Recently the nation mourned the passing of Neil Armstrong, the first man to set foot on the surface of the moon. I was ten years old on July 20, 1969 when Neil stepped out of the LEM and stood on the moon. Who cannot feel emotional when we see this, and hear Walter Cronkite say "....Neil Armstrong, 38 year old American, standing on the face of the moon..." Wow. He stood on the moon, looked at his home a quarter of a million miles away, and said something about one small step....
As a kid, I watched this, thought it was cool, and then went back to my comic books, bike, and those things that ten year olds do. It was only later, much later, as an adult, that I began to have a real appreciation for Mr. Armstrong. Not for stepping out on the moon, uttering an historic phrase, planting a flag, gathering some rocks and then blasting off back home. Sure, cool stuff. What made him a hero, a real hero to me, is something else.
Neil Armstrong knew how to hang in there. He could wait until the last second until making a life or death decision. In a training exercise, the LEM trainer went out of control, but he hung in until the last possible second before ejecting out. The trainer crashed, he survived, and flew to the moon. As the mission commander, it was his job to pilot the LEM to the surface of the moon with Buzz Aldrin. As Neil and Buzz were descending, there was a glitch, so the LEM had to be landed manually. Neil guided the spacecraft to a landing spot in the Sea of Tranquility with only a few seconds worth of fuel left. Now we're not talking running around in the Hyundai with the gauge on E. This is serious stuff. Run out of gas on the moon and life gets real pretty quick. The alternative is to abort, fly back into orbit, hook up with the command module and go home. No moon, no historic words, no flag, no rocks. No parade when you get home. No high schools named after you. Well, you get the point. I'm pretty sure Neil was not doing this because he wanted a high school named after him. He was a pilot. Moreover, he was a test pilot. He loved to fly. By some stroke of luck, NASA picked him to be the first on the moon. Probably because someone knew that he could hang in there, not panic, make the call, and do the job.
That's why he was a hero to me. Not for doing the glamorous thing, but for doing something only a very few can do. Stay calm. Process information. Trust your intuition. Make the call. Do your job. He set an example for me. I don't think I will be flying to the moon or testing the latest suborbital space plane, but I do make decisions every day. I try to live by Neil's example and not panic, process the information, trust my intuition, and make the call.
Rest in peace Neil. I hope that I will live to see someone like you step out on the planet Mars one day. Why? Because like you, it will capture the imagination of an entire generation, and because we can.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
595 Walnut Park Avenue
I grew up in the same town my grandparents, my mom's parents, lived in. We lived on the south end of town, grandma and grandpa more to the north. They had a little house with two bedrooms (one for grandma, one for grandpa), and converted the garage into a little guest house with a bedroom and bathroom. In California you can do that and park your car on the street without living in fear the snowplow will bury it in the wintertime. When my parents and I moved to California in 1966, we stayed for a short time in that little garage guest house. After a month or so, my parents rented their own house on the other side of town but we saw my grandparents almost every day. Grandma and grandpa had fixed up their little place quite nicely, in addition to the guest house, they built a screened in porch that connected the house and garage. The porch had a couch, chairs, refrigerator, and was a great place to play cards. Year in and year out, there were many family gatherings at this house, and you could count on card games at these gatherings. In the porch the men would play poker. Here is where I learned to play 2 and 22, 7 card no peekie, 5 and 7 card stud, 5 card draw and other variants of poker. In the house, the women would play canasta. Grandma was a fierce, and I mean fierce, canasta player. She called 7's "meat axes" and red 3's "red treys", and if you made a play she did not like, she would call you a "dret sek" ....look it up.
