Friday, May 11, 2012
The Bony Express
In the dark of the night when the living are still,
And your rest is disturbed by a sudden chill
'Cause you've heard from the distance a moan of distress,
Then you'll know it's the hour of the Bony Express.
You hold in your breath as you strain for the sound
Of the clackety wheels and the shake of the ground;
Then you hear it again like an icy caress:
It's the whistling wail of the Bony Express.
By the glimmering light see each rider within,
With his empty sockets and fleshless grin;
To what dark destination is anyone's guess
They go reeling along on the Bony Express.
In the dark of the night when the shadows are deep,
And you pray for the Sandman to send you sleep,
You might also pray for the Lord to bless
All the restless sinners who never confess
As they rattle and roll to their final address
At the End of the Line, on the Bony Express.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
I Don't Do B and E's -chasing down a midnight burglar
I once made a man cry. He was a big tough guy, a punk, and he was on a crime spree. At first glance, he was not the sort you could picture breaking down and blubbering like a baby.
I was in my thirties at the time, living in the city, and I spotted this man out my window at about 2:00 in the morning. He was moving like a pale ghost in the shadows between the buildings. Burglaries were common around where we lived; as a matter of fact, our house had been burglarized just the week before. Fortunately, that job had been interrupted in the very act. One of our housemates had returned home late at night, and had frightened off the intruder. We had found all my tools piled in boxes by the back door, ready to go.
What a feeling I had seeing that: "Sure, help yourself!" I had thought. "Take whatever you want; it's all free!" I was working as a cabinetmaker at the time, and these tools were my livelihood. Plus, I had been collecting tools since I was a boy, and this was a very personal violation to me.
So, it's not hard to imagine what I felt when I saw a suspicious character sneaking between the houses across the street at two in the morning, just a week after that incident. I was furious, and my heart instantly began pounding with adrenaline. I was clad only in shorts, a T-shirt and slippers, but I had no time even to grab a jacket. I slipped silently out the front door into the cold darkness, in pursuit of the pale figure which had slipped out of sight around the corner.
I followed him down the block, keeping within the shadows myself, as I watched him darting into alleys and inspecting locked windows. I had no thought other than to keep him in sight, and maybe to dash back to my house to call the cops if I saw him enter a building.
This was the situation as we reached the end of the street, and he crossed the brightly lit but deserted intersection. I saw him crouch down and examine the lock of a bicycle which was chained to a lamppost. I had no way to remain in concealment at this point if I still wanted to follow him, and now I had all the proof I needed that he was up to no good. So without really thinking about what I was doing, I strode across the street right towards him and said, "Nice bike."
As I approached him he stood up and fixed me with an intense and venomous look of hatred. He seemed suddenly to tower over me, his eyes an ugly red and his body tense like a viper poised to strike. His first words to me were something to the effect of, "If you called the cops on me, I'm going to beat the **** out of you while they watch."
I started talking fast. I told him to relax; I didn't call the cops, but I just couldn't let him do what I saw him doing. He kept calling me "you little toad" and telling me how stupid I was and how little I understood my danger. I told him, stop calling me "little toad"; I understand what I'm doing, but in some small way you must respect that I'm only trying to act like a good citizen and stop a crime, at personal risk to myself.
We went back and forth in this way for a while. We were both still quite heated, although the dangerous intensity of the first encounter had relaxed somewhat. I wanted to get through to him somehow, and I began to spin a little yarn. I didn't want him to know where I lived, so I didn't tell him that we had been broken into just last week. Maybe he was the very one that did it. So I made up a story, telling him I was an auto mechanic. I told him my shop had been broken into, and that ten thousand dollars worth of tools and equipment had been stolen. I said I had no way of replacing the equipment and was now completely busted; ruined. I was a hard working man, I said, and now I can't even pay my rent. It was the best story I could come up with on the spur of the moment.
"How do you feel about that?" I asked the man.
"I don't give a **** about that", was the man's response. " It was your fault for leaving the door unlocked."
"I didn't leave the door unlocked," I said. "The guy broke the door in."
"I don't do B and E's" the man told me. I told him it doesn't matter if you do breaking and entering, you're still a thief and you're hurting innocent people. Doesn't that matter at all to you?
It didn't matter to him. Nothing seemed to matter to him. We had been talking a long while, and I was running out of things to say, when the man suddenly got quite emotional and blurted out, "I don't care about anyone but myself. Myself, and my mother."
That was all I needed. I asked him, "What will you do if you come home someday and you find that your mother has been hurt? Some punk has knocked her down, cut her purse and run away with it. That was all the money she had, and she got hurt when she fell down. How would you feel about this?"
"I would kill the **** who did it. I would kill him." he told me passionately, the red light burning in his eyes again.
"No you wouldn't," I told him. "The thing is, you never find the guy who did this. By the time you find your mother hurt, it's already three hours since she was attacked, and you never find the guy who did it. He's gotten clean away. Now, how do you feel? How do you feel, knowing that there are people out there that you can't stop, who don't care about you or anything, as long as they get what they want?"
It was at this point that the man started crying. He just literally broke down in great heaving sobs, telling me he would be good some day, he was just too angry, he was so sorry but he would be good some day.
All of a sudden, reaction set in with me as well. I started shivering. I looked up and realized it was getting light out. The man was sobbing and calling out after me, but there was nothing more I could do. I was freezing there in my shorts in the cold light of dawn, and I ran home.
I was in my thirties at the time, living in the city, and I spotted this man out my window at about 2:00 in the morning. He was moving like a pale ghost in the shadows between the buildings. Burglaries were common around where we lived; as a matter of fact, our house had been burglarized just the week before. Fortunately, that job had been interrupted in the very act. One of our housemates had returned home late at night, and had frightened off the intruder. We had found all my tools piled in boxes by the back door, ready to go.
What a feeling I had seeing that: "Sure, help yourself!" I had thought. "Take whatever you want; it's all free!" I was working as a cabinetmaker at the time, and these tools were my livelihood. Plus, I had been collecting tools since I was a boy, and this was a very personal violation to me.
So, it's not hard to imagine what I felt when I saw a suspicious character sneaking between the houses across the street at two in the morning, just a week after that incident. I was furious, and my heart instantly began pounding with adrenaline. I was clad only in shorts, a T-shirt and slippers, but I had no time even to grab a jacket. I slipped silently out the front door into the cold darkness, in pursuit of the pale figure which had slipped out of sight around the corner.
I followed him down the block, keeping within the shadows myself, as I watched him darting into alleys and inspecting locked windows. I had no thought other than to keep him in sight, and maybe to dash back to my house to call the cops if I saw him enter a building.
This was the situation as we reached the end of the street, and he crossed the brightly lit but deserted intersection. I saw him crouch down and examine the lock of a bicycle which was chained to a lamppost. I had no way to remain in concealment at this point if I still wanted to follow him, and now I had all the proof I needed that he was up to no good. So without really thinking about what I was doing, I strode across the street right towards him and said, "Nice bike."
As I approached him he stood up and fixed me with an intense and venomous look of hatred. He seemed suddenly to tower over me, his eyes an ugly red and his body tense like a viper poised to strike. His first words to me were something to the effect of, "If you called the cops on me, I'm going to beat the **** out of you while they watch."
I started talking fast. I told him to relax; I didn't call the cops, but I just couldn't let him do what I saw him doing. He kept calling me "you little toad" and telling me how stupid I was and how little I understood my danger. I told him, stop calling me "little toad"; I understand what I'm doing, but in some small way you must respect that I'm only trying to act like a good citizen and stop a crime, at personal risk to myself.
We went back and forth in this way for a while. We were both still quite heated, although the dangerous intensity of the first encounter had relaxed somewhat. I wanted to get through to him somehow, and I began to spin a little yarn. I didn't want him to know where I lived, so I didn't tell him that we had been broken into just last week. Maybe he was the very one that did it. So I made up a story, telling him I was an auto mechanic. I told him my shop had been broken into, and that ten thousand dollars worth of tools and equipment had been stolen. I said I had no way of replacing the equipment and was now completely busted; ruined. I was a hard working man, I said, and now I can't even pay my rent. It was the best story I could come up with on the spur of the moment.
"How do you feel about that?" I asked the man.
"I don't give a **** about that", was the man's response. " It was your fault for leaving the door unlocked."
"I didn't leave the door unlocked," I said. "The guy broke the door in."
"I don't do B and E's" the man told me. I told him it doesn't matter if you do breaking and entering, you're still a thief and you're hurting innocent people. Doesn't that matter at all to you?
It didn't matter to him. Nothing seemed to matter to him. We had been talking a long while, and I was running out of things to say, when the man suddenly got quite emotional and blurted out, "I don't care about anyone but myself. Myself, and my mother."
That was all I needed. I asked him, "What will you do if you come home someday and you find that your mother has been hurt? Some punk has knocked her down, cut her purse and run away with it. That was all the money she had, and she got hurt when she fell down. How would you feel about this?"
"I would kill the **** who did it. I would kill him." he told me passionately, the red light burning in his eyes again.
"No you wouldn't," I told him. "The thing is, you never find the guy who did this. By the time you find your mother hurt, it's already three hours since she was attacked, and you never find the guy who did it. He's gotten clean away. Now, how do you feel? How do you feel, knowing that there are people out there that you can't stop, who don't care about you or anything, as long as they get what they want?"
