I know I have been a little lazy about posting on here lately, so please accept my apologies. I also have not sent out Christmas cards this year (not even at home). So please enjoy this revamped 2005 version of the “T’was the Night Before Christmas”.
So our Christmas card to you is this.
Wishing our whole racing family be it driver, crew or fan a very Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year.
Bob and Gayle
‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the track. Not a racecar was started, not even an impact.
The mud plugs were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that dirt racing soon would be there.
The drivers were nestled all snug in their seats, while visions of checkers would not know defeat. And Gayle in her headset and Bob in his cap, had just settled down for a long winter’s nap. When out on the track there arose such a clatter, we sprang form the tower to see what was the matter.
Away to the pit window we flew like a flash. Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow, gave the luster of mid-day to the race cars below. When what to our wondering eyes should appear , but a UMP Late Model and eight tiny race gears.
With a “Hall of Fame” driver loved by a lot, I knew in a moment it must be Dick Potts. More rapid than hot laps his coursers they came, and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.
“Now, Walden! Now Mathew! Now Spatola! Now Losh! On Leuck on Rudisill on Krick and on Hurst! To the top of the cushion but stay off the wall, now race away, race away, race away all!”
As dry sumps that cause horse-power to fly, when thy meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So up to the pits the coursers they flew, with a car full of Hoosiers and yes Dick Potts too. And then , in a roaring I heard off the wire, the sound of grooving on each Hoosier tire. As I drew in my hand, and was turning around, down to the winner’s circle , Dick Potts did bound.
He was dressed all in race gear from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all covered with red clay and soot. A bundle of tires he had flung on his back. His eyes-how they twinkled, his tear offs how merry. His cheeks were like roses, his oil light a cherry. His mischievous grin was drawn up like a bow, and his Bell helmet was white like the new fallen snow; the steering wheel was held tight in his hand, and a neck brace encircled his neck like a band. He had a fast Late Model and trophies galore. The hall of Fame inducted him shall we say more?
He was quick witted and wise, a sportsman like elf, and I smiled when I saw him in spite of myself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk. And laying a finger aside of his nose, and giving a wave, to the pits he drove. He sprang to his car, to his crew gave a whistle, and away they flew like the down on a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, Merry Christmas, Good Racing and to all a good night.
Merry Christmas,
Gayle