Grandma loved to have company. She loved to feed us, and she would always have several kinds of homemade cookies on hand. When the weather was nice (remember, this is California) we would eat outside, in their backyard. My grandparents took particular pride in their backyard. They had many lawn chairs, lounges, tables and lawn ornaments decorating the yard. They built a playhouse for the great grandchildren to play in, complete with little wooden refrigerator and oven. Gotta have some place to make those pretend cookies. The centerpiece of the backyard was a large weeping willow tree, which they trimmed like a huge umbrella, giving us shade from the hot summer sun. My cousins and I would climb the willow and explore it, and sway back and forth in the breeze. Under the weeping willow tree was an old yard swing, a heavy metal frame and springs that supported a couch like seat. Grandma would recover the seat every few years to keep it fresh. On Sundays you could find Grandpa laying in the swing, reading the Sunday paper or a paperback book, he was a voracious reader. He loved his Charley Pride and Merle Haggard records, and was not afraid to turn up the stereo loud and play them.
When there were family gatherings, we would all gather at Grandma and Grandpa's house: Aunts, uncles, cousins, my sisters, their husbands, my nieces and nephew, and the occasional visiting relative from Minnesota, who would marvel at us parading around in shorts and t shirts while the mid west would still be under a blanket of snow. Christmas time would find us all there, having Christmas Eve dinner, then a frenzy of gift giving, followed by pie and coffee. Christmas Day, back to the house for leftovers and cards. Grandma was her happiest when the house was full.
Their house was not fancy or expensive; it was just a simple house that they bought and fixed up when time and money would allow. The front door had a tendency to stick, so once in awhile I would crawl under the house and turn a screw jack until the door opened and shut properly. I was usually rewarded with some cookies and milk. You could not be at their house without having something to eat. Don't even try to get around it. Just sit down and enjoy it.
As the years passed on, the large family gatherings were taking a bit of a toll on my grandparents; the preparation, the event, the clean up were wearing them out. The end of an era was approaching. To reduce the wear and tear on grandma and grandpa, the gatherings would be shorter and fewer would attend. Grandma did not like this, but she knew that it was tougher on them to do it too. She insisted that it was more fun to be at her house for gatherings, with all the family.
In May of 1979, Grandpa passed away. He became terminal with cancer, and rather than spend his last days in a hospital, the family wanted to take him home. He died in his own room, in his bed, surrounded by his family. The house that he worked so hard to fix up, the place that his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren gathered in, had one last gathering for his passing.
Now that Grandma was alone, I tried to see her every day, dropping in to say hi or to stop by with some A&W root beer to share. She still baked cookies, so we would sit and have some root beer, cookies, watch some TV and talk, then I would go home. My uncle would come by to do yard work and whatever else Grandma needed. The city needed to rebuild a storm sewer that passed right under their beautiful back yard, so the willow tree and yard were all dug up. A new tree and grass were planted, but it was not the same. Losing her back yard was hard on Grandma, being a Norwegian she would not say so, but it was tough.
In the Fall of 1979 Grandma left for a trip to spend the holidays with one of her sons on the east coast. A cousin came to pick her up, so I drove over to say goodbye. As I walked out of the house with her, Grandma shut and locked the front door, turned to me and said "I'll never come back here again. Don't you dare tell your mother." I told her that was silly, that I would see her after the holidays, but she repeated "no, I won't ever be back"
We said our goodbyes, Grandma got in my cousin's car, and left.
The day after Christmas, early in the morning, we got a call that Grandma had passed away during the night. She never did come back to the house where she hosted so many family gatherings, to the kitchen that she made countless dozens of cookies, doughnuts, lefsa. Somehow, she knew she would not return. Why she decided to tell only me this, I will never know.
After Grandma passed, the house sat empty for a few months, then my mom and her brothers had the sad duty of going through the contents of the house, the personal possessions, distributing to various family members, and then selling the house. The house finally sold, and over the years has changed appearance. The porch is gone, the yard is gone, and the neighborhood has changed. I drive by the house whenever I visit the area, but I don't take pictures. I would rather remember it the way it was, Grandpa laying in the yard swing, Grandma baking in the kitchen, the men playing poker and the women playing canasta.
There is an old country song, it's never heard on the radio anymore, but I remember hearing it when I was a kid. Whenever I think of 595 Walnut Park Avenue, I think of this song, and vice versa.