It was at this point that the man started crying. He just literally broke down in great heaving sobs, telling me he would be good some day, he was just too angry, he was so sorry but he would be good some day.
All of a sudden, reaction set in with me as well. I started shivering. I looked up and realized it was getting light out. The man was sobbing and calling out after me, but there was nothing more I could do. I was freezing there in my shorts in the cold light of dawn, and I ran home.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Niagara Rime: oops; the cops again
Last winter, 2011-
I had a very interesting conversation with 2 state troopers in the bitter cold pre-dawn hour this morning, on an ice covered walkway overlooking Niagara Falls. First they asked me, was that my van? Then, what was I doing there, and had I not seen the barriers that I had gone past in order to get to this spot? I quickly pointed out that I had not crossed the barriers; I had entered the area by the road that said "No Entry: Park Service Vehicles Only." It was a logical choice at 4:30 in the morning, upon arriving at the park after a long drive, only to find it closed due to icy conditions.
It was well worth the trespassing. There was a vast plume of fog and mist billowing down the echoing chasm, with the falls thundering through it, and all the trees on the rim of the gorge had a thick coating of rime-ice. I found it perfectly enchanting. But then the officers arrived, and they were skeptical.
"Are you sure you didn't come here to hurt yourself; something along those lines?" one of them kept asking me. He wouldn't come right out and say what he was insinuating; anyway, I kept saying of course not.
Finally, after the third or fourth question and answer, I gazed out over the yawning edge of the precipice, and observed, "If I had come here to hurt myself, I would be dead now."
This was the wrong answer. "Why do you say that?!" the officer barked in alarm, all his suspicions redoubled. The other fellow was giving me an intense squint.
"Look," I told them, "I came here to view the Falls. I love Niagara Falls; I would never dream of doing anything to harm this park, or myself." Finally, they relaxed a bit.
"You understand why we have to ask these questions," one asked me. I assured them, very apologetically, that I did understand. I implored them to let me be an honorary Park Service Vehicle, just for 20 minutes, just this once.
"Why should I do that?" the officer asked. He was softening up.
And thus began our interesting talk. The conversation had been preceded by the usual, "May I see some identification," and then the other routine questions about why I was there at that unusual hour and season. Didn't I know that I could be liable for some serious fines for what I had done? Why, the van was even pointed in the wrong direction on a one-way avenue! (Deserted though it was.)
My situation, as I explained it to them, was that I was driving all night on my return trip back to Boston from Cleveland, where I had driven my son to his college, and I had not been expecting anyone to be stirring at this beastly hour: the dark hour before dawn in the ghostly fog. However, as they explained to me, at this time the night watch at the park happened to be on high alert for suicides. Unstable characters were drawn to this place frequently, especially at this season, and there had been an unpleasant event right on this spot a mere week ago. A man had illegally entered the park (imagine that!) at much the same time as this, and he had disappeared without a trace: presumed dead over the falls. And without question, my present activity certainly fell into the category of "irregular." However, they ended up letting me drive away, which I considered terribly decent of them.
"Be careful," one said. "This place is a sheet of ice. I fell down investigating your van." I didn't press him for further details about that; I told him I would be careful. They even directed me to the one viewing area that was still open to public access, with a parking lot within walking distance of one of the finest overlooks. It was awesome: you could walk right up to a railing at the icy edge of the thundering torrent; swirling mist, bitter cold, and a faint gleam of dawn beginning. I went and stood for awhile, immersed in the roaring thunder, on the verge of infinity.
I'm sure they were watching me from concealment, and I'm sure they were relieved to finally see my taillights; to find out that I was not a jumper after all.
I had a very interesting conversation with 2 state troopers in the bitter cold pre-dawn hour this morning, on an ice covered walkway overlooking Niagara Falls. First they asked me, was that my van? Then, what was I doing there, and had I not seen the barriers that I had gone past in order to get to this spot? I quickly pointed out that I had not crossed the barriers; I had entered the area by the road that said "No Entry: Park Service Vehicles Only." It was a logical choice at 4:30 in the morning, upon arriving at the park after a long drive, only to find it closed due to icy conditions.
It was well worth the trespassing. There was a vast plume of fog and mist billowing down the echoing chasm, with the falls thundering through it, and all the trees on the rim of the gorge had a thick coating of rime-ice. I found it perfectly enchanting. But then the officers arrived, and they were skeptical.
"Are you sure you didn't come here to hurt yourself; something along those lines?" one of them kept asking me. He wouldn't come right out and say what he was insinuating; anyway, I kept saying of course not.
Finally, after the third or fourth question and answer, I gazed out over the yawning edge of the precipice, and observed, "If I had come here to hurt myself, I would be dead now."
This was the wrong answer. "Why do you say that?!" the officer barked in alarm, all his suspicions redoubled. The other fellow was giving me an intense squint.
"Look," I told them, "I came here to view the Falls. I love Niagara Falls; I would never dream of doing anything to harm this park, or myself." Finally, they relaxed a bit.
"You understand why we have to ask these questions," one asked me. I assured them, very apologetically, that I did understand. I implored them to let me be an honorary Park Service Vehicle, just for 20 minutes, just this once.
"Why should I do that?" the officer asked. He was softening up.
And thus began our interesting talk. The conversation had been preceded by the usual, "May I see some identification," and then the other routine questions about why I was there at that unusual hour and season. Didn't I know that I could be liable for some serious fines for what I had done? Why, the van was even pointed in the wrong direction on a one-way avenue! (Deserted though it was.)
My situation, as I explained it to them, was that I was driving all night on my return trip back to Boston from Cleveland, where I had driven my son to his college, and I had not been expecting anyone to be stirring at this beastly hour: the dark hour before dawn in the ghostly fog. However, as they explained to me, at this time the night watch at the park happened to be on high alert for suicides. Unstable characters were drawn to this place frequently, especially at this season, and there had been an unpleasant event right on this spot a mere week ago. A man had illegally entered the park (imagine that!) at much the same time as this, and he had disappeared without a trace: presumed dead over the falls. And without question, my present activity certainly fell into the category of "irregular." However, they ended up letting me drive away, which I considered terribly decent of them.
"Be careful," one said. "This place is a sheet of ice. I fell down investigating your van." I didn't press him for further details about that; I told him I would be careful. They even directed me to the one viewing area that was still open to public access, with a parking lot within walking distance of one of the finest overlooks. It was awesome: you could walk right up to a railing at the icy edge of the thundering torrent; swirling mist, bitter cold, and a faint gleam of dawn beginning. I went and stood for awhile, immersed in the roaring thunder, on the verge of infinity.
I'm sure they were watching me from concealment, and I'm sure they were relieved to finally see my taillights; to find out that I was not a jumper after all.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Web Design for Spiders
I looked at the scale of the tiny spider, and the relatively enormous distance it still had to go to reach the floor, and I decided that the scale of distance was too great in this case; it wouldn't be practical to use all that silk. But the spider can not see how far the distance is; its vision is good, but only at very close range. When starting out to make a web, the spider has to investigate a possibility like this by making an attempt, and finding out what happens.
The spider pays out its gossamer lifeline by squirting liquid silk through an array of nozzles, or spinnerets, on its abdomen, and the extruded liquid hardens almost instantly into a strong thread. The spider clings to this thread with the claws on its hind legs, walking itself down as the thread is paying out. Quite a little miracle in itself.
But decisions of economy have to be made, for the supply of silk isn't endless. I could see that the spider had probably miscalculated in this case, and the attempt to reach the floor with a strand was not going to be practical. As we watched, the tiny arachnid let itself down another couple of inches, then paused again, motionless on the nearly invisible line. There was still a vast gulf between it and the floor.
All at once, the spider's sensorium, or brain, reached the appropriate conclusion and it suddenly began to climb back up. The silk it had expended on its downward exploration was gathered back in as it climbed, to be ingested and reprocessed into more silk for later use. The spider ascended rapidly, hand over fist, and it didn't pause until it regained the ceiling light fixture, there, presumably, to formulate a new plan.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Reformed Pirates -an earlier adventure
It was Michael, the eccentric hippie renegade, who collared us and made us return the canoe that we stole.
Well, perhaps "stole" is too strong a word for what Dave and I did. We only snuck into Camp Albocondo under cover of midnight, lifted one of the red fiberglass canoes from the racks, found some boards which we could use as paddles, and hauled everything down to the river and put in. Then we shoved off downstream into the darkness.
All right: stole.
But we did intend to bring everything back in a few weeks. When you are 16 or 17 (it was in the late 1960's), sometimes moral distinctions can be a little fuzzy. We reasoned: hey, they're a camp; they're rich; they won't miss one canoe. How wrong we were, as you will see.
It was early winter and there was a pretty good nip in the air, but we were bundled up and we had physical exertions to keep us warm. I paddled stern, guiding us down the swift current of the Toms River, deep in the piney woods where the stream is narrow and twisty. My friend Dave was in the bow, and he couldn't do much more than fend off with his board, as we would come around a sharp bend and get caught by an unseen snag across our passage. Obstacles would loom up quickly in the starlight, and Dave had only his right arm to wield the paddle; he was carefully favoring the left, which was in a cast and still tender from having been recently broken. That's right, and don't ask me what we were thinking, but I believe we had been planning this escapade for awhile, previous to Dave's accident.
