Opinion

Born for the races

Work in Progress

By Ivan Morgan

I was born on Regatta Day, or so I was told (I had just shown up).

My grandfather was on the Regatta Committee at the time and, to celebrate the momentous birth of his first grandson, announced I was to be named Regatta.

There was, as you can imagine, a fuss. I have over the years broken into a cold sweat when I think of how close I came to living my life with that on my ID – Regatta Morgan, Reg for short.

My parents were not having it and so a compromise was reached – my middle name is his given name.

Nevertheless, when I was small most grownups in my family called me Regatta anyway. So, the Regatta has always been a big day for me.

When we were grade schoolers the Regatta was a terrifying event. My Mom would dress my brother and I up in white shirts, ties, navy jackets, grey flannel shorts (Sacred Heart!) knee-high navy socks, and black leather lace up Oxfords (that’s a shoe) – basically total nerds – and we would be taken to sit with my grandparents on the roof of the boathouse next to the bandstand, where all the swells sat watching the races (and gazing down on the crowds).

I still break out in a sweat just writing this. Can you even imagine what would have happened to us at school if even one of our classmates had spotted us! We would have had the living stuffing kicked out of us (and I have cleaned that up for a community newspaper).

The Regatta is very different today from what it was then. Back then I remember a greased pig concession, where people (almost invariably young men) paid to try and catch and hold a terrified greased pig (imagine the charges that event would generate today). I always felt so sorry for the pig. There was another game that was a family tradition. There was a square table with 40 carrots (10 to a side). Each carrot was numbered and there was a ticket for each carrot. Once all the tickets were sold a fluffy white rabbit was placed in the middle of the table. Whoever held the ticket with the number of the carrot the rabbit nibbled on first won a prize.

When my brother was very small, my father would have him pick the carrot and – for reasons lost in time – every year my brother picked the right carrot. How many years? I don’t know but enough years to freak the grownups out.

In my university years I began volunteering to run concession stands for charities. The idea was to build the stand the day before, stay up all night lakeside partying (there was always a big party down there the night before) and then the next day work the booth hungover in the broiling heat. Those were the days.

Through the decades I often worked concessions at the Regatta. I’ve sold tickets on stuffed bears and other toys. I have helped cook and sell moose and caribou burgers. For the last 20 or so years I worked a cash wheel off and on. The object there was simple. Yell at the top of your lungs in the broiling sun for 8 hours ending up sunburnt and hoarse (and making cash for the charity).

Then in the evening cold cream for my red face, cold beer, and straight whiskey to trickle down and soothe my ragged throat.

Here’s my best Regatta memory of all. Several years ago, I was helping lug the cash wheel back to the old boathouse at the end of the day. I noticed an old codger hurrying across the lawn towards me, old legs and cane going a mile a minute. At first I didn’t recognize him, but as he neared I saw he was an old friend of my grandparents. He was well into his nineties.

As he neared, he laughed “I knew it! If it isn’t Regatta Morgan!”

No one had called me that in forty years.

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