This old house once knew my children
This old house once knew my wife
This old house was home and comfort
As we fought the storms of life
This old house once rang with laughter
This old house heard many shouts
Now it trembles in the darkness
When the lightning walks about
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
Ain't gonna need this house no more
Ain't got time to fix the shingles
Ain't got time to fix the floor
Ain't got time to oil the hinges
Nor to mend no window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints
This old house is gettin' shaky
This old house is gettin' old
This old house lets in the rain
This old house lets the cold
On my knees are gettin' chilly
But I feel no fear or pain
'Cause I see an angel peepin'
Through the broken window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
Ain't gonna need this house no more
Ain't got time to fix the shingles
Ain't got time to fix the floor
Ain't got time to oil the hinges
Nor to mend no window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints
This old house is gettin' shaky
This old house is gettin' old
This old house lets in the rain
This old house lets in the cold
On his knees he's gettin' chilly
But he feels no fear or pain
'Cause he sees an angel peepin'
Through a broken window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
Ain't gonna need this house no more
Ain't got time to fix the shingles
Ain't got time to fix the floor
Ain't got time to oil the hinges
Nor to mend no window pain
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
I'm getting ready to meet the saints
This old house is afraid of thunder
This old house is afraid of storms
This old house just blows and trembles
When the night cames after dawn
This old house is getting fragile
This old house is in need of paint
Just like me it's starting to die
I'm getting ready to meet the saints
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
Ain't gonna need this house no more
Ain't got time to fix the shingles
Ain't got time to fix the floor
Ain't got time to oil the hinges
Nor to mend no window pain
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
I'm getting ready to meet the saints
Grandma loved to have company. She loved to feed us, and she would always have several kinds of homemade cookies on hand. When the weather was nice (remember, this is California) we would eat outside, in their backyard. My grandparents took particular pride in their backyard. They had many lawn chairs, lounges, tables and lawn ornaments decorating the yard. They built a playhouse for the great grandchildren to play in, complete with little wooden refrigerator and oven. Gotta have some place to make those pretend cookies. The centerpiece of the backyard was a large weeping willow tree, which they trimmed like a huge umbrella, giving us shade from the hot summer sun. My cousins and I would climb the willow and explore it, and sway back and forth in the breeze. Under the weeping willow tree was an old yard swing, a heavy metal frame and springs that supported a couch like seat. Grandma would recover the seat every few years to keep it fresh. On Sundays you could find Grandpa laying in the swing, reading the Sunday paper or a paperback book, he was a voracious reader. He loved his Charley Pride and Merle Haggard records, and was not afraid to turn up the stereo loud and play them.
When there were family gatherings, we would all gather at Grandma and Grandpa's house: Aunts, uncles, cousins, my sisters, their husbands, my nieces and nephew, and the occasional visiting relative from Minnesota, who would marvel at us parading around in shorts and t shirts while the mid west would still be under a blanket of snow. Christmas time would find us all there, having Christmas Eve dinner, then a frenzy of gift giving, followed by pie and coffee. Christmas Day, back to the house for leftovers and cards. Grandma was her happiest when the house was full.
Their house was not fancy or expensive; it was just a simple house that they bought and fixed up when time and money would allow. The front door had a tendency to stick, so once in awhile I would crawl under the house and turn a screw jack until the door opened and shut properly. I was usually rewarded with some cookies and milk. You could not be at their house without having something to eat. Don't even try to get around it. Just sit down and enjoy it.
As the years passed on, the large family gatherings were taking a bit of a toll on my grandparents; the preparation, the event, the clean up were wearing them out. The end of an era was approaching. To reduce the wear and tear on grandma and grandpa, the gatherings would be shorter and fewer would attend. Grandma did not like this, but she knew that it was tougher on them to do it too. She insisted that it was more fun to be at her house for gatherings, with all the family.
In May of 1979, Grandpa passed away. He became terminal with cancer, and rather than spend his last days in a hospital, the family wanted to take him home. He died in his own room, in his bed, surrounded by his family. The house that he worked so hard to fix up, the place that his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren gathered in, had one last gathering for his passing.