I don't remember if it was cloudy or clear, but there was enough light to see a little. It was an enchanting passage through the winter woods, taking on a dreamlike quality after about two hours; Dave hunkered in the bows, fending off with his makeshift oar, and getting progressively colder; his broken arm beginning to hurt more. I steered as carefully as I could, surging with the current around snags and bushes if I could manage it, as they hove into view in the dimness.
The dream was abruptly shattered by an ominous glow and a gushing sound coming from up ahead. We emerged around a bend into an open reach of water with no trees, and a baleful glare of floodlights around us, as the current propelled our boat straight into and through the gushing effluent from a huge 6-foot outflow pipe, dumping liquid waste from the nearby Toms River Chemical plant. The horrid gloop was brown and foamy, and stunk violently. (This dumping was illegal even back then in the 60's; the plant, known then as CIBA, was always in legal battles, although the outflow pipe was a pretty long way from the camp, and it's likely that campers seldom or never came this far. Not at night, anyway.)
The stench and globs of brown foam stayed with us the rest of the way downriver. Surging along on the dark, swift current winding amongst the trees, mile after mile, we were afraid to splash even a drop of the now-stinking water into the boat.
As dawn was breaking, we reached the river's mouth by Toms River town, where the stream opens out into the expansive reach of water that turns into Barnegat Bay. Our destination at this point was about a half mile further across the open water, to a grassy point of land where we intended to hide the canoe. Then from there we would hike to our homes, before our parents were even aware that we had been out.
We made this last stretch paddling straight into the teeth of a horizontal blizzard of light snow, that had sprung up from dead ahead. We forged into it across the open water in the pale light of dawn, the frigid wind-driven wavelets breaking against our bows, and Dave helping to paddle as well as he could. We made it across to the point of land, drew up into the long grass and hid the canoe. We were exhausted, freezing, and exhilarated. We had done it. Now we parted, and hiked to our respective homes and a few hours of bed.
So that was that. But who is this Michael, how did he find out about our caper, and what happened next?
Michael is David's older brother, and, simply answered, Dave told him what we had done. As I mentioned, we were more proud than ashamed of it. But Michael was a deep-eyed, evangelistical hippie who believed in Truth and Justice; his long penetrating gazes straight into my eyes would make me begin to squirm, and wonder why he didn't look somewhere else for awhile. But what we had done was Wrong; we would not be bringing the canoe back in a few weeks under cover of darkness: we would be bringing it back now; this very hour, and confess to the faces of the camp owners.
As of this point, the canoe had been hidden in the snow-dusted long grass out at the point, for several days. We hadn't felt like venturing out into the winter blasts again, to use it.
But whether or no, Michael was insistent; we lashed the boat onto the top of his car, and drove it back out to the camp up in the woods.
There were people in the camp office. They saw their canoe drive up. They were astonished; it belonged to a private member, who had been combing the river up and down for days, bereft at the loss of his prize boat. Where had we found it?
Dave and I were led forward by the noses, as it were, and forced to produce our tale. The man's jaw dropped, between gratitude, anger, and plain bewilderment. Anger won out, to be replaced again by gratitude, and finally, a helpless loss for words. He just couldn't figure out what to say. We left him with his property; us much reddened about the ears as we sheepishly left the office, carrying with us a deep lesson that has endured.
Thank you, Michael, for encouraging us to end this story better than might we have.
Well, perhaps "stole" is too strong a word for what Dave and I did. We only snuck into Camp Albocondo under cover of midnight, lifted one of the red fiberglass canoes from the racks, found some boards which we could use as paddles, and hauled everything down to the river and put in. Then we shoved off downstream into the darkness.
All right: stole.
But we did intend to bring everything back in a few weeks. When you are 16 or 17 (it was in the late 1960's), sometimes moral distinctions can be a little fuzzy. We reasoned: hey, they're a camp; they're rich; they won't miss one canoe. How wrong we were, as you will see.
It was early winter and there was a pretty good nip in the air, but we were bundled up and we had physical exertions to keep us warm. I paddled stern, guiding us down the swift current of the Toms River, deep in the piney woods where the stream is narrow and twisty. My friend Dave was in the bow, and he couldn't do much more than fend off with his board, as we would come around a sharp bend and get caught by an unseen snag across our passage. Obstacles would loom up quickly in the starlight, and Dave had only his right arm to wield the paddle; he was carefully favoring the left, which was in a cast and still tender from having been recently broken. That's right, and don't ask me what we were thinking, but I believe we had been planning this escapade for awhile, previous to Dave's accident.
I don't remember if it was cloudy or clear, but there was enough light to see a little. It was an enchanting passage through the winter woods, taking on a dreamlike quality after about two hours; Dave hunkered in the bows, fending off with his makeshift oar, and getting progressively colder; his broken arm beginning to hurt more. I steered as carefully as I could, surging with the current around snags and bushes if I could manage it, as they hove into view in the dimness.
The dream was abruptly shattered by an ominous glow and a gushing sound coming from up ahead. We emerged around a bend into an open reach of water with no trees, and a baleful glare of floodlights around us, as the current propelled our boat straight into and through the gushing effluent from a huge 6-foot outflow pipe, dumping liquid waste from the nearby Toms River Chemical plant. The horrid gloop was brown and foamy, and stunk violently. (This dumping was illegal even back then in the 60's; the plant, known then as CIBA, was always in legal battles, although the outflow pipe was a pretty long way from the camp, and it's likely that campers seldom or never came this far. Not at night, anyway.)
The stench and globs of brown foam stayed with us the rest of the way downriver. Surging along on the dark, swift current winding amongst the trees, mile after mile, we were afraid to splash even a drop of the now-stinking water into the boat.
As dawn was breaking, we reached the river's mouth by Toms River town, where the stream opens out into the expansive reach of water that turns into Barnegat Bay. Our destination at this point was about a half mile further across the open water, to a grassy point of land where we intended to hide the canoe. Then from there we would hike to our homes, before our parents were even aware that we had been out.
We made this last stretch paddling straight into the teeth of a horizontal blizzard of light snow, that had sprung up from dead ahead. We forged into it across the open water in the pale light of dawn, the frigid wind-driven wavelets breaking against our bows, and Dave helping to paddle as well as he could. We made it across to the point of land, drew up into the long grass and hid the canoe. We were exhausted, freezing, and exhilarated. We had done it. Now we parted, and hiked to our respective homes and a few hours of bed.
So that was that. But who is this Michael, how did he find out about our caper, and what happened next?
Michael is David's older brother, and, simply answered, Dave told him what we had done. As I mentioned, we were more proud than ashamed of it. But Michael was a deep-eyed, evangelistical hippie who believed in Truth and Justice; his long penetrating gazes straight into my eyes would make me begin to squirm, and wonder why he didn't look somewhere else for awhile. But what we had done was Wrong; we would not be bringing the canoe back in a few weeks under cover of darkness: we would be bringing it back now; this very hour, and confess to the faces of the camp owners.
As of this point, the canoe had been hidden in the snow-dusted long grass out at the point, for several days. We hadn't felt like venturing out into the winter blasts again, to use it.
But whether or no, Michael was insistent; we lashed the boat onto the top of his car, and drove it back out to the camp up in the woods.
There were people in the camp office. They saw their canoe drive up. They were astonished; it belonged to a private member, who had been combing the river up and down for days, bereft at the loss of his prize boat. Where had we found it?
Dave and I were led forward by the noses, as it were, and forced to produce our tale. The man's jaw dropped, between gratitude, anger, and plain bewilderment. Anger won out, to be replaced again by gratitude, and finally, a helpless loss for words. He just couldn't figure out what to say. We left him with his property; us much reddened about the ears as we sheepishly left the office, carrying with us a deep lesson that has endured.
Thank you, Michael, for encouraging us to end this story better than might we have.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Laundry Bag / Pipe Bomb -unusual adventures of a 14-year old
Can you picture a 14 year old boy getting stopped by the police, for suspicious behavior? What might he have been doing?
The boy had been riding his bike one-handed down a main road, with a large canvas sack perched on his shoulder. This was an ordinary routine for the boy, and so he was quite surprised when a cruiser pulled him over with its lights flashing. The interruption was inconvenient, but it was more amusing than alarming.
It became even more amusing when the boy dumped out the contents of the sack, at the insistence of the officer. This revealed nothing more than piles of soiled socks, T-shirts, underpants, and the like.
"I told you it was just my laundry," the boy was telling the now bewildered cop.
The boy himself found nothing unusual in carrying his sack of laundry down to the local laundromat, for he was used to being a bit out of step with other boys his age, and I know this because the boy was myself. My mother was who knows where at the time, possibly off on one of her weekend jaunts with her acting troupe or perhaps just working late at her hat check job in the local night club.
I got used to not seeing my mom around, a lot of the time. Starting back when I was about twelve, I can remember my brother and I finding a note and some money on the kitchen table, and taking our bikes down to the food store and coming back with TV dinners and ice cream pops. It was all just routine to us.
It could lead to problems though. I once lost a friend due to my unusual circumstances, and it wasn't through prejudice, it was through misunderstanding. My new acquaintance was another student I met when I was a freshman in high school, and we hung around that day. He asked me what my phone number was so we could get together after school. When I informed him sheepishly that we didn't have a phone at home, he found it so unbelievable that, in short, he didn't believe me. We had just met; he had no idea of my mother's tendency to run up a large phone bill, and then be unable to pay, causing our phone service to be shut off. This happened periodically, and we were sometimes without the phone for extended periods of time.
