bikes

     As I mentioned in a previous post, I was never an athlete. Sure I love a good game of softball, some 1 on 1 b-ball, and was a pretty fearsome flag football player in high school, but I never got into team sports. I didn't dislike playing with teams, I just never fit into that mold very well. At least when I was younger. Now that I am older and wiser and in management, I preach the gospel of teamwork.

Yeah I know. Life is funny.

     The one activity, the one thing I loved doing, and was pretty OK at it too, was motorcycling. Over the past 53 years (almost) I have owned and ridden a variety of bikes, and enjoyed them all. I caught the bug for bikes when I was about 12 years old. I was visiting my brother with my parents and got to ride a minibike that he had built himself. He was in the Air Force at the time, so I suspect this was a very well built minibike. It didn't take me long to figure out that fast is fun, and faster is better. Always a kid at heart, my dad caught the bug too, which is important not only to this story, but an insight to that man.

     A few months after that visit, I was going through a rough time, lots of worries and anxieties, and my dad thought it might be fun to build a go kart with an old lawnmower engine we had laying around. That plan never got off the ground, as dad was pretty busy working a couple jobs, so one day he came home with a brand new Western Auto minibike, some assembly required. Dad  said that once he got it together, I could have the first ride. So he put it together, poured some gas in the tank, gave the rope a pull, and promptly took off down the street. So I got the second ride. It was at the beginning of summer, so I spent days riding along the railroad tracks and the fields around Dixon. I soon became part of the minbike / dirtbike counterculture of our hometown. I beat the crap out of that minibike, learned alot about small engines, clutches, wheels, cables, sprockets and chains. In a year I had pretty much worn it out. After much cajoling, I convinced Dad to part with a couple hundred bucks and buy a Honda Trail 70. These are now collector items and can fetch between 800 and 4,000 dollars. The Trail 70 was a step above the minibike, but not really a motorcycle. It's 5 horsepower overhead valve engine could propel me up to a whopping 45 miles per hour. The gas tank was under the seat, and the handlebars would fold up so the whole bike could fit into the trunk of a car. (we're talking cars built in the 60s and 70s, to be clear) I punished this bike for a couple years until I literally outgrew it. I then entered a hiatus from motorcycles that lasted a few months. I scraped some money together and bought my first 'real' motorcycle that could be ridden (legally) on the street, a Hodaka Ace 100. This was a two stroke on/off road bike that was built in Oregon from parts made in Japan and elsewhere. Truly, a harbinger of the world economy we live in now. The Ace 100 was a fun bike when it ran. However, I spent more time fixing the Ace 100 than actually riding it. Thanks to my brother in law Dave who would do parts runs for me when he came to go fishing with my dad. My mechanical knowledge increased, and my bank account withered. Ironically, I sold it to a kid from Oregon, so the Ace went back home, never to be heard from again.

     I now entered another bike hiatus. During this time, I got around on a Peugot 10 speed bike, which was quite chic and light, but not the horsepower I needed. 

After a summer of mowing lawns and taking any odd job I could, I saved enough money to buy my first brand new motorcycle, a Kawasaki KS 125. The KS was another on / off road bike, and was a joy to ride. It would turn a little over 70 MPH in the quarter mile, utilized a 2 stroke engine with a rotary valve, and had decent styling. It cost $18 every 6 months to insure, and mixed the oil and gas automatically. I got to be pretty good at riding wheelies on this bike, going for over a 1/4 mile on the bike tire only in the dirt, considerably shorter on the street. My mom really frowned on this wheelie stuff, having seen me coming down the street from school one day like that. No sense of adventure. I rode the KS through my junior year in high school, and into my senior. But by the time I was a senior, I wanted a car. So in one of the more catastrophic decisions of my life, I sold the KS to a snotty kid in town and bought my first car, a Chevy Vega.

Yeah, I know. Life is funny.

     Several years passed before the next bike, which was almost an accidental purchase. One Sunday morning, I was going through the free want ads in the local paper and saw an ad for a street bike for $60. I called the guy, thinking it was a typo. No, the price is $60 he says, he just wants to get rid of it. I shagged over to his house, and there was a near perfect 1978 Honda CM 400 with fairing. The guy had just bought a new bike and wanted to get rid of the Honda. Cash please, so I found an ATM, pulled out some 20s and bought the bike before the guy changed his mind. I rode that old tired Honda for a few years then sold it for $500. Ah, if only I had more investments like that.  I entered another dry spell that lasted about 12 years. Life got busy and in the way. Although during that time I bought a '68 Camaro. Yes, topic for another post.