Now that Grandma was alone, I tried to see her every day, dropping in to say hi or to stop by with some A&W root beer to share. She still baked cookies, so we would sit and have some root beer, cookies, watch some TV and talk, then I would go home. My uncle would come by to do yard work and whatever else Grandma needed. The city needed to rebuild a storm sewer that passed right under their beautiful back yard, so the willow tree and yard were all dug up. A new tree and grass were planted, but it was not the same. Losing her back yard was hard on Grandma, being a Norwegian she would not say so, but it was tough.
In the Fall of 1979 Grandma left for a trip to spend the holidays with one of her sons on the east coast. A cousin came to pick her up, so I drove over to say goodbye. As I walked out of the house with her, Grandma shut and locked the front door, turned to me and said "I'll never come back here again. Don't you dare tell your mother." I told her that was silly, that I would see her after the holidays, but she repeated "no, I won't ever be back"
We said our goodbyes, Grandma got in my cousin's car, and left.
The day after Christmas, early in the morning, we got a call that Grandma had passed away during the night. She never did come back to the house where she hosted so many family gatherings, to the kitchen that she made countless dozens of cookies, doughnuts, lefsa. Somehow, she knew she would not return. Why she decided to tell only me this, I will never know.
After Grandma passed, the house sat empty for a few months, then my mom and her brothers had the sad duty of going through the contents of the house, the personal possessions, distributing to various family members, and then selling the house. The house finally sold, and over the years has changed appearance. The porch is gone, the yard is gone, and the neighborhood has changed. I drive by the house whenever I visit the area, but I don't take pictures. I would rather remember it the way it was, Grandpa laying in the yard swing, Grandma baking in the kitchen, the men playing poker and the women playing canasta.
There is an old country song, it's never heard on the radio anymore, but I remember hearing it when I was a kid. Whenever I think of 595 Walnut Park Avenue, I think of this song, and vice versa.
This old house once knew my children
This old house once knew my wife
This old house was home and comfort
As we fought the storms of life
This old house once rang with laughter
This old house heard many shouts
Now it trembles in the darkness
When the lightning walks about
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
Ain't gonna need this house no more
Ain't got time to fix the shingles
Ain't got time to fix the floor
Ain't got time to oil the hinges
Nor to mend no window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints
This old house is gettin' shaky
This old house is gettin' old
This old house lets in the rain
This old house lets the cold
On my knees are gettin' chilly
But I feel no fear or pain
'Cause I see an angel peepin'
Through the broken window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
Ain't gonna need this house no more
Ain't got time to fix the shingles
Ain't got time to fix the floor
Ain't got time to oil the hinges
Nor to mend no window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints
This old house is gettin' shaky
This old house is gettin' old
This old house lets in the rain
This old house lets in the cold
On his knees he's gettin' chilly
But he feels no fear or pain
'Cause he sees an angel peepin'
Through a broken window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
Ain't gonna need this house no more
Ain't got time to fix the shingles
Ain't got time to fix the floor
Ain't got time to oil the hinges
Nor to mend no window pain
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
I'm getting ready to meet the saints
This old house is afraid of thunder
This old house is afraid of storms
This old house just blows and trembles
When the night cames after dawn
This old house is getting fragile
This old house is in need of paint
Just like me it's starting to die
I'm getting ready to meet the saints
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
Ain't gonna need this house no more
Ain't got time to fix the shingles
Ain't got time to fix the floor
Ain't got time to oil the hinges
Nor to mend no window pain
Ain't gonna need this house no longer
I'm getting ready to meet the saints
Monday, June 11, 2012
reinvention
How many times have you heard about someone reinventing themselves? Madonna has supposedly done this many times. I am not sure that posing nude for the camera alongside the road or marrying a Brit or kissing Brittney on stage is really reinvention, but it seems to work for her. Nixon reinvented himself after resigning the Presidency and being exiled to California (could be worse). He emerged as a 'statesman' who gave advice to a new generation of politicians. Jimmy Carter didn't really reinvent himself, but he started living the life he was best fit for, doing humanitarian work, writing books and winning the Nobel prize. Maybe that is more an example of redemption, not reinvention. And, I don't have enough time to talk about Robert Downey Jr., who reinvented and redeemed himself many times.