I tried to explain it but he thought I was trying to trick him or fool him; his feelings were hurt and he was suspicious of me from then on. We drifted apart and never became friends. The thought still rankles me.
Probably most boys feel at some time or other that they have no one that they can tell their problems to. In my case, it must have happened a lot, for I developed some unusual leisure time activities, such as making large firecrackers, and pipe bombs. I used to set off explosions in a vacant lot near my house late at night, just to hide in the woods and watch all the lights in the houses go on, up and down the street. I just wanted people to know I was there, even if they didn't know who I was. It sounds kind of stupid to say it now, but I meant no harm.
Now, can you picture a boy getting stopped by the police, carrying, not a bag of laundry this time, but a thick chunk of iron pipe with a ten inch section of red fuse sticking out the end? I was 15 years old, walking down the street with my friend Dave, in about the same place where the laundry incident happened. There was a large vacant gravel pit behind the the shopping center where I did my laundry, and that's where we were heading, Dave and I. We had not a care in the world, just joy of our newest pipe bomb and anticipation of the huge boom it was going to make when we got it out to the gravel pit.
Now, the cops in my town at that time during the early 60's were actually pretty suspicious. It was a time of national unrest, and local crime, and I was not unused to being stopped and questioned. Sometimes it just happened when I was riding my bike late at night. Sometimes it was just because I looked like a hippie and they wanted to find drugs. But I never took it personally, and I never got busted for anything.
David, on the other hand, had a real grudge against the cops. For instance, one time we stopped to investigate a local disturbance. A man was raving and yelling and it turns out he had been sniffing glue and was acting threatening. Dave and I were watching from some way off, having stopped our bikes by the road, and we got approached by two cops. Of all weird things, they searched Dave and confiscated his pocketknife, and he ended up never getting it back. Stuff like that was always happening to Dave, and he was mad at all cops.
Me, I didn't mind 'em. Even when I was carrying a large explosive device, it never occurred to me to worry.
On this occasion, Dave said, "Len, could you please stick that thing up your sleeve? What'll you say about it if the cops stop us this time? 'Oh, nothing, officer. Just an ol' bomb.'"
Well, Dave was right, there. It couldn't hurt anything to stick it up the sleeve of my coat, so I did, and we had no trouble. We had a lovely time setting off the bomb, back in the gravel pit. It shook the ground with a profound thumping boom, accompanied by a plaintive whining hum of shards of iron spinning away into the distance. I thought, "I bet they heard that one!"
Unusual experience, perhaps, in the life of a young boy, but all just routine to me.
The boy had been riding his bike one-handed down a main road, with a large canvas sack perched on his shoulder. This was an ordinary routine for the boy, and so he was quite surprised when a cruiser pulled him over with its lights flashing. The interruption was inconvenient, but it was more amusing than alarming.
It became even more amusing when the boy dumped out the contents of the sack, at the insistence of the officer. This revealed nothing more than piles of soiled socks, T-shirts, underpants, and the like.
"I told you it was just my laundry," the boy was telling the now bewildered cop.
The boy himself found nothing unusual in carrying his sack of laundry down to the local laundromat, for he was used to being a bit out of step with other boys his age, and I know this because the boy was myself. My mother was who knows where at the time, possibly off on one of her weekend jaunts with her acting troupe or perhaps just working late at her hat check job in the local night club.
I got used to not seeing my mom around, a lot of the time. Starting back when I was about twelve, I can remember my brother and I finding a note and some money on the kitchen table, and taking our bikes down to the food store and coming back with TV dinners and ice cream pops. It was all just routine to us.
It could lead to problems though. I once lost a friend due to my unusual circumstances, and it wasn't through prejudice, it was through misunderstanding. My new acquaintance was another student I met when I was a freshman in high school, and we hung around that day. He asked me what my phone number was so we could get together after school. When I informed him sheepishly that we didn't have a phone at home, he found it so unbelievable that, in short, he didn't believe me. We had just met; he had no idea of my mother's tendency to run up a large phone bill, and then be unable to pay, causing our phone service to be shut off. This happened periodically, and we were sometimes without the phone for extended periods of time.
I tried to explain it but he thought I was trying to trick him or fool him; his feelings were hurt and he was suspicious of me from then on. We drifted apart and never became friends. The thought still rankles me.
Probably most boys feel at some time or other that they have no one that they can tell their problems to. In my case, it must have happened a lot, for I developed some unusual leisure time activities, such as making large firecrackers, and pipe bombs. I used to set off explosions in a vacant lot near my house late at night, just to hide in the woods and watch all the lights in the houses go on, up and down the street. I just wanted people to know I was there, even if they didn't know who I was. It sounds kind of stupid to say it now, but I meant no harm.
Now, can you picture a boy getting stopped by the police, carrying, not a bag of laundry this time, but a thick chunk of iron pipe with a ten inch section of red fuse sticking out the end? I was 15 years old, walking down the street with my friend Dave, in about the same place where the laundry incident happened. There was a large vacant gravel pit behind the the shopping center where I did my laundry, and that's where we were heading, Dave and I. We had not a care in the world, just joy of our newest pipe bomb and anticipation of the huge boom it was going to make when we got it out to the gravel pit.
Now, the cops in my town at that time during the early 60's were actually pretty suspicious. It was a time of national unrest, and local crime, and I was not unused to being stopped and questioned. Sometimes it just happened when I was riding my bike late at night. Sometimes it was just because I looked like a hippie and they wanted to find drugs. But I never took it personally, and I never got busted for anything.
David, on the other hand, had a real grudge against the cops. For instance, one time we stopped to investigate a local disturbance. A man was raving and yelling and it turns out he had been sniffing glue and was acting threatening. Dave and I were watching from some way off, having stopped our bikes by the road, and we got approached by two cops. Of all weird things, they searched Dave and confiscated his pocketknife, and he ended up never getting it back. Stuff like that was always happening to Dave, and he was mad at all cops.
Me, I didn't mind 'em. Even when I was carrying a large explosive device, it never occurred to me to worry.
On this occasion, Dave said, "Len, could you please stick that thing up your sleeve? What'll you say about it if the cops stop us this time? 'Oh, nothing, officer. Just an ol' bomb.'"
Well, Dave was right, there. It couldn't hurt anything to stick it up the sleeve of my coat, so I did, and we had no trouble. We had a lovely time setting off the bomb, back in the gravel pit. It shook the ground with a profound thumping boom, accompanied by a plaintive whining hum of shards of iron spinning away into the distance. I thought, "I bet they heard that one!"
Unusual experience, perhaps, in the life of a young boy, but all just routine to me.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Itching Powder- a very improbable mistake
Who put itching powder on their principal's seat when they were in grade school? Just me?
Well, the fact is, I would never have done it on purpose.
In our town, there was a little corner store called The Spot. At that time, the novelty items that one could obtain were somewhat more interesting than those available today, and by saving one's milk money, one could purchase, for instance, a tin of cigarette loads for ten cents. These were slivers of wood, covered in a white powder: highly toxic as I found out years later (it was lead azide, I learned). It did say on the tin, Do Not Put in Mouth, but it didn't mention why, or that the powder was poisonous just to get on your fingers (which it easily did). Not to mention, toxic to your victim when he gasped in the exploding gasses.
However, all we knew at the time is that the loads worked swell. You would insert one into the end of a cigarette, and when the unsuspecting smoker applied the match, the load would explode with a ringing crack, shattering the end of the cigarette. I only tried this on my mother once; the confetti-bits of tobacco and paper shreds were still fluttering in the air when she rounded on me; she was very free with the back end of a hairbrush for lesser pranks than this, but it was (almost) worth it this one time.
Another item that could be purchased at The Spot, besides whoopee cushions of course, was itching powder. I have no idea what this material was made of; probably asbestos, or shredded fiberglass, but it, too, was very effective, as you, dear reader, shall see. On the package, the powder was recommended to be dropped down someone's shirt.
Now, the principal of our school, Mr. Stouter, was a kindly, balding man who always had a smile for us children when he saw us in the hall. He seemed to always be on our side, whatever might happen.
For instance, one time Mr. Stouter was called upon to reprimand me, by my second grade teacher, Miss Skidmore. She was a crabby, cross-grained old lady who was always finding something to lose her patience over, and she hauled me down to the office one morning to present my latest crime to the principal, that we might hear his judgment.
This is what I had done that morning. Before class began, we would recite the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag, and then we would bow our heads, close our eyes and recite the Lord's Prayer. I was respectful of these customs, and I would obediently perform them, but on this one morning during the prayer, I had been attempting, eyes closed, to point with my forefinger at my girlfriend Carol a few rows away. The idea was, when I opened my eyes I would see how closely my pointing finger had been aimed at the object of my adoration. This was very wicked of me, I know, but I was a reckless child.
However, what I was completely unprepared to see when I opened my eyes, was the glowering, outraged face of Miss Skidmore standing before me. She had observed my peculiar gesture, and had interpreted it as some devilish sort of blasphemy.
"Let us see what Mr. Stouter has to say about this!" she intoned ominously, taking me roughly by the ear. With my face burning with shame and terror, she marched me down to the office.
When we were standing before the Presence, she commanded, "Tell Mr. Stouter what you were doing!"
