The Wild Turkey
Happy Thanksgiving to all. As the years pass, and the quantity of Thanksgivings that have come and gone begin to stack up, one begins to realize the significance of the holiday, and the perspective shifts with age. It becomes less about turkey, and football – although those items are threaded within the holiday itself – and more about giving thanks and what it all means.
I have a lot to be thankful for. I have a tremendous support group of friends, and I have been very cognizant of this over the recent months as I have challenged myself in writing down some of my memories in the form of an autobiography in order to preserve some of these memories. It has also been an exercise to review events with the benefit of the distance of time which has enabled me to be objective as they relate to specific actions and life decisions.
As I’ve indicated in previous posts, I have no plans on publishing the manuscript – the purpose for writing has been more about the process than publishing, and the writing has been its own reward. However, as this day is about being reflective and giving thanks, I have decided to place an excerpt here as a sample. I dedicate it to all of my friends who I am very thankful for both on this Thanksgiving Day, and for the Thanksgivings to come.
— G.C.
Waterfalls
1.4.1 – The Snow Box Derby
This story, like the Perkins Thanksgiving Party, is another that has gone down in history as the most recounted event for those that were part of Perkins graduating class of those years. Girlfriends, friends of friends, families, fiancees, and eventually wives and children have all heard about what happened that day at the ski lodge Kissing Bridge. It probably eclipses the Thanksgiving night party as the most requested tale to be told at picnics and holiday meet-ups. Each time this story gets told the temperature drops a few more degrees, and the wind a little stronger. To start off, and so the reader is in the correct frame of mind, it must first be noted that the weather was angry that day my friends…
In February of 1990 Channel 2, WGRZ-TV, had partnered with Perkins for their Kids Escaping Drugs charity fund raiser. Officially it was the Channel 2 Snow Flake Rally. If I had known about it, it was only in passing, and I didn’t take much interest. There were far more important things on my mind and a company joint venture fund raiser wasn’t one of them. However, when I came in at 11 p.m. a couple of the managers were there, and there definitely was some sort of animated conversation going on. Apparently, and this had been missed by our #10 management team, all Perkins restaurants were expected to have an entry in what was essentially a snow box, not soap box, derby races to be held Sunday morning, at Kissing Bridge Ski Resort in southern Erie County. Starting time was 10 a.m., and that was now eleven hours away. Perkins #10 did not have an entry, and given this edict from corporate one would have to be created, and fast. You could use your imagination, but all entries had to be made of cardboard.
Over the next several hours they attempted to assemble our entry – a box that was meant to resemble our Perkins Restaurant. They had strategically placed windows around the side of it, and placed a “#10” on the front to signify our store. The base was made of the thickest cardboard they could find – apparently discarded from some shipment earlier in the week. It was about 3.5” thick, and one would need a saw to cut through. All through the night, in the garage, the team worked on finding whatever materials and paint and cardboard and paper they could find – as if it was some large elementary school class project. It didn’t help that we were in the grips of the coldest grouping of days on record, and Sunday’s forecast was poised to be the coldest. High temperatures in the single digits Fahrenheit, and wind-chills in the mid to high minus twenties. It was a cold and biting night, everyone said so, and the morning light wasn’t going to bring any additional warmth. Even Big George, who rarely acknowledged any discomfort as it related to the weather, rubbed his hands together and demanded his coffee when he sat down at the counter. The restaurant was sparsely populated on this frozen dead of night. There ought to be more people around 1 a.m., but there wasn’t, and the wait staff merely meandered about trying to look busy. The usual bar crowd came in at three and four, but even that lacked some punch. People that entered the restaurant were too frozen to talk or care, and simply nursed their coffee. Standing by the front register I looked out at the front entrance to the road, and even the cones of light cast by the tall street lamps seemed to be frozen down to pavement. By anyone’s measure it was a night to stay in.
By daybreak I was counting my tips, and the manager got a phone call that our snow box derby team had finished assembling our entry, and that they’d be returning to the restaurant. I headed out the door into the deep freeze, but before I did the manager had thrown a parting comment my way, “We’re probably going to leave about 8:15 if you want to join us at Kissing Bridge.”
Sigh, he had placed the thought in my head. Normally I would have let it pass by, but there was some ridiculous morbid curiosity in me of what everything was all about. So instead of doing what I should have done – go home and step into a scalding hot shower and sleep, I elected to wash up quickly as best I could. A change of clothes, say hello to my Parents, and tell them I’d be back by 3:00 or so because I wanted to see what this was all about. They told me to drive safe, and try to stay warm in this ice box.
When we arrived at Kissing Bridge it was quickly apparent this was no small event. Not that I think it would be, but the scope and scale of what I saw was beyond what any of us had expected. All around us there were people and their snow box racers – they were works of art. People must have spent months or the entire year making them. There was a pair of ice skates – one person could sit in each skate that was linked together. There were Buffalo Bills helmets with small cardboard sleds attached to at the bottom. There were space shuttles. Among the frozen landscape there were these incredible and innovative creations that made our entry look like the biggest pile of recycled garbage on the property – because that’s exactly what it was. It was the product of a kid who didn’t bother to start on his homework assignment until the night before and is now turning in a heaping pile of trash built out of recycled cardboard garbage. A rusted out Crown Victoria next to a modern day Lamborghinis. One of these things is not like the other.
