't enough yet to fund a proper date, but each year we tried to use the small-but-growing stack of bills toward something special for our anniversary.  Some years we didn't come up with something to do with them, so a few of these envelopes found there way into a "special memories" folder in our filing cabinet, to be used another time.   Whatever their eventual use, the message these unique cards delivered to us year-after-year was clear:  "Marriage is important, kids – keep your commitment and be faithful to one another, day after day, year after year."

A few days later as I drove down to New York, I reflected on how blessed I was that Dad, though his body was slowly failing that year, had made four trips up to Boston to spend time with me and my family, and to help finish a few home improvement projects that we had been working on together.  We had gotten to know each other so much better over the past seven years, and I was growing in awareness of how quietly but significantly Dad had believed in and supported me my whole life.  So, it was gut-wrenching to think this might be my last trip to be with him.

When I arrived at the hospital, my heart broke as I saw Dad lying motionless, unable to breathe on his own as his body was slowly shutting down.  In the coldness of that hospital room and with the foreboding sound of the respirator constantly reminding me of his dire circumstance, it was hard to have much hope.  Dad was always so strong, but we all knew he was rounding his final turn toward life's finish line. 

Dad finished his race well, and his beautiful legacy lives on. His love and good deeds continue to echo long and far.  And unbeknownst to me, those dollar bills taped to that manilla folder back on my desk at home had one more story to tell -- though it would not unfold until much later, at a racetrack thousands of miles away.

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Eight years passed, and it was now 2016. Grace and I were living in Dublin, California near San Francisco.  We had recently moved west, just as we entered our "empty nest" years.  Thus, on weekends we sometimes had few plans.  So we were excited when we learned one particular weekend that it was one of the few times annually when there would be live horse racing at the nearby Alameda County Fairgrounds.  We hadn't been to a track in ages, but when we occasionally did we always had fun.

As we headed out of our apartment to go to the track, I had a last-minute thought and grabbed a manilla envelope out of our filing cabinet.  It was one of just a few that we still had left, so it was hard to fathom taking one of those last ones apart and spending the money.  But Grace and I quickly agreed that this trip to the track would be the perfect way to use one of our few remaining sets of crisp anniversary dollar bills.

The horse that caught our eye in the first race was the longshot.  She probably had a poor record, or a little-known trainer, or some other reasons why people weren't betting on her to win.  But in the spirit of my Dad's love for longshots, it was easy to grab two of the crisp bills he had sent us years earlier and bet them on that horse to win.

We found a spot along the rail right by the finish line, a good vantage point for seeing the final stretch of the race.  There we enjoyed the excitement of the pre-race bugle call, the lively banter of the colorful characters all around us, the march of the horses toward the starting gates, and the jarring ring of the bell as those gates flew open and the horses lunged out.

Longshots at the track don't usually win.  Once in a while they do, but it's pretty rare.  So it was with great delight that we watched our longshot not only jump into the lead right out of the gate, but she also somehow held her lead all the way to the finish line!  The two dollars from Dad became forty-six, and it felt so wonderful and amazing and symbolic.  It brought to mind the way Dad’s eyes would gleam in those rare moments when a longshot he'd bet on occasionally won like this.  I suspect my eyes had that same gleam as I watched our horse parade through the winner’s circle after the race. 

The afternoon was young, and horse tracks typically feature a dozen races or so on a given day.  Soon the bugler was announcing the next race.  Naturally, I sought out another longshot to bet two dollars on.  We cheered him on as the race ensued, even though he seemed lost toward the back of the cluster of horses charging around the track.  To our shock and joy, by the time the charging mass of horses passed by our perch by the finish line, our longshot had “unexpectedly" won the race!   Two longshots winning in a row?  Unprecedented!

My eyes beamed again, as Dad’s would have.  I don’t know if loved ones can hear us from heaven, but sometimes in the quiet of my heart I talk to my dad.  “Did you see that, Dad?  Two longshots winning back-to-back!  I wish you could have been here to see it with me.  I miss you, Dad."

I went to the concession stand and used most of the remaining dollar bills from the anniversary card to buy a beef hot dog and a Budweiser beer -- intentionally having Dad's favorites to further remember him and to feel connected. 

Afterwards, with just two of the original crisp dollar bills left, I went back to the betting window and wagered them on another longshot.  As it turned out, that particular longshot wasn't ready to win just yet.  Most aren't.  But maybe another day soon he will.  And when he does, perhaps he will be spurred on by a two dollar bet from an old gentleman with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, jingling a pocketful of keys and coins and hope. 

"Two dollars on the eight horse to win, please."

[scroll down for some questions to ponder and some lessons I’ve learned about becoming more real]