The Buzz from the Celebration

I took Buzz to the Celebration on the last Thursday night of the show. There's nothing like seeing something through the eyes of a child to make you see it brand new for yourself.

This was his first horse show, and after the second or third class, he turned to me, puzzled.

"They're pretty and all, but when does the race start?"

"Why do they walk funny?"

"Why do the girls get the cool hats and the guys get the goofy hats?"

"What's wrong with those men? Why are they hunched over like that? Are they afraid they're going to fall off? The girls don't hunch over. Aren't they afraid? Are they better riders?"

"What's wrong with that boy horse? His ..."

That was when I clapped my hand over his mouth until I could find something sweet, sticky, and preferably permanent to stick inside of it. We wandered out through the crowds, into the barn area, where kids his age were riding around in the Whittlin' Ring. We visited and talked and he wandered into foreign territory with all of the careless curiosity of a 4-month old puppy. My interviews generally ran along the lines of:

"So how long have you been coming to the ... Buzz, don't walk behind the horses .... Celebration?"

"Do you have an entry in the stakes class? No, Buzz, that's fly wipe, not hand lotion."

"Who do you think is going to ... do NOT step in the funny green, round dirt, son ... win the World Grand Championship?"

Being a 10-year-old boy, he naturally thought the coolest things at the show were the golf carts and 4-wheel drive utility carts, the firefighters and the endless variety of junk food. The only thing about the horses that interested him was, well, the funny green round dirt. He thought the big manure collection bins were the funniest things he'd ever seen, and he wondered If he could get a job running out into the ring with a shovel to scoop it up.

He was actually on his best behavior when I really needed him to be -- when I was haunting the inspection area. The night before, the USDA had forced me to move away from the doorway to the area, even though I, and hundreds of others, have been sitting in that area for years now. The poor SHOW official they sent to be the hatchet man told me it was for my own safety, because the colts can get unruly when they line up. Hmmm, years I've been attending, and not one injury yet ...

I'm sure it had nothing to do with my media badge and my camera with its telephoto lens ... The ironic thing is, I've never shot into the inspection area and had no intention of doing so. Until they made me move away. That's why it's called a telephoto lens, people.

After a while, I noticed that others were moving in to sit in the very same area from which I had been evicted. Apparently, the USDA was more concerned about my well being than theirs and I was touched, to say the least. Nonetheless, willing to take a bullet, or a kick, for my cause, I went back and sat down in the DMZ. (De-Media Zone). This time, after someone in security mentioned the fact that I had every right to sit right there, the "gummint fellers" let me be.

So there I was, back again, with my ever-curious 10-year-old son. Other than roaming up the steep hill behind the retaining wall, and trying to unretain the retaining wall, he was well behaved and relatively quiet. Of course, the bribe of an Optimist Club doughnut helped. Once I convinced him it really was a doughnut.

"We'll get a doughnut later," I said.

"Oooo. Chocolate icing?"

"No, just a doughnut."

"Sprinkles?"

"No, just a doughnut. They don't have chocolate icing or sprinkles."

"Then it's a bagel," he said.

"No, it's a doughnut. A bagel is boiled bread, a doughnut is deep fried cake batter."

"Still sounds like a bagel to me."

He finally conceded defeat as we ate the doughnuts in the little Auxiliary area. I ate, he inhaled, then he began roaming and poking and asking questions again. By the time the last class walked on, I was needing someone to roll me out.

"Do they have a 'Take Your Kid to Work Day' where you work?" he asked as I dragged myself into the van. "Can I go to work with you one day?"

"You just did, son," I said wearily.

"Really? That's awesome! Do you get to do this every day?"

No, thank heavens, I don't. Once a year is enough.

----Mary Reeves is a Times-Gazette staff writer. She can be reached at mreeves@t-g.com.