Category: Life

Childhood Memories, Life, Summer

Young As I Want To Be

A re-post from last Summer. Sort of fits my mood today…

I can now say that I’ve officially heard it and crossed over. Yesterday I metamorphosed into that dreaded three-letter word: OLD.

I have to admit I’ve never thought of myself as that word. THAT word is reserved for people much more advanced in age then I am. People who grew up listening to Peter, Paul and Mary. Ones whose parents used to give them enemas at the slightest fever or notion that the child’s bowel habits weren’t normal. Not for someone as cool, and young, as me.

I still do most of the same stuff I did as a child. I play guitar, love to read the box while eating bowls of Count Chocula and Cap’n Crunch, watch Ultraman and Godzilla movies, mow the grass and take out the garbage. Heck, I’m still fourteen years old if you really want to know. All that’s missing is some more hair on my head and the loss of the forty pounds or so I’ve gained. Ok, so I have to do my own laundry now, go to work every day, make my bed without being told and fix things around the house when they break but that shouldn’t put me in the elderly category should it?

And I confess, when I look in the mirror there’s now some gray in the beard but that’s been there for years and no one has ever said a word about it. Plus I’ve done a pretty good job at covering it up. Just for Men is working just fine thank you very much.

Anyway where was I? Oh yes, the cross over to becoming so-called “old”. I was at my daughter’s softball league end of year celebration yesterday. The girls all enjoyed a final round of ten-year old camaraderie, along with a side of pizza and then walked with their parents over to the local ice cream stand for a sugar rush farewell.

I’ve been good with watching what I eat so I declined the ice cream and just sat down at one of the tables while the other girls and their parents stood in line. For some reason, eating a lot of that stuff now makes me gain weight and I can’t figure out why. It never used to do that. Regardless, I did enjoy watching the girls giggling with each other and discussing the season while vanilla ice cream ran down their arms. Early summer fun at it’s finest.

At one point, I noticed a familiar woman standing in line with her daughter as well. Someone I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was a girl I went to school with so I went over to say hello.

It was fun catching up with her in the short time we were there. We laughed discussing what all of our classmates were doing now and the lives they were leading. “Wasn’t it just yesterday we were all in science class together?” I thought. “Yes, it must have been”. But then I did the unthinkable. I asked her if she could believe that next year was going to be our 25th class reunion and in retrospect, I think that’s what was the precursor to what happened next.

After sitting back down with my daughter at the table she quickly made a public service announcement. “All team members sit at this table!” she proclaimed. At which point, a gaggle of girls started sitting down at the table with us. It sure felt great to be enjoying a moment with my baby girl and her teammates. Apparently though, one of the girls thought something was out-of-place at the table.

The little whipper snapper pointed to another table where parents were sitting, looked at me and snidley said: “This table is for the girls, THAT table over there is for the OLD people”.  I quickly tried to think of something to say, a witty comeback perhaps. Sadly, all I could muster was “Hey, I’m not old YOU’RE old!!” But all that did was cause the rest of the girls to jump to her defense. You’ve got to love the way teammates stick up for each other.

Eventually, and after much resistance, I slowly got up and walked over to the other men and women who were more close to my height ( I refuse to say “age”).  And do not for a minute think that me leaving the table is an admission that I am actually “old” because I’m not. The fact is, I could have battled those girls all night. I just didn’t want to make them look bad in front of their parents. No, in my mind, I’m still as young as I want to be. No matter what any ten-year old thinks.

On the drive home, and while she was looking out the window, I got even with my daughter for the comment about team members sitting at the table. I stuck my index finger in my mouth, moistened it and then reached over and gave her the wet willy. “DAD!! KNOCK IT OFF!”, she screamed as I laughed out loud.

There I go again, being childish.

Childhood Memories, Life

Go Fishing

Good weekend. Have you ever gotten lucky enough to spend time on the water? Yeah, fishing. Sometimes it’s not about the fishing it’s about that talk and the people. When it’s deep enough it is life long. Go fishing.

~ Frankie Sullivan

I read that post today and it conjured up memories of a time long past for me.  Carefree days of youth that up until this very moment I had recessed deeply in my mind. Fishing was never something I was very into doing. Quite frankly, it’s something I haven’t done in a quite a long time and after today, I’m beginning to wonder why that’s been the case.

Not too far from my home runs the Bushkill Creek, once a popular water way for local fishermen and one that was also well-loved by most children who grew up during the early 1980’s. The coolness factor of the creek for kids was actually two-fold: for not only did the flowing waters of the creek run adjacent to the Crayola Crayon factory but its waters also ran next to a hundred year old amusement park, now long since closed, but one that my family visited religiously every summer while I was growing up.