     In the late 90's I bought a '77 Yamaha 650 Special from the original owner. I actually think he cried when I drove it off. This was a sweet bike, very stylish and very reliable. I spent a few years on that bike until neck and shoulder problems convinced me to take another break. I sold the bike and bought a laptop computer. I still have the laptop, although it is quite outdated and useless now. I'm guessing the Yamaha is still on the street, and worth twice what I sold it for. The laptop is in a closet somewhere.

     Which brings me to my latest toy. In the mid 80's Honda ran some TV ads for their new line of bikes, kind of pre-crotch rocket muscle bikes that were made to burn up a quarter mile very fast. The commercial starts with a guy walking the bike to a starting line, burning out until smoke obscured the whole bike, then eating up a quarter mile in less than 10 seconds. You have my attention. All I needed was the money.......

Yeah I know. Life is funny.

     So this year, I resolved to get that bike. Living in the Northern Plains, motorcycles age well, as they are used only half the year, and the UV is not as harsh as the sun belt. A perk to living somewhere where winter lasts 6 months. Anyhow, I went shopping on a beautiful March day when the skies were sunny and the temps were in the upper 70s and low 80s.  I found a beautiful V65 Magna, low miles, good shape, and 116 horsepower. Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

     In the days since, our temps have returned to normal so I am now enduring some cold rainy weather while the Magna sits in the garage. But warm weather is almost here and I envision many rides, zooming down bucolic country roads, meeting interesting people along the way, and having adventures. Or maybe riding to Home Depot, work, and school. Either way, the open road beckons, and whether it is Main Street or Route 66, it feels good to be back in the saddle. 

the boys of summer

   Today I watched a baseball movie, "Moneyball". I thought it was a pretty good movie, in that it was balanced between the romantic notions of baseball and the ugly realities of professional sports. We love the game, but it is a business. A big fricking money making business. Ball players are just as much entertainers as they are athletes. You have to be an entertainer to get someone to pony up hard earned cash to watch you hit, run, and catch.  Easy for me to say, I was never an athlete. Never had dreams of smacking a homer in the bottom of the ninth, down by a run with two outs. My dreams were on 2 or four wheels, more about that in another entry, later.

   I really was not introduced to pro baseball until the fall of 1987, when I was able to get two tickets to the playoffs from my sister (at cost; family is family but remember, baseball is business) I got the tickets and invited my buddy Eric to the game. I knew Eric was a big ball fan, and he liked to drink beer, so how can this fail? We went out to Candlestick Park (this is before stupid corporate names were attached to ball parks and stadiums, for all I know it's probably called Amway Park now or some other silly ass name) and watched the Giants lose to the St Louis Cardinals. I can't remember much about the game, but I remember having a good time and drinking beer with a good friend on a sunny day, it don't get much better than that. 

   In the years that followed, Eric and I spent many Sunday afternoons and Friday evenings (watching the f**king Dodgers) play the Giants. We could buy some nose bleed seats for about $6 and just enjoy the game. Unlike football, where everyone watches the clock, baseball is leisurely. We have at least 9 innings, so don't get excited. Anything can happen. And, we can buy beer until the 7th inning, so pace yourselves. We had nine innings to comment on the game, discuss the geopolitical situation, movie quotes, women, work, life. When the season was over, Eric and I would change venue to the bowling alley. The sport changed, and we became participants, but the discussion continued. And, like baseball, bowling is leisurely. The next frame can wait while we get another beer. And after the game, there is the lounge. Truly, the sport of kings.

   When I moved away, I left behind these great times and a good friend. A very good friend. But my friend taught me about how to enjoy, appreciate baseball. 

thanks, Eric.

