By Jeff Dexter
Whenever I find the need to clear my mind from the madness of the modern world, I close my eyes and drift back to a more magical time. Dreamily, I am back in the very early 60’s– a time when a mischievous 6 year-old boy could (on a dare) lie down in the middle of Whiskey Road for minutes at a time without seeing a single car; a time when the seemingly endless hours could be whiled away in the largest playground a boy could ever hope to have– Whitney Polo Field.
The field, itself, was a massive carpet on which any number of games could be played out with brothers, sisters and friends– tag, swing-the-statue, races, endless somersaults, or even just rolling around in the soft grass… laughing like mad and getting all itchy. At some point in the spring, the metallic green June Bugs would appear out of holes in the grass, swarming up into the air. The field was full of them!! We would all catch and tie threads (stolen from mom’s sewing box) to one leg. Voila! Our own little airplane on a string. They were certainly more animated than our ten cent balsa airplanes and homemade kites. And then, there was just sitting… sitting out in the middle of the field in the morning mist, surrounded by the calls of the bobwhite quail and birds in the surrounding woods; or lying in the afternoon sun under an impossibly blue sky, contemplating the shapes of the clouds; watching the chimney swifts and dragonflies zip and wheel above. As the evening began to softly settle in, the bats and nighthawks would move in to take their place.
Moats on the outskirts of the field predictively filled each year with the springtime rains, and masses of toads would soon follow to perform their yearly rituals. Gathering tadpoles in empty pickle jars was a preferred pastime, watching out for snakes all the while. Trilling toads filled the nighttimes with their song; their offspring inundated our neighborhood on the sultry summer evenings to follow– sometimes numbering at least two toads per square foot. Mosquitoes in our yard were scarce. The moats slowly soaked into the ground as the warm summer days dawned, creating a lush profusion of plants. Passionflower vines provided more than enough of their maypops to use as bombs against any invading army. Blackberry vines provided enough of their delicious, glossy berries to sustain these missions. Butterflies danced among the profusion of flowers, such as bachelor buttons, wild geraniums, buttercups. Though mom always loved to receive a bouquet of these, even more appreciated was a parcel of wild asparagus, picked from beneath the rails.
A pure, white sand horse track encircled the outside of the field; perfect for playing tic tac toe, writing names, making small sand houses for pretend stick people, or for just wallowing in its damp coolness on a hot summer day. We could walk this track, searching for animal imprints, or for the more daring, do a tightwire act, walking the tops of the rails. Any mishaps would be met with a descent down to the soft sand. The lucky ones might teeter their way around to the wild plum bushes, enjoying their sweet fruit as a reward. The rails themselves offered an opportunity to observe wasp nests, carpenter bees, spiders and sunning lizards.
Beyond the field and the tracks were the woods, and the glorious magnolias growing along the lane there. Those massive magnolias were especially attractive to us kids, with their huge branches dipping against the ground… so easy to climb. Their bark was so thin, you could carve your love’s name into it… though it might be decades before you discovered the true meaning of love. The fleshy, white flowers perfumed the air with their sweet, citrus scent– their progression to brown spiky cones bursting with scarlet seeds marked the moments of the year as we played in the branches. The secrets, the confidences, and the grand plans that were shared within the umbrella of those trees are long gone, only to be replaced by fond memories.
I certainly had connections to the polo field after our family had moved away from the neighborhood. As a young teen, I somehow garnered a job working the polo games– my boss, a colorful character who drove an El Camino, constantly chewed Red Man tobacco and proudly kept his lost yellow teeth on a key ring. My main job was chasing a flatbed truck around the field, retrieving long lengths of rope being dropped and stringing them up through posts to act as barriers to keep spectators in their place– then, retrieving and looping the ropes up at the end of the game. For this job, I earned the princely sum of a dollar or two. I worked my way up through the ranks to the additional position of assistant scorekeeper at the far end of the field. It was a heavy responsibility, sorting through the stacks of numbered tin squares; hanging the appropriate ones on the rusty scoreboard nails whenever the chukker changed or a goal was scored. My supervisor was a very elderly Black man in coat and tie who contented himself to sit on a folding chair, chain-smoking cigarettes and encouraging me to “get a move on” when he thought I was moving too slow. Though I never received outright pay for this job, I was able to lay claim to all of the polo balls that were knocked through the goalposts there. Spectators would pay big money for these– sometimes, as much as a dollar!! I certainly never got rich from those Sundays at the polo field, but the memories I gained were priceless.
I must admit that it has been a while since I have been to Whitney Polo Field. The moats have most likely been filled in; herbicides and insecticides have most likely obliterated any kind of “undesirable” life. Plum trees and maypops have lost their place…. along with the lizards and toads and bobwhites… and whatever else. I occasionally drive by there, see the fences and signs; the luxury homes, bordering the field, usurping the woods where the fireflies once ruled…. The magnolia trees have seemingly had their lower branches cut, allowing for the growth of an impenetrable tangle of shrubby seedlings and briar vines underneath. Even the name of the bordering road, Magnolia Lane, has been removed and renamed “Magnolia Avenue.” Revisiting the polo field may not be a physical possibility these days, but I can always close my eyes and go back, if only in my mind.
Sand River Journal 