I told him exactly what I had done, and his face took on a look of serious concern. But the concern was mingled with puzzlement. To my secret relief, I could see that he didn't share Miss Skidmore's high degree of indignation over my behavior, but it was also obvious that he had to support her for the sake of discipline. So he did his best to give me a speech; I must understand that I must never do such a thing again, etc.; then he dismissed me back to class. He and I understood each other better than Miss Skidmore ever suspected.
So, considering my liking and respect for Mr. Stouter, one can assume that I would never do such a thing as mischievous as putting itching powder on his chair. But even so, I did exactly that, and here is how it happened.
It was the following year, third grade. There was a certain kid in my class who had the unfortunate gift of being the one who always gets picked on by the class brats. So naturally, he's the one I picked on to test a bag of itching powder that I had recently acquired. I was too shy of the stuff to test it on myself; what kind of a dope would do that?
So, before class one day, I sprinkled a liberal amount of itching powder on the chair of my classmate Eric, and I sat in my own seat to watch and wait. Unfortunately, of all days, this was the one on which Eric did not show up for school, and his chair remained vacant. Then, about 15 minutes after class started, Miss Lane announced that Mr. Stouter would be visiting our class for awhile to observe us, and we were all to be on our best behavior while he was here.
Presently Mr Stouter arrived, beamed his smile of greeting upon the class, and of all confounded peculiar coincidences, he chose Eric's desk to sit at, among the several vacant ones in the back of the room.
In helpless dread, I watched as his posterior settled into the anointed seat. After a short while, he began to shift uneasily in the chair, and his expression became somewhat preoccupied. OK, so the stuff seems to work, but this was not good. I could hardly bear to look at him, between guilt, fear and remorse, though I did manage a few covert glances. It was obvious that he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, trying not to twitch. I was not happy either; not to mention, I was afraid for my life.
But being the deep old file that I am, I gave no hint that I was aware of anything unusual going on. Miss Lane was perhaps a bit surprised when Mr. Stouter's visit ended up being shorter than expected; however, he soon rose from his seat, gave us a brief smile, and briskly took his leave.
In any case, I don't think Miss Lane had any reason to find fault with my best behavior, or suspect that it did anything but reflect credit on her class.
Well, the fact is, I would never have done it on purpose.
In our town, there was a little corner store called The Spot. At that time, the novelty items that one could obtain were somewhat more interesting than those available today, and by saving one's milk money, one could purchase, for instance, a tin of cigarette loads for ten cents. These were slivers of wood, covered in a white powder: highly toxic as I found out years later (it was lead azide, I learned). It did say on the tin, Do Not Put in Mouth, but it didn't mention why, or that the powder was poisonous just to get on your fingers (which it easily did). Not to mention, toxic to your victim when he gasped in the exploding gasses.
However, all we knew at the time is that the loads worked swell. You would insert one into the end of a cigarette, and when the unsuspecting smoker applied the match, the load would explode with a ringing crack, shattering the end of the cigarette. I only tried this on my mother once; the confetti-bits of tobacco and paper shreds were still fluttering in the air when she rounded on me; she was very free with the back end of a hairbrush for lesser pranks than this, but it was (almost) worth it this one time.
Another item that could be purchased at The Spot, besides whoopee cushions of course, was itching powder. I have no idea what this material was made of; probably asbestos, or shredded fiberglass, but it, too, was very effective, as you, dear reader, shall see. On the package, the powder was recommended to be dropped down someone's shirt.
Now, the principal of our school, Mr. Stouter, was a kindly, balding man who always had a smile for us children when he saw us in the hall. He seemed to always be on our side, whatever might happen.
For instance, one time Mr. Stouter was called upon to reprimand me, by my second grade teacher, Miss Skidmore. She was a crabby, cross-grained old lady who was always finding something to lose her patience over, and she hauled me down to the office one morning to present my latest crime to the principal, that we might hear his judgment.
This is what I had done that morning. Before class began, we would recite the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag, and then we would bow our heads, close our eyes and recite the Lord's Prayer. I was respectful of these customs, and I would obediently perform them, but on this one morning during the prayer, I had been attempting, eyes closed, to point with my forefinger at my girlfriend Carol a few rows away. The idea was, when I opened my eyes I would see how closely my pointing finger had been aimed at the object of my adoration. This was very wicked of me, I know, but I was a reckless child.
However, what I was completely unprepared to see when I opened my eyes, was the glowering, outraged face of Miss Skidmore standing before me. She had observed my peculiar gesture, and had interpreted it as some devilish sort of blasphemy.
"Let us see what Mr. Stouter has to say about this!" she intoned ominously, taking me roughly by the ear. With my face burning with shame and terror, she marched me down to the office.
When we were standing before the Presence, she commanded, "Tell Mr. Stouter what you were doing!"
I told him exactly what I had done, and his face took on a look of serious concern. But the concern was mingled with puzzlement. To my secret relief, I could see that he didn't share Miss Skidmore's high degree of indignation over my behavior, but it was also obvious that he had to support her for the sake of discipline. So he did his best to give me a speech; I must understand that I must never do such a thing again, etc.; then he dismissed me back to class. He and I understood each other better than Miss Skidmore ever suspected.
So, considering my liking and respect for Mr. Stouter, one can assume that I would never do such a thing as mischievous as putting itching powder on his chair. But even so, I did exactly that, and here is how it happened.
It was the following year, third grade. There was a certain kid in my class who had the unfortunate gift of being the one who always gets picked on by the class brats. So naturally, he's the one I picked on to test a bag of itching powder that I had recently acquired. I was too shy of the stuff to test it on myself; what kind of a dope would do that?
So, before class one day, I sprinkled a liberal amount of itching powder on the chair of my classmate Eric, and I sat in my own seat to watch and wait. Unfortunately, of all days, this was the one on which Eric did not show up for school, and his chair remained vacant. Then, about 15 minutes after class started, Miss Lane announced that Mr. Stouter would be visiting our class for awhile to observe us, and we were all to be on our best behavior while he was here.
Presently Mr Stouter arrived, beamed his smile of greeting upon the class, and of all confounded peculiar coincidences, he chose Eric's desk to sit at, among the several vacant ones in the back of the room.
In helpless dread, I watched as his posterior settled into the anointed seat. After a short while, he began to shift uneasily in the chair, and his expression became somewhat preoccupied. OK, so the stuff seems to work, but this was not good. I could hardly bear to look at him, between guilt, fear and remorse, though I did manage a few covert glances. It was obvious that he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, trying not to twitch. I was not happy either; not to mention, I was afraid for my life.
But being the deep old file that I am, I gave no hint that I was aware of anything unusual going on. Miss Lane was perhaps a bit surprised when Mr. Stouter's visit ended up being shorter than expected; however, he soon rose from his seat, gave us a brief smile, and briskly took his leave.
In any case, I don't think Miss Lane had any reason to find fault with my best behavior, or suspect that it did anything but reflect credit on her class.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Uber-Biker -the spandex tribe
Do I display garish, bright logos emblazoned across my fashionable biking apparel when I go riding? Not so much.
For one thing, the bike I ride is an ancient 3 speed English racer, the same bike my Grandpa bought me when I was 14 years old. Forty five years later in 2011, I still ride it with pleasure almost every day. It's on its second set of wheel bearings, third chain, and second rear sprocket; the first sprocket having had its teeth worn down into little thin curved-over spikes, from the endless miles I've put on the bike since I was a kid. The original steel wheel rims were scored and dented from numerous mishaps, such as banging into a curb or pothole, and then banging with hammers to get the creases back out.
I've had a few spectacular wipeouts on that bike. Once, I was racing to beat a yellow light at an intersection, and bearing down on the petals. The road at that point crossed a set of railroad tracks at an oblique angle, and as I flew through the intersection in front of the waiting cars, the front wheel of the bike got caught in the recessed groove of the railroad track, yanking the wheel sideways and jerking it out from under me. I got propelled over the handlebars at high speed. Amazingly, I never lost my balance. I landed on my sneakered feet running, wheeled around still running, to go back and retrieve the bike out of the intersection as the light was changing. I remember as I was landing on my feet at high speed, being aware of the bike behind me crashing end over end in the road. I was feeling the pain of that, even as I was relieved and amazed to not be hurt myself. The people in the waiting cars had a perfect view of the whole thing. As I came around on the run and scooped up the bike, I caught the eye of the driver in the first car. His eyes were stretched in amazement. I waved and shouted as I rode off, "It's hell on the bike, though."
I was able to ride the bike home after that, but the wheel was crazed, and I'm glad I didn't have far to go.
I worked in a bike shop; I think it was that summer; and there I learned how to lace up a new wheel. After the accident, I bought light alloy rims that would fit my bike, and I laced the new rims on to the original hubs. When you are tightening up the spokes on a new wheel, you can tune them by plucking, and tightening the spokes until they all ring about the same note; then you make fine adjustments to one side or the other as you go around, until the wheel runs true as a rock. After rebuilding the wheels, I sadly discarded the battered old steel rims, but they had served their time. My bike was now a real hotrod, lighter, with brakes that worked smoothly again without chattering. The chain and sprocket I had just newly replaced, and pedaling was whisper-quiet. Everything else was well maintained and lubricated; I'd put on new cables; hammered out the fender dents and painted them; and I had done many other custom touches too numerous to mention. That bike was as good as a bike gets. It was my first bike and I still love it.