   In my new home, I discovered minor league baseball. Same game, more mistakes maybe, but tons of fun. Cheaper tickets, cheaper beer, more fun. Yes, there is a major league team in town, but somehow, it's not the same. The game is there, the beer is there, the leisurely pace continues. But it's not the same. The discussions are gone. Those esoteric talks about everything and nothing are just echoes of the past. We came, we drank, we watched. Then one day, I headed east. My friend stayed in the west.
   A few years ago, I caught a Giants game with Eric at the new downtown ballpark in San Francisco. The beers were expensive. The seats were good. The view of the city and bay was great. And the conversation was the best.

driver's ed

When I was in high school driver's education was included in the curriculum, free of charge. It was called 'state requirements' then. No doubt that name came from a lengthy committee meeting chaired by our counselors. I could write thousands of words about our counselors but will save that for a day when I need to work off some anger. Now back to driver's ed. Driver's education was a combination of classroom education and behind the wheel practice. The classroom portion consisted of endless lectures on safe driving and a memorization of the California Driver's Handbook. We also watched some cool movies like 'Red Asphalt' and 'Mechanized Death'. During one of those movies one of my buddies grew faint and had to go the nurse's office. I really don't know why anyone would get queasy seeing someone's entrails spread across a highway, but it happens. I guess the point of  those movies is to scare the crap out of teenagers in the hopes of making them safe and sane drivers. Right.
In addition to the blood and guts movies, we sat at a machine that tests our reflex speed, and a Highway Patrolman came in to talk to us and demonstrate his fast draw. And I thought that only worked on the streets of Dodge City. Perhaps the nicest thing about State Requirements is that it was a pass/fail class, meaning letter grades were not awarded upon completion of the class. You either passed or failed. And it was pretty hard to fail this class. Impossible, I'd say. State Requirements was taught by two teachers: one was the track coach, the other a football coach. I got the track coach, a very nice man who happened to be into recreational vehicles.

The second part of driver's education was behind the wheel training. Our high school had 2 cars to use for this, donated by the local Ford dealer. One car was a Pinto station wagon. The other was a Gran Torino. Yeah, like in Starsky & Hutch. Well it wasn't racing red with white stripes, but essentially the same car. In some cruel twist of fate, the football coach got the Gran Torino. The track coach got the Pinto.

Yes. I learned to drive in a Pinto. A bomb waiting to explode.

For behind the wheel sessions a pair of students went out with the instructor. The instructor had his own brake pedal that he could use to keep the students in check. And the track coach liked his brake pedal. Anyhow, my driving partner was Victor.    Like many of the kids in school, Victor and I had been friends since we were little. Victor was an only child and his parents doted on him. In return for this devotion to their only child, Victor referred to his parents as the 'old man' and the 'old lady'. I don't think he meant to demean them, but rather establish himself with his buddies as a man's man, not to be trifled with. One of the perks of their devotion was allowing Victor to drive at an early age, so when he arrived for his behind the wheel sessions with me, he was clearly a man of the world and I was the newbie, the greenhorn, the virgin. OK, stop giggling. Unfortunately, his superior driving skills were wasted on the Pinto. How much damage can you do in a Pinto wagon? If you really wound it out on a downhill, you could hit 63, 64 mph. That was it. However, the Gran Torino was another story. The Gran Torino was better suited to our collective driving talents, all we had to do was get behind the wheel. So for one of our freeway sessions, Victor talked the track coach into letting us use the Torino so we could have experience in another car. Further, Victor came up with a scheme to keep the instructor from using the brake pedal and paying attention to our driving. When we were driving, the student not behind the wheel would keep the instructor talking about recreational vehicles (RVs), freeing the other student to   drive the Gran Torino with abandon, living out his Starsky & Hutch hot rodding crime fighting dreams. Naturally, Victor would drive the first leg. As we hit the freeway, the plan worked perfectly. I talked RVs with the instructor and Victor put the pedal to the metal. We scooted down I-505 like nobody's business, exceeding the speed limit by a wide margin. Cool. We were so smart. Soon, it would be my turn to lay down some miles.

Then we passed another student driver from another town like they were standing still. There was no amount of RV talk that could mask that. As we sped past the car from the other school with the large "Student Driver" sign on the back, I knew we were done. Without hesitation, our instructor looked over at the speedometer. 75 mph in a 55 zone. Victor did not have to be told to slow down. Our instructor noted that passing another student driver did not present ol Dixon High in the best light. Whatever. I knew that I would be watched like a hawk on the way back. Doomed to a 55 mph cruise all the way home.

Despite our antics, we managed to pass both the class and our driver's test. The state had no choice but to issue driver's licenses to us. Fooled them.

