If my father was home, my little brother and I were with him. It didn’t matter what he was doing or where he was going. We signed up for every activity and every trip. We called ourselves “the Three Cs,” and we were inseparable. One of my favorite memories was our annual trip to the Travers Stakes, a huge race that took place at the Saratoga Race Course. Every year my entire family loaded up the coolers and folding chairs, and we made a party of the day. It was a total blast.
As I mentioned, my grandfather Babe was a horse racing gambler, and by sheer exposure, my father and his siblings became horse experts. Some of my uncles still work with horses to this day, running a brilliantly gorgeous Painted Pony horse ranch up in the Adirondack Mountains right by the family lake. While my father focused his time on religion (he was even a deacon at one point), he did make an exception to teach me about gambling when it came time for Travers Stakes.
I was around five years old when I learned about the trifecta—a strategy that refers to picking three horses and then lining them up in first, second, and third place. They must complete the race in that order, or the bet (two dollars in my case) would be a loss.
When we got to the racetrack, my aunts and uncles would set up a spot behind the stadium seats on a huge patch of green grass. Within minutes, there’d be food and drinks and plenty of laughs. Group by group, we’d stroll over to the teller windows to place our bets on the horses.
My father, little brother, and I walked hand in hand through the halls of the old Saratoga Race Course. My father lifted me and then Christian, so we could tell the teller what horses we wanted to pick. Christian was the sweetest boy. He had a big grin and huge blue-green eyes that contrasted with his dark Italian skin and hair. We exchanged excited smiles, and we knew what the other was thinking: Let’s bet on a trifecta. I loved the trifecta because it reminded me so much of my father and little brother. We three were my personal, unstoppable trifecta.
As my father leaned into the booth, I sat on his hip, level with the teller. She gave a smile while laughing politely. “Okay, little miss, what’s your bet?”
I turned my head around, looked up at my father, and shrugged my shoulders. “Okay Christina, which horses did you want to pick?” he said as he folded open what looked to be a flimsy newspaper. His finger pointed to some names I was having trouble sounding out, so he began naming them one after the other. I called out the ones I liked the best.
“Little lady will take Sea Hero, Riley, and Bella—in that order please, Miss. Thank you.” My father handed her two dollars in exchange for a little ticket. I wrapped my arms around my father’s neck, kissed his cheek, and said thank you. Christian’s turn was next, and he was just as excited as I was. After we placed our bets, we walked hand in hand all around the racetrack grounds. We stopped at the candy apple stand and then made our way back to the family picnic. It was such a great day at one of the oldest racetracks in the country. Someday I hope to take my family to the Travers Stakes at Saratoga Race Course. We’ll keep making history and wonderful memories.
Another favorite memory was visiting Mr. Bullard’s apple orchard in Schuylerville. As soon as the leaves started changing into purples and reds, I knew it was time for apples. Oh, how I loved autumn so much! The pumpkin patch, the corn mazes, and our favorite—apple picking! When we arrived at the orchard, we toppled out of the car, running around like little madmen. We knew we were about to pick apples with our very own hands. But first, we had to stop at the country store, where they handed out little wooden apple baskets to carry as we picked. The air was chilly, but we were so excited we didn’t care. My father wore his dark brown leather jacket with the high collar. It had elastic wrists and was lined with a thick tan wool. He loved that leather jacket. I thought he looked so cool.
My father handed the cashier money in exchange for three baskets, and I heard his jacket make stretching noises. My siblings and I immediately started arguing about who would get to hold the baskets. It was soon settled by Mother. RaeLynne, Abbeygail, and my father held the baskets as we ran off through beautiful apple trees in search of our first pick. It wouldn’t be long before our father was carrying all three baskets full to the brim. Sometimes our cousins would come with us, and it would be a sea of Lorenzos taking over the apple orchard. Once we had the apples back home, we’d make cider and pies, and we’d munch on apples for our after-school snacks. Apples for weeks. It was wonderful.
While the racetrack was a blast and apple picking was chilly fun, my favorite childhood memory was going to the local dump.
Whenever my father came home after a long time away, he’d gather all the trash from around the yard and house and put it in the van. He’d call out, “Okay kiddos, who’s going to the dump with their father?” Christian and I would run to get to the front door first. It may sound strange, but we knew that a trip to the dump meant more than throwing out old stinky trash; it meant a stop at the old wooden penny candy store to get Father’s favorite paper dots and candy caramels for us kids. It also meant stopping at the local dairy farm to get the best soft serve ice cream in the state!
We hurried our little feet to the van, looking at each other with giggly grins. After we dropped off the trash, our father drove down the old country roads of upstate New York. We danced and jumped around in the back seat as he sang old rock songs.
We always knew when the dairy farm was coming because there was a huge bend in the road lined with pine trees. When the pine trees stopped, there was a huge green pasture that seemed to appear out of nowhere. As the tires crunched over the gravel, my excitement grew. “The Three Cs have made it!” Father said, wide-eyed and smiling. Christian and I ran straight to the line that was always long in front of the counter.
It was an outside-only ice cream parlor. You ordered at the window, and then a few minutes later, delicious homemade soft serve ice cream dipped in chocolate came right to you. It was like magic.
After we finished our cones, we walked behind the parlor to the picnic tables just across the way atop a hill and sat looking at the endless miles of green grass and dairy cows.
The Three Cs had all kinds of traditions that no one knew about except us.
Love each other with genuine affection,
and take delight in honoring each other.
Romans 12:10 NLT