Back during my bike-shop summer, my mentor at the shop had spent a small fortune on a French 10-speed racing bike, a LeJune, that you could lift up with one finger. He was as proud as Lucifer of that bike, and rightly so I guess. But one day, we had an impromptu sprinting race, me on my 3-speed, and I beat his fancy LeJune by a nose, to my own amazement. His dismay was apparently so great that when I attempted to gloat about the event to a couple of friends some time later, he actually claimed he didn't remember it.
I still own the same old bike, in spirit at least, that I've maintained, ridden and loved all these years. To be perfectly accurate, it's not the same piece of metal, because the actual machine in all its cherry perfection and glory, got stolen from my house when I was in my forties and living in the city. Drunken kids stole it one New Year's eve, and probably rode it for an hour and ditched it somewhere on the street, where it was probably trashed and carted away. I still scan every bike rack I see when I'm in the city, hoping by a miracle to find my cherished old machine again.
But soon after the bike was tragically stolen, I was given an old junker 3-speed; the nearly identical make, model and year (1965) of my lost one. The bike I was given was in tough shape, but it ran, so I just put on new tires, lubed it, and used it like that for a few years. Eventually, I did an extensive restoration job on it; the money I spent on parts alone would have bought a whole new modern bike. As a matter of fact, when I was buying and ordering all the parts I needed, the man at the bike shop was a bit hesitant, and he kindly tried to dissuade me when he realized that I was trying to make a new clunker out of an old clunker. But I explained the situation, and then he understood; then he helped me willingly. So I fixed up everything the bike needed, including lacing on new alloy rims just as I had done the first time, so when I was done it was just as good as my original. The continuity is unbroken, so to speak, and I call it the same bike my Grandpa bought me.
So: the Uber-Bikers: just recently I was coming home from a ride, and I pulled up to a stop sign where I had to wait while a pack of about 12 spandex-clad bicyclers whooshed by. They all had matching body suits in clashing primary colors, and teardrop-shaped helmets; the helmets are presumably designed to give an extra one-half gram of thrust, by way of decreased wind resistance. As they rapidly approached me, their faces were immobile, inscrutable behind silver-rimmed sunglasses, and their glance didn't deviate an inch to acknowledge my bluejeans, flannel shirt, and headgear of faded baseball cap, as I waited at the stop sign.
After they passed, I pulled out and cranked it until I was just behind the last man in the pack, since I was going in that direction. I'm not so good for a long haul at that speed, but I'm good for a sprint, so I kept up behind them as we barreled along, my old English racer and blue-jeaned figure like a decrepit old caboose on a bullet train. I don't know what they thought of it, whichever of them even noticed, but I found it to be an interesting situation as I kept the hammer down and stayed close behind the last man.
Presently, I noticed the lead man make a signal to the man just behind him in line. He dropped his left arm down, forefinger motioning down and inwards: point-point. The signal got passed back in line, each to the next man as they raced along: Point-point, point-point. As I got up to it, I saw that the signal was meant to indicate a storm-drain grate in the road, and to watch out for it as you passed. The signal came to the last man, the one directly in front of me.
Until now, he had given no indication that he was aware of my presence speeding along behind him. But as the signal reached him, he dropped his left arm down and made the signal to me; point-point: watch out. In an instant, my heart swelled with pride and pleasure. The lone wolf, the black sheep, is accepted into the pack! Suddenly the clashing primary colors on the spandex of the riders up ahead didn't seem so jarring; these were my colors too; this is my tribe! They've accepted me! I pumped along behind the pack, my faithful machine running smoothly and solidly under me.
All too soon we arrived at my destination, the driveway to my house, and I peeled off from the pack, with a grateful wave to the rapidly receding backs.
For one thing, the bike I ride is an ancient 3 speed English racer, the same bike my Grandpa bought me when I was 14 years old. Forty five years later in 2011, I still ride it with pleasure almost every day. It's on its second set of wheel bearings, third chain, and second rear sprocket; the first sprocket having had its teeth worn down into little thin curved-over spikes, from the endless miles I've put on the bike since I was a kid. The original steel wheel rims were scored and dented from numerous mishaps, such as banging into a curb or pothole, and then banging with hammers to get the creases back out.
I've had a few spectacular wipeouts on that bike. Once, I was racing to beat a yellow light at an intersection, and bearing down on the petals. The road at that point crossed a set of railroad tracks at an oblique angle, and as I flew through the intersection in front of the waiting cars, the front wheel of the bike got caught in the recessed groove of the railroad track, yanking the wheel sideways and jerking it out from under me. I got propelled over the handlebars at high speed. Amazingly, I never lost my balance. I landed on my sneakered feet running, wheeled around still running, to go back and retrieve the bike out of the intersection as the light was changing. I remember as I was landing on my feet at high speed, being aware of the bike behind me crashing end over end in the road. I was feeling the pain of that, even as I was relieved and amazed to not be hurt myself. The people in the waiting cars had a perfect view of the whole thing. As I came around on the run and scooped up the bike, I caught the eye of the driver in the first car. His eyes were stretched in amazement. I waved and shouted as I rode off, "It's hell on the bike, though."
I was able to ride the bike home after that, but the wheel was crazed, and I'm glad I didn't have far to go.
I worked in a bike shop; I think it was that summer; and there I learned how to lace up a new wheel. After the accident, I bought light alloy rims that would fit my bike, and I laced the new rims on to the original hubs. When you are tightening up the spokes on a new wheel, you can tune them by plucking, and tightening the spokes until they all ring about the same note; then you make fine adjustments to one side or the other as you go around, until the wheel runs true as a rock. After rebuilding the wheels, I sadly discarded the battered old steel rims, but they had served their time. My bike was now a real hotrod, lighter, with brakes that worked smoothly again without chattering. The chain and sprocket I had just newly replaced, and pedaling was whisper-quiet. Everything else was well maintained and lubricated; I'd put on new cables; hammered out the fender dents and painted them; and I had done many other custom touches too numerous to mention. That bike was as good as a bike gets. It was my first bike and I still love it.
Back during my bike-shop summer, my mentor at the shop had spent a small fortune on a French 10-speed racing bike, a LeJune, that you could lift up with one finger. He was as proud as Lucifer of that bike, and rightly so I guess. But one day, we had an impromptu sprinting race, me on my 3-speed, and I beat his fancy LeJune by a nose, to my own amazement. His dismay was apparently so great that when I attempted to gloat about the event to a couple of friends some time later, he actually claimed he didn't remember it.
I still own the same old bike, in spirit at least, that I've maintained, ridden and loved all these years. To be perfectly accurate, it's not the same piece of metal, because the actual machine in all its cherry perfection and glory, got stolen from my house when I was in my forties and living in the city. Drunken kids stole it one New Year's eve, and probably rode it for an hour and ditched it somewhere on the street, where it was probably trashed and carted away. I still scan every bike rack I see when I'm in the city, hoping by a miracle to find my cherished old machine again.
But soon after the bike was tragically stolen, I was given an old junker 3-speed; the nearly identical make, model and year (1965) of my lost one. The bike I was given was in tough shape, but it ran, so I just put on new tires, lubed it, and used it like that for a few years. Eventually, I did an extensive restoration job on it; the money I spent on parts alone would have bought a whole new modern bike. As a matter of fact, when I was buying and ordering all the parts I needed, the man at the bike shop was a bit hesitant, and he kindly tried to dissuade me when he realized that I was trying to make a new clunker out of an old clunker. But I explained the situation, and then he understood; then he helped me willingly. So I fixed up everything the bike needed, including lacing on new alloy rims just as I had done the first time, so when I was done it was just as good as my original. The continuity is unbroken, so to speak, and I call it the same bike my Grandpa bought me.
So: the Uber-Bikers: just recently I was coming home from a ride, and I pulled up to a stop sign where I had to wait while a pack of about 12 spandex-clad bicyclers whooshed by. They all had matching body suits in clashing primary colors, and teardrop-shaped helmets; the helmets are presumably designed to give an extra one-half gram of thrust, by way of decreased wind resistance. As they rapidly approached me, their faces were immobile, inscrutable behind silver-rimmed sunglasses, and their glance didn't deviate an inch to acknowledge my bluejeans, flannel shirt, and headgear of faded baseball cap, as I waited at the stop sign.
After they passed, I pulled out and cranked it until I was just behind the last man in the pack, since I was going in that direction. I'm not so good for a long haul at that speed, but I'm good for a sprint, so I kept up behind them as we barreled along, my old English racer and blue-jeaned figure like a decrepit old caboose on a bullet train. I don't know what they thought of it, whichever of them even noticed, but I found it to be an interesting situation as I kept the hammer down and stayed close behind the last man.
Presently, I noticed the lead man make a signal to the man just behind him in line. He dropped his left arm down, forefinger motioning down and inwards: point-point. The signal got passed back in line, each to the next man as they raced along: Point-point, point-point. As I got up to it, I saw that the signal was meant to indicate a storm-drain grate in the road, and to watch out for it as you passed. The signal came to the last man, the one directly in front of me.
Until now, he had given no indication that he was aware of my presence speeding along behind him. But as the signal reached him, he dropped his left arm down and made the signal to me; point-point: watch out. In an instant, my heart swelled with pride and pleasure. The lone wolf, the black sheep, is accepted into the pack! Suddenly the clashing primary colors on the spandex of the riders up ahead didn't seem so jarring; these were my colors too; this is my tribe! They've accepted me! I pumped along behind the pack, my faithful machine running smoothly and solidly under me.