Our high school class numbered 100. Most of us had been together for many years. After  high school, as often is the case, we  move on to college, jobs, marriage. Victor got a job with PG&E, I went to work in construction. We rarely saw each other again. Then, in the early 80's, Victor was killed in a car accident. I had moved out of town and found out afterwards. Victor and too many others from the class of 77 died young as a result of car accidents. Victor's parents moved out of town, devastated by the death of their son. And every time I see a car with a 'Student Driver' sign attached, I think of  State Requirements, the Gran Torino, and Victor. Rest in peace my friend. Say hi to John, Joey, Cathy, and the rest of our friends.

my nieces, part 2

I did not meet my youngest niece until she was about 2 years old. She was born in the Panama Canal Zone, as her father (my brother) was in the Air Force and was stationed there. I am her godfather, but since I could not be there for the baptism, someone stood in for me then. When I first met her, she was just a toddler, but oh so cute. Almost immediately we bonded. I was only 17 at the time, but experienced in the uncle business, having been once since age 9. Since my youngest nieces were only a month apart in age, they competed for lap time with their grandpa, my dad. Dad loved his grandchildren, but I think the youngest had him wrapped around their little fingers. There is an iconic photo of Dad walking down the sidewalk with a little girl on each of his calloused hands. The photo was shot from behind so all we can see are their backs, but I dare you to look at that picture and not get a little choked up. I can proudly say that the youngest nieces also competed for Uncle Kerry lap time and I admit I enjoyed every second. It is true, I have a weak spot for my nieces, and I like it that way.

Now that my brother was stationed in the States, I got to see him and his family more often. I did not get near enough time with my nieces but treasured every minute. When she was about 4 or 5 she would take a toy microphone and 'sing' Blue Bayou, being so very expressive with her eyes and mannerisms. Like my brother, she grew up playing and caring for the 'creepy crawlies': bugs, snakes, turtles, tarantulas, anything that would come along. This is a trait she has carried into adulthood; she has always had a pet. 

When she was about 15, she came to stay with us for a few weeks. That time was pure bliss for me, as I got to spend some real time with her. Although she was new to the area, it wasn't long before she knew all the kids her age in the neighborhood. She has never been shy, or hesitant to talk to people she doesn't know.

Around age 16, she decided to become confirmed in the church. I made the trip to watch this, and celebrate with her. It was so touching to see this little girl grow up and make her way through life. One of the few regrets I have in this life was not being present at her wedding. I can't recall why I wasn't there but I think it had something to do with having a newborn or infant in the house, they tend to crimp traveling and attending such events, especially those at a distance. I became even more proud of my niece when she had children of her own. Both are very precious, and her youngest reminds me so much of her at the same age, a slightly off center sense of humor, somewhat outspoken, and so very cute. 

As an adult, she continues to amaze me and make me so proud to be her uncle. She returned to school and earned her undergraduate degree and now plans to attend law school. Last year, when a friend of her oldest daughter needed a home, she brought her in and became her guardian. That has been a repeating theme in her life: always room for one more at the table, always room in her heart. She possesses a pioneer like spirit, a can do attitude towards life. Her independent spirit has no doubt caused her parents some anxiety at times, but her love, her devotion to family was ever questioned.

A short time ago, my brother sent me a video he recorded of his youngest daughter, my niece, speaking about my dad. Through tearful eyes and with her daughters at her feet, she talks about how much she loved her grandpa, and how much she misses him still. But through the tears, we see a woman of strength who cherishes her family, her life, telling a story of the nickname she gave to her grandpa, and the name he gave her. They were very much alike. I like to think she and I are alike too, both a bit off center at times, both stubborn, both strong but sentimental. She still calls me Uncle Kerry, and I call her (sometimes) by the nickname she was known as a child. I guess I might be exercising my rights as an uncle to call her by that name, but that is a perk of the job. And one I will not ever give up.