On many weekends during those same warm summer days, days when “back to school” was not even a blip on the radar, my father would gather the rod and tackle box, hustle me into our ’77 Malibu and take me fishing at the Bushkill Creek.

Making our way down the hillside towards the creek with my pole dangling back and forth was exhilarating. The challenge that awaited: casting a piece of string with bait attached into the water and waiting. Waiting for a strike.

To a ten-year old boy there simply was nothing that compared to the opportunity of catching a trout in front of your father. It was better than coming home with an “A” on a test or hitting a home-run in Little League. I surmise it’s the same feeling you get while watching the announcement of Power Ball numbers on television. The build-up of excitement you get as each number called matches the one on your ticket. The opportunity you sometimes get of only needing one more number to win the jackpot. In reality though, fish or no fish, just being there with my father was like winning the lottery.

If I think back hard enough I can still picture the mist rising off of the creek and feel the warm breeze on my face. There really is something to be said for being next to a body of water. Most of the time, if we were lucky, there would not be another soul around either. It would just be me and my father alone. Not far from our house but still one with nature.

Silence was golden during our trips to the creek too. The fish required it and we were happy to oblige. But there’s also a certain “language” used between fishermen that only they can understand. Anticipating what each one is doing and assisting as necessary. So while I quietly opened the tackle box, my father, without saying a word, would begin adjusting our poles for proper casting. The only sounds made was the squeal of the reel and the “plop” of bait into sea. At this point, we’d both sit on the ground and then…silence.

Silence.

At a certain point during our time together I’d find myself shuffling closer to my father with my legs dangling over the edge of the creek. I wasn’t really sure why I did it. As a child, perhaps it was because I assumed that by doing so some of his “grown-up” fishing magic would rub off on me. But in retrospect and with my own wisdom of years I now know that it was simply the need to just to be closer to him.

After a few unsuccessful hours we’d begin packing up our gear. My father would pat me on the back and we’d make our way empty-handed back up the hill and steer off towards home. On the drive home, and with the sun beginning to set on another perfect day, we’d make a pact with each other to try again the following weekend. Only this time with success.

You know, in all of the fishing expeditions my father and I took together to the Bushkill Creek I don’t ever recall getting anything more than a single bite or two. And I don’t think I personally ever actually caught a single fish either.

Instead, I caught something even better.

Thanks Frankie.

Life

Communication

Wanna know why it’s so much fun to hang out with me? Nope, it’s not because I used to be able to cook a mean pierogie, or keep my eyes focused at all times in a gym locker room or even solve a rubiks cube. (All of which are TRUE by the way)

No, what makes me so cool is that every once in a while, if you’re really lucky, you’ll witness something crazy and unpredictable from me. Like the time I single handedly tried to stop a car from hitting my house as it rolled down the hill in neutral. It was the irristiable force and I was the immovable object. At least that’s what I thought. Ok, the car won….that time. I still have the battle scar to prove it.

But the real case in point is this: a few summer’s ago my niece had just moved in to a new apartment. It was in one of those cozy half-double houses. You know the ones I mean, where the upstairs part is one apartment and the downstairs another. The tenants then mutually share this tiny fenced in back yard.

Well, it was her son’s third birthday party and I was invited over. Having never been to this new place I was curious to see what it was like.

I parked out front and was immediately called by my niece into the back yard where the festivities were being set up. “Nice place” I thought to myself as I strolled past the front porch and into the backyard. I had lived in a place similar to this years ago and this seemed like a good first apartment.

After entering the small yard and greeting the aforementioned niece and birthday boy I asked where my brother was. “He’s inside”, I was told as I made my way towards the door.

As I’m sure you must know, with a last name of Wood it is only natural that at some point in your life someone would have given you the nickname “Woody”. Sure, there are lots of Woody’s that have held this title over the years but at this point in time, that honor now fell upon my brother, Louis. So as I strolled through the back door into the kitchen looking for “Woody”, I thought of just what I would say to greet my brother “Woody” when I met him this time.

You have to understand, in addition to the nickname, there are also certain, uh, shall we say, “customs” that come with being a member of the Wood family. Ones that can fill volumes of books in a library. But there’s only one that’s a rite of passage. One that keeps most of us out of jail. It’s the vernacular we use with each other. It’s our own form of “jive”. Similar to the ways insects communicate with each other through their antenna or birds chirp in certain patterns to send messages, we “Woods” have our own form of communication. Particularly Woods from the South Side of Easton. Go figure.