Another miscalculation was that no one had actually indicated when we were actually supposed to arrive at Kissing Bridge. Yes, the Channel 2 Kids Escaping Drugs Snow Flake Rally started at 10 a.m., but our heat, our Perkins #10 race, wasn’t going to be until 1:00 p.m. Here it was, 9:45, and what to do? Bars in New York State do not open until after 12 p.m. on Sundays; so this all amounted to hurry up and come and wait. So it was during this idle time of absolutely nothing going on that a bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey made its appearance. It is also where the next few hours get a little hazy.
Too much idle time can offer an opportunity to participate in activities most sober people would never do. For the most part the bottle and glasses (someone had been able to acquire some from the closed bar) and Wild Turkey was distributed to all. I did partake in some, but it was something I almost immediately recoiled from. In the world of whiskey there are only selected bottles I would learn to like, but at this stage in my life – the exploratory stage – I had not yet identified them. It was on this day that Wild Turkey received a strike-through.
We had found a room in which to wait out the hours – it was conveniently located not far from the bar which was only a short staircase up to a landing and then a turn to the left with another few steps up. This downstairs room operated as almost a sunroom. I’m unsure if this was a staging area for skiers, snowboarders and the like, but it was minimally furnished with cold benches and white panel walls that now retained the icy cold. So essentially it was like sitting inside a refrigerator, and inside the Wild Turkey was passed around as people talked behind little puffs of breath that were visibly seen. Occasionally I glanced at my left wrist. 10:20? You mean we’ve only been here for forty-five minutes? – the second hand of the Fauxlex marched on ever so slowly as if it also was frozen by the weather.
The next couple hours ran like molasses from a jar, and frozen molasses at that. Painstakingly slow as if time itself was forced to a crawl by the biting environment. Occasionally one had to stand up from the cold benches, stretch to get blood flowing in their extremities, and mill around, or go outside and watch some of the races taking place. The races themselves were not, as I indicated, dissimilar to a soap box derby. Each race consisted of two contestants each climbing into their creation at the top of the hill facing the bar. Then the starter would release them and down the hill they would fly as if they were on sleds. Only cardboard and tape could be used in these creations – no slipping in a hidden toboggan under that cardboard – and then whatever decorative materials you could find to show off your artistic talents. In many respects it was an impressive site – then there was our absolute garbage square cardboard that you had to constantly explain what it was. “It’s our restaurant. See, here’s the roof.” People would politely nod and walk on too respectful to make any comments regarding Ralph Wiggum’s sad homework assignment. When your feet started to feel frozen to the hard pack snow, and the cold seeping up your shins and you had gotten bored with the races it was time to return to the ice box interior and find a cold bench. 10:50. 11:10. 11:30. The minute hand seeped onward.
Mercifully around a quarter-to-noon activity began in the bar – the staff stirred and prepped for opening, and the onslaught of frozen patrons that would enter. Shortly before noon they were open for business, and we ascended the tiny staircase and through the access door and into the warmth – customers also streamed in from other doors now unlocked. Peppermint schnapps was ordered – anything was better than the Wild Turkey – and it too went down slowly. It would take almost twenty minutes before all of us felt any sense of warmth.
1.4.1.1 – The Great Race
With the elevation the top of this hill was, to no surprise, colder than the bottom. One had to endure the full brunt of the wind which was noticeably stronger. There was no escaping it.
We had checked in, got in line, and one by one the heats went off in front of us. Who were we racing against? It didn’t matter. Strangers that no doubt went home with stories for their friends. “Ready? Set? Go!” was repeated, an air-horn sounded, and down the hill the snow boxes would race to the bottom. There was probably a race every three minutes or so – time enough to get everyone set, and cleared, from the bottom of the hill at their conclusion. With each heat the line shorten and we moved up. Eventually, we were next.
Then it happened.
“Ready? Set? Go!” The race went off in front of us. We would be next and we moved the Perkins #10 restaurant into position. At the bottom there was some sort of murmur. People began looking, craning heads to see down the slope. I don’t know how one crashes a snow box racer, but that is exactly what happened. One of the racers had crashed at the bottom in an agony of defeat type of moment. At the beginning I think we all expected for them to get up, dust themselves off from the snow, and move their racers out from the finish line. This didn’t happen. Instead more people began attending to the crash site. We continued to stand at the top trying to assess what was happening. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. The wind picked up with intensity.
Twenty minutes. Now an ambulance had backed up to the scene. Years later I had always hoped that it wasn’t too serious. Broken bones can be mended; heart attacks cannot. We would never find out what exactly had happened, but at the top of the hill all we could do was stand and wait for the races to continue, and ignore the frostbite now creeping up through the boots and into the shins.
After about twenty-five minutes an “all clear” had been signaled; the ambulance that had backed in behind the bar was now moving off, and the races resumed. We lifted the roof of our Perkins #10 and climbed inside …