Happy Birthday Aubrey Elizabeth.

band of brothers

Dates stick in my head. If you are a regular to this blog you probably have figured that out. One date in particular is March 5, 1945. On this day 14 years before my birth, my dad's older brother was killed in action near Trier Germany. Palmer was a tank driver in the Third Army under the command of General Patton. Third Army was the terror of the German Army as they tore through Europe like a hot knife through butter, truly the stuff of legends. Obviously I never met Palmer but I grew up learning about him through stories told by family members. According to my aunts and uncles Palmer was a bit high strung but very friendly and loving. He and my father were close, they worked together, 'ran around' together, and no doubt did the things that brothers do together. He was very musical, he taught himself to play the guitar and mandolin. My grandmother played the organ, so they would entertain the family with their music after dinner. As a kid I would stay with my grandparents occasionally and I remember seeing his instruments hanging on a wall in their house all wrapped up in plastic, probably wrapped up after he died. I also remember seeing his Purple Heart that was given to my grandparents after his death. He did not have a wife or kids when he died so there is no direct connection to him, no cousins, no grandchildren. I understand he left behind a girlfriend who eventually married and lived a long life. I suppose she spent the rest of her life wondering what a life with Palmer would have been like. But dreams of a life together changed one month before the war in Europe was over. His Sherman tank was hit by an 18 inch German artillery shell, destroying the tank and killing an uncle that few of us cousins would ever know.

My dad was in Germany at the same time Palmer was, a crew chief on an anti aircraft gun crew. There is an iconic picture of Dad standing by a white wooden cross in a military cemetery with Palmer's dog tags hanging from the cross. No grass, no marble markers, just rows of wooden crosses with dog tags hanging from them.  After the war my grandparents chose to have Palmer's body exhumed from Hamm Cemetery in Belgium and reburied in the home town cemetery in Gully, Minnesota. There are pictures of the reburial ceremony held in October of 1948, of a soldier handing a folded flag to my grandparents, of the somber relatives and friends gathered  there three years after his death. Every year when we would visit Gully to see my grandparents, my dad would drive out to the cemetery to visit his brother's grave. He never talked about it much or outwardly grieved, but I could tell that the pain never went away, the grieving was ongoing. It was only years later I found out the depth of this pain and grieving.

In December of 1984 Dad passed away. After the funeral, Mom gave away some of his personal items. I got Dad's wallet. Like many wallets it contained the usual items: license, photos, receipts. After I got home, I went through the wallet and found a piece of yellowed paper tucked away out of plain sight. I removed this paper and realized it was a telegram, hand typed on thin paper, and it was old. It was dated March 25th of 1945 and bore the news of Palmer's death. My dad had carried this telegram in his wallet from March of 1945 until his own death, 39 years later. In that time, I am guessing he wore out a few wallets and that telegram must have been transferred each time. The gravity of this did not really hit me until   years later when my best friend died and I too was dealing with grief.

Over the years, I have given away a few items from that wallet. I gave the pictures of my nieces to my brother. I gave the picture of my mom to my sister. But I have kept the wallet and the telegram is still inside it, in the same place Dad kept it. Someday, that wallet will be the property of one of my sons. I hope they too will learn to appreciate the meaning of a very old piece of paper, that a young man who went off to war never came home.  And another young man, their grandfather,  who came home from war but would spend the rest of his life missing a lost brother and silently dealing with the scars that war inflicted on him.

the comics

When I was a kid, before I discovered motorcycles, beer and girls (in that order as it sadly turns out) I spent my time reading comic books. I was a fan of Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, The Legion of Super Heroes and many more. Later I got into the Marvel Universe, reading Spider Man, Thor, Iron Man, Hulk. And I went through an Archie stage too, but only because I was in love with Betty. Sigh. Comics cost 12 cents then, and the big '80 Page Giant' annuals were 25 cents. My finances were underwritten by my mom, who gave me a weekly allowance of 50 cents. Once I had the cash in hand, I would walk to the Rexall Drug Store in downtown Dixon (aptly named Dixon Drug Store) and spend my two quarters on a couple comic books. I could get two 12 cent comics and a large frosty cone for a quarter on the way home. Unless of course there was a new comic annual, then I would skip the frosty cone. I suppose it was the combination of reading comics and eating frosty cones that contributed to  me being the designated fat kid in class. Once I had the new comic in hand I was lost in the world of secret identities, capes, super powers, and crime fighting.

As odd as it may seem, I remember (and still have) the first comic I ever bought. It was Action Comics #350. Action Comics featured Superman, and in this particular adventure Superman traveled back in time to cave man days to investigate why Perry White found a Superman costume on a caveman skeleton. If you want to know more, Google it. Anyhow, over the years I managed to hang on to this comic, even after the Great Purge when I gave away most of my comics to Goodwill after several years of nagging by my parents. They insisted that I should be going to the library and check out BOOKS to read, real books. I rejected that advice, but by now I had discovered motorcycles (beer and girls were just around the corner) so my interest in the comics had waned. I bundled up my comics, several hundred, and dropped in the collection box. I try not to dwell on that but I think of how much they would be worth to me now, especially when writing checks for college tuition. I resist the urge to throw that up in my mom's face too, but at times I am tempted. I managed to earn 3 college degrees despite the time spent with Batman and Robin the Boy Wonder.

