Ditch School. Take The Vacay.
I read this post on X the other day. It was posted by a school principal.
I wanted to argue. Instead, I reminisced about one of the happiest days of my life.
Here it is:
One morning, in the spring of my junior year, my dad offered to drive me to school. I usually walked the mile or so to my high school, so I eagerly accepted.
Once in the passenger seat my father looked at me with an impish smile: “What would you rather do today, go to school or watch the ponies run at Monmouth Park?”
Are you serious? I screamed.
“Let’s go,” he said. “If we hurry we can catch the morning workouts.”
Then he added: “We’ll stop and call Mom when we’re almost there and let her deal with the school.”
That seemed like an excellent idea. It‘s always easier to say you’re sorry than ask permission.
Here’s what I remember about that memorable hooky day: I ate breakfast with my dad by the sparkling glass window in the clubhouse at Monmouth Park. There were white linen tablecloths, fine china, cinnamon rolls and a spectacular view of the track and the horses.
After breakfast we wandered down to the paddock and talked to some of the jockeys and trainers, getting a close look at the thoroughbreds. The jumpy, the docile, the limpy.
Dad bought me my own copy of The Racing Form that morning and we each grabbed a couple of tip sheets from the touts.
Next we found our seats, propped our feet on the unoccupied row in front of us and - side by side - began the serious business of handicapping horses for the upcoming 12 races.
I’d like the look of a horse and my dad would warn me that the steed was a “mudder.” His best races were on sloppy tracks, Dad would point out. The track that day was fast.
“Careful there,” he’d warn.
At one point, I remember my father saying. “You can learn more in a day at the track than you can in a year of going to school.”
He was right.
That day at the racetrack was a learning experience. There were odds to calculate. Lessons in sociology as I watched, aghast, as degenerate gamblers angrily tore up their tickets and swore after a loss.
“Never bet more than you can afford to lose,” Dad said wisely.
We had a betting system. Doesn’t everyone? Here was ours: We’d place small first-place bets on our favorites, and then, with just two minutes to post time, I’d sprint to the betting window and put $6 combinations on the 3rd and 4th favorites on the board.
I was 15. I have no idea why I was never challenged about my age.
Neither do I know how much we won that day. I do know it was enough for two dinners at a steak house on the way home.
The best part? My father’s smile. He suffered from bipolar disease, which comes with crippling depression.
There were no signs of the black dog that day. Getting to spend an entire day with my father - just the two of us - was priceless.
Funny, I can remember very little about my junior year of high school, except that day. Shoot, I can’t even recall the names of my teachers.
Oh wait, there was Mr. Levine, my German teacher.
Like so many others, I got an education in college. I marked time in high school.
If I had one word of advice for any parent faced with the school/family time dilemma, it would be SCREW SCHOOL AND TAKE THE VACATION. No matter what. School will be there when you get back.
Don’t let the mindless rule-followers guilt you into missing out on quality family time.
And yes, even a day at a racetrack can be quality time.
It’s been decades since I skipped school to go to the races with my father. Just the two of us for a whole day. We handicapped, gambled and laughed.
What do I remember from that year in high school school? Two German words.
If my dad was here I’d give those to him:
Danke schön!