All too soon we arrived at my destination, the driveway to my house, and I peeled off from the pack, with a grateful wave to the rapidly receding backs.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Troll Woods
"Trolls aren't real, Uncle Leonard. You're making that up."
Thus spoke my nephew Uriel, with all the assurance and authority that a very smart 7-year-old can put into his voice. But as he said it, he cast an inquiring glance at his father, which I noticed with secret amusement. We were biking down a woodsy path which I knew well, and which I had always named Troll Woods to my kids when they were little. I would always say things like, "We shouldn't tarry in this place too long, for sunset is not far off. You know, that's when the trolls start to get active. Those big stones over there: those are trolls that got caught when the sun was rising, luckily for us."
It always made the ride more interesting.
When my wife was along, these stories would never work too well. She would start to fume with indignation, and I would have to leave off what she considered my fantasies, until another time. But in this instance when I was retelling these stories to my nephew Uriel, to my surprise, his father Steven had a much better sense of play than his sister. He responded to Uriel's questioning glance by saying, "Well, we don't really know for certain what may be out here. We'd better keep our eyes open."
This remark heightened the tension as we rode our bikes down the path, as the sun was starting to sink in a red glow to the west. But it was just enough tension for us to experience an agreeable sense of adventure, without the annoying disadvantage of having any real danger.
I could be confident of this, since I was familiar with the path; I knew that if we were brisk, we would certainly be out of there before sunset.
Thus spoke my nephew Uriel, with all the assurance and authority that a very smart 7-year-old can put into his voice. But as he said it, he cast an inquiring glance at his father, which I noticed with secret amusement. We were biking down a woodsy path which I knew well, and which I had always named Troll Woods to my kids when they were little. I would always say things like, "We shouldn't tarry in this place too long, for sunset is not far off. You know, that's when the trolls start to get active. Those big stones over there: those are trolls that got caught when the sun was rising, luckily for us."
It always made the ride more interesting.
When my wife was along, these stories would never work too well. She would start to fume with indignation, and I would have to leave off what she considered my fantasies, until another time. But in this instance when I was retelling these stories to my nephew Uriel, to my surprise, his father Steven had a much better sense of play than his sister. He responded to Uriel's questioning glance by saying, "Well, we don't really know for certain what may be out here. We'd better keep our eyes open."
This remark heightened the tension as we rode our bikes down the path, as the sun was starting to sink in a red glow to the west. But it was just enough tension for us to experience an agreeable sense of adventure, without the annoying disadvantage of having any real danger.
I could be confident of this, since I was familiar with the path; I knew that if we were brisk, we would certainly be out of there before sunset.
A Gratifying Scream
The flickering orange flames outlined the round blackness of the iron kettle, as it simmered quietly on its hook in the brick hearth. The room was dim, and the faces of the people could be seen gleaming redly in the glow of the fire, and of the few candles on the mantle and wooden table. We were telling each other Halloween stories.
Among those assembled were two teenage girls. They were susceptible to being spooked; reluctant to listen to mystic tales, yet eager as well. It was my turn to relate a story, and the girls gripped each other nervously as I began. They grew progressively more tense as the story developed, at times giving each other uneasy looks in the firelight.
As I finished the story, right at the last word I was startled by a loud scream, piercing and drawn-out, coming from the two girls; they were hugging each other in fear, with their wide eyes fixed on me. I don't think I've ever had a more satisfactory response to a dramatic narrative.
I can't hope for such a reaction from everybody, but perhaps you, dear reader, will enjoy this tale as well, in your own way. It is a traditional New England folk tale, retold from memory in my own words.
Captain Goodwin and Goodwife Miller -
One night, very late, Goody Miller was making her way home through the foggy streets of her sleeping village. The unusual circumstance of the goodwife being on the dark street at that hour, approaching midnight, was that she was returning from a sick call to an ailing neighbor, and she was desiring now to return to the comfort of her own dwelling.
Walking silently through the fog, she could dimly make out the looming shapes of the buildings on either side, and presently she came to the open path through the common, and proceeded across it. Just at that time, a thinning eddy in the fog revealed to her a figure in the moonlight, coming toward her on the path from the other side. The figure had no doubt seen her as well, and she had not much choice other than to proceed forward, though somewhat uneasily.
As the two walkers met in the open common, Goody Miller recognized with considerable relief that the figure was the familiar person of Captain Goodwin, a prominent citizen of the village.
She stopped and made her curtsey. "Good evening, Captain Goodwin."
He raised his hat. "Good evening to you, Goodwife Miller. I trust all is well with you this night?"
"Yes sir, I thank you." He would have proceeded onward, but she hesitated for a moment, looking at him uncertainly, and so he paused. Then she said, "Begging your pardon, sir, but allow me to say that the town has been somewhat concerned on your behalf, these last several days. Your unexpected disappearance has had people fearing that you had met with some misfortune or accident. Forgive me if I seem impertinent."
"Not at all, not at all, goodwife. As you can see, I am quite well, and I thank you for your kind, but unnecessary, concern." He made as if to continue on his way, but paused once again, as she seemed to have something more to say.
"Forgive me again, Captain Goodwin, but a very curious and dreadful thing has occurred in the village, which I feel I should make you aware of, since you have been away." He gazed at her without speaking, and she continued, "The body of a drowned man was discovered washed up on the strand in the harbor, just this very evening at sunset. Everybody agreed that the figure of the drowned man looked very much like you. With all respect, sir."
"The figure looked like me, you say? What of its clothing? Was it wearing a blue jacket with brass buttons, like this one that I wear?"
"Yes, sir, he was wearing a blue jacket, just exactly like the one you are wearing."
"Well, was he wearing brown britches, buckled at the knee, like these?"
"Yes sir, very much like those."
"Did he have on a red waistcoat under his jacket, like this one?"
"Yes sir, in fact, he did."
"Well, then, what about his boots? Was he wearing thigh-boots, turned down?"
"No sir, I believe not. I believe he was wearing half-boots."
"Not thigh-boots, turned down?"
"No sir, I believe not."
"Couldn't have been me, then! Good evening to you, Goodwife Miller." He touched his hat, and moved on.
"Good evening... Captain Goodwin." She continued briskly on her way, somewhat chilled and considerably uneasy in her mind, until she reached the security of her own doorstep.
The next morning at sunrise, the people of the village assembled near the strand in the place where the body of the drowned man had been laid out overnight, and they prepared to conduct it to the burial ground for a proper funeral. Goodwife Miller was present, and upon observing the figure of the man lying there, she perceived that she had been mistaken.
The drowned man was, in fact, wearing thigh-boots, turned down.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Spared By Nan -not a typical Irish bed and breakfast
"Let me see the lads."
Nan was craning her eyes over my shoulder to try to get a look at my boys, who were waiting in the car behind me.
I was standing on Nan's front stoop, after having rung the bell and then introduced myself to her stern countenance, with the words, "I'm Mr. Solomon. We are the family who called you earlier, to stay at your bed and breakfast tonight."
"How many are ye?"
"Myself and my wife, and our two boys."
But Nan had to get a good squint at the lads before she would let us in.
So I called the boys over, and duly paraded them before Nan's scowling face, where they stood the scrutiny tolerably well. Then Nan led us in to the stark interior of her dwelling, and she showed us to our musty, threadbare rooms.
Our reception was not precisely hostile, but neither was it welcoming, and we stood huddled in the cold room all looking at each other uneasily.
"Should we stay here?" asked Lauren. She didn't exactly trust the situation, or the way Nan had sized up our boys.
"It would be pretty awkward not to, at this point," I reasoned.
"Maybe that lady at the store knew something," put in Mathew. That was more than Lauren wanted to hear just then.
"We'll be fine," I said. "Let's go back to the store and get something for dinner."
We got into the car and drove back towards the village; none of us feeling exactly easy. Finally I voiced the unspoken thought that was in all our minds.
"She really is a witch, you know." The boys probably found that remark funnier than Lauren did, for she immediately desired me to stop saying that.
When we had arrived at the village earlier that day, we had been to the little general store before we went out to see Nan's place. Pretty much everyone we met while we were in Ireland expressed a warmth and friendliness, and the storekeeper here was no exception. We had chatted for a bit, and told her that we were touring the country, staying in bed and breakfast places along the way. She had asked us where we were staying that night, and I had told her, "Over at Nan's place, out on Route ___."
Suddenly, everything had gotten very quiet. The few people in the store stood still, and there was no response at all to my remark except a studied vacancy on the part of everyone within earshot. This was a curious sign, we had all thought. So it was with some foreboding that we had made our way out to meet Nan, even before we had seen the place.
Now that was over with, and we were back in the car, returning to the little store in the village. When we got back there we were a little shy of speaking to anyone, but we bought some cold cuts and bread, and we had a nice meal on a picnic table under some trees: an idyllic spot in the fine evening. Nobody mentioned Nan, but eventually it was time to go; it was getting dark, and even I was getting a little apprehensive. Why had everyone gone so quiet at the store?
But back we went to the now silent house; Nan was not to be seen, and Lauren and I got the boys situated in their room. Then we reluctantly left them to go to our own room. I was making no jokes about witches at this point.
But as it turned out, this was to be another perfectly daring adventure, ruined by the lack of any real danger. Apparently we hadn't antagonized Nan sufficiently, for she never used any evil spells on us the whole time we were there, and the worst thing we suffered was a cheerless night on a hard bed, and an almost laughably sparse breakfast the next morning.
