The summer I turned 17 I got a job at Santa’s Village. I had never been to the aging children’s theme park when I sat for my interview, but it was close to home and a staple in Chicago-land’s history. I didn’t know what to expect, so I was honest and candid and eventually got a job. In the barn.
I had no idea what “the barn” was, other than we wore bluish green shirts instead of the red or yellow shirts like other departments. But I soon learned that working in the barn meant arriving 2 hours earlier than any other crew, and that I would need a change of clothes each day. Those 2 hours were spent mucking stalls, picking hooves and feeding a variety of animals. I loved it.
Friendships were forged and life-long memories were secured. Some of those memories I will share with you today, others will travel with me through life and into my grave.
Shadow was the big horse, as constant as the sun, strong, kind, and graceful. He died eating a plastic bag filled with left-over vendor food that had been carelessly tossed beyond the dumpster and into the enclosure.
The day I saw his body laying in the barn was surreal. I walked toward him, and Debbi the barn manager kneeling in the muck beside him. Mario was what I saw, a white mule we had lost some months previous. My conscience would not allow my mind to accept that Shadow was dead. On the faded red and cracked fiberglass picnic table, Debbi and I cried. My eyes didn’t dry for days.
I saw Star being born. She’s a beautiful yellow pony born to Muppet & our barn-house stallion, Captain. She was born in the middle of a busy day in the park; a father with several small children approached me because something wrong with our pony. It was Muppet. And then there was Star. I was with her the whole time, and it was amazing.
Muppet is featured in another memory at the Village. She and Cracker Jack were pulling a sled on a set of tracks when he was spooked and took off. Muppet went along for the ride because she had to, she was harnassed to him. With the two of them in front, the sled jumped the track and tipped over a 4’ wall onto the concrete below.
Several of the sled’s passengers went to the ER, and one, on a summer day at an amusement park with her grandchildren, died from head trauma.
I saw that too. I had nightmares for months, probably longer.
That ride never opened again, and Cracker Jack was sold. Fortunately for him, he went to a place with pastures and proper horse care. They didn’t get that at the Village.
The female goats, and all their spring kids, roamed the barnyard freely during the day and feasted on the cups of corn and grain the children purchased. They had a decent life, but it was a different story for Billy, the father of those kids, and all the other unfortunate males that were kept in tact. Their small pens were cleaned regularly and they were fed well, but they never got to stretch their legs. Ever.
There was Captain the stallion pony, Billy the goat, and Ali. Ali the llama. Ali the asshole.
To Ali’s credit, I too would be an asshole if I had a life like he did.
He was a spitter; there were LARGE signs on the front of his enclosure that warned people to not feed him, but they did. And then he spit on them.
One day a man was feeding him Pringles. Ali loved them, and I warned the man several times that he needed to stop, but he didn’t listen, so I enjoyed watching the green goo slide down his face.
No one liked to clean Ali’s pen because as soon as you began, he’d spit, kick, and in any other way possible share his misery with the closest victim. I got that, and I felt sorry for him. So I regularly cleaned his pen. Then, one day, he didn’t want to be mean to me any more, but Ali being nice was what landed me in the hospital.
Apparently llamas are a bit aggressive in the bedroom, which for a llama is the mountains (very romantic, don’t you think?). The male RAMS the female against the side of a rock face, and when she is delirious and helpless, has his way with her and moves on. No cuddling. No thank you. No child support.
Ali liked me. And if it hadn’t been for my then boyfriend Kris and the pitchfork in his hand, I can only imagine how the scenario would have played out, but in the end (thanks to that pitchfork) I got out of that enclosure with only a sprained elbow and deeply bruised buttocks. I couldn’t sit for weeks.
A lot of memories and facebook friends have come from my time at the Village. Recently I learned that the property had been sold and the animals, rides and Santa’s house had all been auctioned off.
I hope Star has found those pastures. And Ali his mountain range.
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