My old man had a modest string of cheap standardbreds in New England back in the late 60s early 70s, usually at Rockingham Park. He was no stranger to the windows too, both for the trotters and the TBs.
We lived just over the border in Massachusetts, and oftentimes as a young one he'd take me along for the 5(?) mile ride north along Route 28. If I was lucky, we'd stop at Granite State potato chip factory and get a bucket of chips right outta the vat. If it was summer time we'd detour to one of the truck farms near the track and pick up a couple dozen ears of sweet corn for dinner. And if I was really lucky we'd go in the barn gate right off route 28 (and not the gen'l admission gate...that meant he was just getting a bet in) because that meant we were going to his barn and I could be with his horses. The mere smell of molasses is enough to bring it all back to me.
A few times he'd hoist me up on his lap in the jog cart and take a few lazy loops around the oval with one of his horses and man...that was better than anything to a 6 or 7 year old kid. Dad was better than Carl Yasztremski at that point. Well...up until the one time one of my feet slipped and got jammed in the wheel and tore the skin off my ankle. Didn't want to be dad explaining to mom that night.
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