You can confidently expect that a bed and breakfast house in Ireland will be comfortable and bounteous, abounding in fresh fruit, strong tea and coffee, local cream in a charming little pitcher, toasted soda bread, yogurt, hot cereal, pots of jam, butter, honey. The hostess will bid you help yourself to all of this from the sideboard, and she will then ask, "And what would you like for breakfast?" That would mean, "How shall I cook your eggs, and what meats will you take?" We declined the meats, they being usually of some pork variety, and we certainly just said "No, thank you," to the black-and-white puddings; pork blood mingled with milk: possibly the most unkosher food on planet Earth, if you are of the Jewish persuasion. However, being civilized creatures, we of course never mentioned that, but we greatly enjoyed partaking of the other good things, which were often accompanied by a fine turf fire glowing on the hearth, and adding its scent to the room.
Well, all this is exactly what Nan's place was not. From the look of things, she probably did not get much company, and she undoubtedly needed the money, but for what we got we certainly did not get a bargain price. The house was cheerless and without character, and Nan didn't seem to like people very much.
At breakfast we were seated in front of a blaring TV, at a worn linoleum table provided with hot water and instant coffee, milk in its carton, and a sideboard that contained a number of boxes of cold cereal and nothing else.
Jake looked over the selection, and chose some cocoa-puffed things, and he was about to pour some into his bowl.
"Oh, I wouldn't recommend that one," cautioned Nan.
"Why not?" asked Jake, poised with the box.
"Oh, that one's been there quite a while," she replied.
Jake's eye strayed back to the remaining selections, but I decided not to wait for any further, perhaps awkward, choices, and I asked, "Well, which one would you recommend?"
The corn flakes is what she would recommend, so we all had some, washed down with stale instant coffee (Nan drank tea), and thin milk for the boys. I think I remember some rubbery eggs that went with it, but I do remember what was on the TV. The news was over and a travel program was on, featuring a Chinese pottery maker. The TV volume was too loud to allow conversation, but that's just as well, for there was precious little of that around this dismal table. We all watched the pottery maker on TV as we ate. He was showing how to make a tea strainer, and he was poking a thin stick through the bowl of wet clay, over and over to make little holes; "Keep pushing, keep pushing," the potter intoned as he worked, and the whole experience for me took on a dreamlike surrealism. Here we were in Ireland, the land of enchantment, intruding, as it were, in someone's kitchen, eating cornflakes out of a plastic bowl, and having a Chinese cultural experience. "Keep pushing, keep pushing..."
So that was bed and breakfast at Nan's place: a mild enough experience; the lads caused no trouble after all, and neither did Nan. What she thought of us I don't know, but for me it was a memorable experience; it was just not the sort that you would find in the travel books.
Note:
For more stories of my visit to Ireland: the beauty and the magic; send me a note and I'll email you a copy. lensolomon@bellowphone.com
Nan was craning her eyes over my shoulder to try to get a look at my boys, who were waiting in the car behind me.
I was standing on Nan's front stoop, after having rung the bell and then introduced myself to her stern countenance, with the words, "I'm Mr. Solomon. We are the family who called you earlier, to stay at your bed and breakfast tonight."
"How many are ye?"
"Myself and my wife, and our two boys."
But Nan had to get a good squint at the lads before she would let us in.
So I called the boys over, and duly paraded them before Nan's scowling face, where they stood the scrutiny tolerably well. Then Nan led us in to the stark interior of her dwelling, and she showed us to our musty, threadbare rooms.
Our reception was not precisely hostile, but neither was it welcoming, and we stood huddled in the cold room all looking at each other uneasily.
"Should we stay here?" asked Lauren. She didn't exactly trust the situation, or the way Nan had sized up our boys.
"It would be pretty awkward not to, at this point," I reasoned.
"Maybe that lady at the store knew something," put in Mathew. That was more than Lauren wanted to hear just then.
"We'll be fine," I said. "Let's go back to the store and get something for dinner."
We got into the car and drove back towards the village; none of us feeling exactly easy. Finally I voiced the unspoken thought that was in all our minds.
"She really is a witch, you know." The boys probably found that remark funnier than Lauren did, for she immediately desired me to stop saying that.
When we had arrived at the village earlier that day, we had been to the little general store before we went out to see Nan's place. Pretty much everyone we met while we were in Ireland expressed a warmth and friendliness, and the storekeeper here was no exception. We had chatted for a bit, and told her that we were touring the country, staying in bed and breakfast places along the way. She had asked us where we were staying that night, and I had told her, "Over at Nan's place, out on Route ___."
Suddenly, everything had gotten very quiet. The few people in the store stood still, and there was no response at all to my remark except a studied vacancy on the part of everyone within earshot. This was a curious sign, we had all thought. So it was with some foreboding that we had made our way out to meet Nan, even before we had seen the place.
Now that was over with, and we were back in the car, returning to the little store in the village. When we got back there we were a little shy of speaking to anyone, but we bought some cold cuts and bread, and we had a nice meal on a picnic table under some trees: an idyllic spot in the fine evening. Nobody mentioned Nan, but eventually it was time to go; it was getting dark, and even I was getting a little apprehensive. Why had everyone gone so quiet at the store?
But back we went to the now silent house; Nan was not to be seen, and Lauren and I got the boys situated in their room. Then we reluctantly left them to go to our own room. I was making no jokes about witches at this point.
But as it turned out, this was to be another perfectly daring adventure, ruined by the lack of any real danger. Apparently we hadn't antagonized Nan sufficiently, for she never used any evil spells on us the whole time we were there, and the worst thing we suffered was a cheerless night on a hard bed, and an almost laughably sparse breakfast the next morning.
You can confidently expect that a bed and breakfast house in Ireland will be comfortable and bounteous, abounding in fresh fruit, strong tea and coffee, local cream in a charming little pitcher, toasted soda bread, yogurt, hot cereal, pots of jam, butter, honey. The hostess will bid you help yourself to all of this from the sideboard, and she will then ask, "And what would you like for breakfast?" That would mean, "How shall I cook your eggs, and what meats will you take?" We declined the meats, they being usually of some pork variety, and we certainly just said "No, thank you," to the black-and-white puddings; pork blood mingled with milk: possibly the most unkosher food on planet Earth, if you are of the Jewish persuasion. However, being civilized creatures, we of course never mentioned that, but we greatly enjoyed partaking of the other good things, which were often accompanied by a fine turf fire glowing on the hearth, and adding its scent to the room.
Well, all this is exactly what Nan's place was not. From the look of things, she probably did not get much company, and she undoubtedly needed the money, but for what we got we certainly did not get a bargain price. The house was cheerless and without character, and Nan didn't seem to like people very much.
At breakfast we were seated in front of a blaring TV, at a worn linoleum table provided with hot water and instant coffee, milk in its carton, and a sideboard that contained a number of boxes of cold cereal and nothing else.
Jake looked over the selection, and chose some cocoa-puffed things, and he was about to pour some into his bowl.
"Oh, I wouldn't recommend that one," cautioned Nan.
"Why not?" asked Jake, poised with the box.
"Oh, that one's been there quite a while," she replied.
Jake's eye strayed back to the remaining selections, but I decided not to wait for any further, perhaps awkward, choices, and I asked, "Well, which one would you recommend?"
The corn flakes is what she would recommend, so we all had some, washed down with stale instant coffee (Nan drank tea), and thin milk for the boys. I think I remember some rubbery eggs that went with it, but I do remember what was on the TV. The news was over and a travel program was on, featuring a Chinese pottery maker. The TV volume was too loud to allow conversation, but that's just as well, for there was precious little of that around this dismal table. We all watched the pottery maker on TV as we ate. He was showing how to make a tea strainer, and he was poking a thin stick through the bowl of wet clay, over and over to make little holes; "Keep pushing, keep pushing," the potter intoned as he worked, and the whole experience for me took on a dreamlike surrealism. Here we were in Ireland, the land of enchantment, intruding, as it were, in someone's kitchen, eating cornflakes out of a plastic bowl, and having a Chinese cultural experience. "Keep pushing, keep pushing..."
So that was bed and breakfast at Nan's place: a mild enough experience; the lads caused no trouble after all, and neither did Nan. What she thought of us I don't know, but for me it was a memorable experience; it was just not the sort that you would find in the travel books.
Note:
For more stories of my visit to Ireland: the beauty and the magic; send me a note and I'll email you a copy. lensolomon@bellowphone.com
The Magic Button
On my website, under "Writings", you will find a mysterious "buy now" button at the bottom of the page on which my book is described.
This is an ingenious button, working something like the enchanted flute in the fairy tale, which, when played, would make people dance. Similarly, if someone clicks on the aforementioned button, it starts me in motion like a marionette, to put a book in an envelope, write an address on it, hop on my bicycle and wheel off towards the post office. Strange, but true.
If you click on the link below, then click on that button, you can make me do this.
http://bellowphone.com/writings.html
Cheers,
Len
This is an ingenious button, working something like the enchanted flute in the fairy tale, which, when played, would make people dance. Similarly, if someone clicks on the aforementioned button, it starts me in motion like a marionette, to put a book in an envelope, write an address on it, hop on my bicycle and wheel off towards the post office. Strange, but true.
If you click on the link below, then click on that button, you can make me do this.
http://bellowphone.com/writings.html
Cheers,
Len
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