I recently re purchased Action Comics #350 on Amazon.com. You may be able to get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant, but Amazon delivers to your door. While I was cruising Amazon for comics, I also found Superman #200. There is an axiom that everyone remembers where they were when JFK was killed, or when Challenger blew up, or when the Twin Towers fell. I remember where I was when I bought Superman #200. I bought that issue at San Francisco International Airport. I remember this as my dad, my brother in law Dave and I had just dropped off my brother at the airport so he could catch a flight. I can't remember where he was headed to, but it was the fall of 1967, so chances are it was to Viet Nam or the first leg of that trip. So it stuck in my mind. Superman #200 was lost in the Great Purge but now I was able to get it back. I suppose that is a trip down memory lane, but thanks to Amazon and my Visa, I was able to revisit that night. It's OK to look back now and then as long as we keep moving forward.

After all this time, I still like the feel, the smell of the comics. I enjoy the styles of the different artists, the details of the drawings, the bits of stories that make up the comic universe. And I remember being a kid. That kid is still inside, he comes out now and then. I think that is a good thing.

And on Veteran's Day of 1968, my brother came home. That was a good day.

miller road

My hometown is Dixon, California. I wasn't born there, but I grew up there. From the mid 60's through the early 80's I called Dixon home. It was just a small farm town then, and most people worked and lived in town. Back then, commuting meant driving from one side of town to another. We didn't have a McDonalds or a Pizza Hut or Wal Mart then, but we did have an A&W (on the edge of town) and a small drive in called the 'Frosty' in the middle of town. We had one movie theater with shows on Friday and Saturday nights.

When you grow up in a small town, you learn to have fun where you can find it and to make the most of it. Once we got to high school and the State of California foolishly issued us driver's licenses, a whole new world opened up. Now we could drive to the nearby towns and enjoy the things they had to offer: first run movies, fast food, drag racing, record stores (real records, not CDs or online digital music stores thank you) and other amenities that we did not have growing up in Dixon. One particular venue of entertainment was Miller Road. If you grew up in Dixon, you are probably smiling now. That's because 1.) you drank a lot of beer on Miller Road or 2.) you got lucky on Miller Road or 3.) you drank a lot of beer and got lucky on Miller Road.

Miller Road was a few miles out of town, a smaller road off of the larger Robben Road. There were no street lights, yard lights, or any lighting out there except for the vast sky that covers the Sacramento Valley. At night there were thousands of stars to be seen even through the haze in the air. It was quiet, except for the sound of irrigation pumps, crickets, and the occasional car or truck speeding down another road. This is in the heart of farmland, so there was not much traffic or many people out there. It was, and I suppose still is, a popular place to drink and raise a little hell because it was away from town. There was always a chance that the county sheriff could drop by, but if everyone turned off their headlights chances were excellent that a group of Dixon youth could spend the whole night out there undetected. In the summer the smell of alfalfa was in the air, kind of a sweet smell that was uniquely Dixon. I too drank my share of beer on this road, sitting on the hoods of cars and trucks contemplating life under the stars.

You could tell when it was someone's first trip to this place; they would become awestruck by the big sky and universe laid out in front of them, with a childlike look of wonder on their faces. Like standing on the beach and looking out at the ocean, looking up at the night sky reminds us of the larger world outside of the little town we called home. Or maybe it was the beer. In either event, it was fun in our home town. No parents or law enforcement to get in the way. Just young people drinking, laughing, flirting, and wondering what lay ahead of them. Wondering about life. Before HD TV, before the Internet, before you could look up the constellation on your iPhone, we had a little place that didn't belong to us, but was owned by everyone. Every town had a place like this. Ours was called Miller Road. The next time I go back there, I just might buy some beer, drive to Miller Road and sit on the hood of the car and look up at the sky. Hopefully the police won't be patrolling that night.

P.S. To the football players that scattered when a spotlight was shined on them in the fall of 1978, that was not the sheriff. That was me and Gene. psych.