These famous people became more famous by this reinvention. But there are countless millions who reinvent themselves every day, or made decisions to take another path, or find another way. We all know of someone who has done this, and probably can list failures and successes for each. Life is a crap shot. We make it up as we go along. Man plans, God laughs.
Recently I observed my 18th anniversary of moving to the midwest. I was born here, but when I was 7, my parents moved to California, in pursuit of a better life and snow free winters. I grew up in California, went to school there, had my first jobs there, got married, had kids, bought a house, had a life. In the early nineties the house was sold, the jobs were quit, the stuff and kids were packed up and we headed to Minnesota. It took 5 days to make the trip, along the way we almost lost everything in the truck, but in early June we arrived. No job, no place to live, no fricking idea what to do next. God wasn't laughing, he was hysterical. Probably to tears.
So it was time to reinvent myself. At age 35 I finally realized, admitted to myself, that I needed a career. I had avoided that for my whole life, scoffed at those who went to college and got degrees, thinking they thought they were better than me. It was time, I decided, to become better than me. I went to school. Three years of 2 nights a week, summers included, and I earned the degree. By then I was firmly entrenched in the career, working on those pesky computers so others can do their jobs. In addition to the degree, I earned some professional certifications. It seems I was always going to school. If I wasn't in school, I was working. Or sleeping. I changed jobs too, making the move 4 times in 10 years. The best way to move up is to move around. Working for the government is not very exciting, sometimes not challenging. Contrary to popular belief, those who work for the government are not overpaid and underworked. We are pretty much the same as those who work in the private sector, except our salaries are published in the local paper. But back to reinvention.
My career path has not been smooth, or linear. I was not one of those who knew what I was going to do with my life since age 7. I had to compete with people younger than I, so I worked harder, longer than most. I was hungry, figuratively and literally. And, I had mouths to feed. Later, I was given the opportunity to teach part time at a local college. Wow, if my high school classmates could see me now. If my dad could see me now. This reinvention was not by design, or part of some grand plan. Things just happened. Some hard work, lots of long days, and a bit of luck. No Nobel prizes, no advising Presidents, no posing nude along the highway. Just living a life.
This is life. We make it up as we go along. We improvise, we adapt, we overcome. We reinvent, or plan, or go to class, or move. Or none of the above.
A long time ago, some friends of mine had twin boys, plus an older son. Their house was always in a state of chaos. I asked the dad, a very reasonable, sane person, how they coped with this chaos, this mob rule. Without missing a beat he told me, "...we learned to surf".
Do yourself a favor. Head to the beach. You never know what the tide will bring in, it might be a sail.
These famous people became more famous by this reinvention. But there are countless millions who reinvent themselves every day, or made decisions to take another path, or find another way. We all know of someone who has done this, and probably can list failures and successes for each. Life is a crap shot. We make it up as we go along. Man plans, God laughs.
Recently I observed my 18th anniversary of moving to the midwest. I was born here, but when I was 7, my parents moved to California, in pursuit of a better life and snow free winters. I grew up in California, went to school there, had my first jobs there, got married, had kids, bought a house, had a life. In the early nineties the house was sold, the jobs were quit, the stuff and kids were packed up and we headed to Minnesota. It took 5 days to make the trip, along the way we almost lost everything in the truck, but in early June we arrived. No job, no place to live, no fricking idea what to do next. God wasn't laughing, he was hysterical. Probably to tears.
So it was time to reinvent myself. At age 35 I finally realized, admitted to myself, that I needed a career. I had avoided that for my whole life, scoffed at those who went to college and got degrees, thinking they thought they were better than me. It was time, I decided, to become better than me. I went to school. Three years of 2 nights a week, summers included, and I earned the degree. By then I was firmly entrenched in the career, working on those pesky computers so others can do their jobs. In addition to the degree, I earned some professional certifications. It seems I was always going to school. If I wasn't in school, I was working. Or sleeping. I changed jobs too, making the move 4 times in 10 years. The best way to move up is to move around. Working for the government is not very exciting, sometimes not challenging. Contrary to popular belief, those who work for the government are not overpaid and underworked. We are pretty much the same as those who work in the private sector, except our salaries are published in the local paper. But back to reinvention.
My career path has not been smooth, or linear. I was not one of those who knew what I was going to do with my life since age 7. I had to compete with people younger than I, so I worked harder, longer than most. I was hungry, figuratively and literally. And, I had mouths to feed. Later, I was given the opportunity to teach part time at a local college. Wow, if my high school classmates could see me now. If my dad could see me now. This reinvention was not by design, or part of some grand plan. Things just happened. Some hard work, lots of long days, and a bit of luck. No Nobel prizes, no advising Presidents, no posing nude along the highway. Just living a life.
This is life. We make it up as we go along. We improvise, we adapt, we overcome. We reinvent, or plan, or go to class, or move. Or none of the above.
A long time ago, some friends of mine had twin boys, plus an older son. Their house was always in a state of chaos. I asked the dad, a very reasonable, sane person, how they coped with this chaos, this mob rule. Without missing a beat he told me, "...we learned to surf".
Do yourself a favor. Head to the beach. You never know what the tide will bring in, it might be a sail.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Ray
A couple weeks ago I traveled to Tucson Arizona to attend a memorial service. The service was for my sister in law's brother. We knew each other as kids, and since we were the same age and had something in common (his sister married my brother) we had a sort of bond. We played with Hot Wheels together as kids, we did impressions of Johnny Carson, and when we were teenagers my brother would sneak us beers to drink with him. Pretty cool stuff. The last time I saw him was at my niece's wedding several years ago. By then we had not seen each other in many years, and really did not talk much. But, we had something more in common: we were both uncles to our sibling's daughters, who had grown to be lovely, remarkable women. (readers of this blog know of my weakness for my nieces) So even though we did not keep in contact, we had a bond that could not be broken. Two kids, from different parts of the country, different cultures, brought together through the love of family.
When I heard of his death, I made plans to attend his memorial service. I wanted to be there to express support for my sister in law, who has been a sister to me for most of my life. It was a beautiful service, with our nieces doing readings, some nice words by the priest, and mariachi music. Lots of music. It was his wish to have a song played, "play music when I die" and that wish was fulfilled. Yes it was a sad occasion, yet also there was happiness, as friends and family came together to celebrate a life that ended much too soon. For me, I was lucky to spend time with my brother, my sister-in-law, my sister, my sister in law's family, and of course our nieces and their daughters, a new generation of nieces to love and enjoy.
Welcome to the family, Esperanza.
I have been to many funerals, most for elderly relatives who lived long lives. I have only been to two funerals for contemporaries, people my own age. The first was my best friend, who died suddenly at age 46. I still, and probably always will grieve his passing. The second, for my friend Ray, who too died much too young. We shared a common generation, a brother and sister, and our nieces. Although I did not see him much, I will miss him, knowing he is gone and won't come back. Like my best friend, I will never forget him or let him go.
adios mi amigo.
When I heard of his death, I made plans to attend his memorial service. I wanted to be there to express support for my sister in law, who has been a sister to me for most of my life. It was a beautiful service, with our nieces doing readings, some nice words by the priest, and mariachi music. Lots of music. It was his wish to have a song played, "play music when I die" and that wish was fulfilled. Yes it was a sad occasion, yet also there was happiness, as friends and family came together to celebrate a life that ended much too soon. For me, I was lucky to spend time with my brother, my sister-in-law, my sister, my sister in law's family, and of course our nieces and their daughters, a new generation of nieces to love and enjoy.
Welcome to the family, Esperanza.
I have been to many funerals, most for elderly relatives who lived long lives. I have only been to two funerals for contemporaries, people my own age. The first was my best friend, who died suddenly at age 46. I still, and probably always will grieve his passing. The second, for my friend Ray, who too died much too young. We shared a common generation, a brother and sister, and our nieces. Although I did not see him much, I will miss him, knowing he is gone and won't come back. Like my best friend, I will never forget him or let him go.
adios mi amigo.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
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.
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.
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