Over the years we’ve developed our primitive language too. We’ve grown away from pronouncing consonants as they should, dropping two letter words from sentences and using simple phrases like “How are you doing?”.  Instead, when greeting each other, we prefer to use the more dramatic “WASSSUP?” with the emphasis being on dragging the “UP” part of the word out for as long as possible. So, “Wassup?” now becomes “WASSSSSUUUUUUUP?”….It was more than just salutation, it was brotherhood. And in this case, in the literal sense as well.

So as I’m walking into the kitchen I see this younger girl and another person walking out towards me. Obviously, these were friends of my niece and as friends I figured they would surely know where Woody was at. Everyone knows Woody! So, using all the power from years of experience in speaking “Woodese”,  I asked them point-blank in the common tongue:

“YO….WASSSUPPP??? WHAT BE GOIN ON? WHERE WOODY AT?”….

They looked at me kind of puzzled in silence… Were they shocked at my skill level? Perhaps. So I said it again: “YO YO YO – WHERE BE WOODY”?

Again no reply. Hesitation…..awkwardness. Until finally, one of them spoke up. This time in English:

“Uhm, I think you have the wrong apartment”.

So, I am standing there in the middle of this stranger’s kitchen. Now knowing that my niece’s apartment was actually UPSTAIRS and having just violated the number one rule of Wood Club….”NEVER TALK LIKE WOOD CLUB OUTSIDE OF WOOD CLUB”.

The sweat began to bead down my brow and I knew I had to do something fast to make amends of the situation. So I said what any self-respecting individual would say:

“Oh, I’m so sorry” and then quietly did the walk of shame back into the yard.

Everyone got a big laugh out of it. My niece and the real Woody were in tears about it. Even my Mom came over laughing hysterically and said, “You know, this one ranks right up there with that pierogie episode”…

Thanks Mom.

Life, Thought and Opinion

Old Man Nudity

Ah, there’s just something about going to the gym that’s exhilarating. I love the feel of pushing the plates. Getting that one last rep. Going beyond failure. Stretching the body to the limit. The magic of the “pump” and how good you feel afterwards. But alas, there is also one thing I hate and will never really understand about gyms.

Old man nudity.

It never fails. Every time I enter the dressing room at LA Fitness I am greeted by the sight of at least one fat, bare assed individual who one: absolutely seems to have no business being in the gym in the first place and second and more importantly, has no problem with taking extended periods of time to get dressed.

Now please don’t get me wrong. I’m as comfortable with my naked body as the next person. I have no problem with nudity. I was born that way. I also shower daily in said manner. In fact, on the opposite sex I even find it very attractive.

My problem is seeing individuals who should not be “skivee” or toweless at all in public let alone taking their good old sweet time to become “un-nude”…. I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that there should be some kind of requirement on the length of time a man can be naked when in front of a group of people in a social situation such as being in a gym locker room.

I figure thirty seconds from the time you remove your towel to put on at least your underpants isn’t being all that unreasonable.

Although I’ve never personally showered there, I do swim on occasion and unfortunately have the need to be sans clothes while changing out of my swimsuit. Not to brag, but I’ve clocked my time from the final towel drop (and exposure) to underwear at waist and came in at under ten seconds. That includes full drying of necessary areas prior to getting dressed. I’ve been working up to that time since swimming class in high school and am damn proud of it. In fact, I think if I were a woman I could get the bra on in another two or three seconds easy. That’s how good I am. My point being, if I can do it, anyone can.

I can’t even begin to count how many times I’ve had to change my clothes from street to gym (or vice versa) to the view of old fat guys toweling off and letting it all hang out. Shaving, combing their hair, scratching their belly – doesn’t matter. It’s the Garden of Eden at the LA Fitness. And they are damned proud of it. No Eve’s reside here (although from what I hear, they have their own little sanctuary in the next room). But suffice to say, there are plenty of little snakes roaming around. And this sure ain’t no garden I want to be in.

What I don’t understand is why these people seem to have no care in the world that they are showcasing their belly rolls and “winkies” for the world to see. This isn’t Rio Pops. No nudist colonies in this part of town. I’m really glad you’re comfortable with your body. That makes one of us. But is it really too much to ask to put a towel around your waist while you’re standing in front of the mirror shaving?

I’ve even seen dudes having long conversations about work while just standing there in the nude. Without even the inkling to reach for their clothes. Does being in your birthday suit make the conversation more fun?

Maybe it’s like a game. You know, one where you engage someone in conversation while you’re nude knowing that sooner or later the other guy is going to look down at your manhood. And the challenge is to go as long as possible without looking down.

I really feel like complaining to management. But seriously, what would I say? I’ve gone over it many times in my head and the best I could come up with is: “Uhm yes, I am trying to change my clothes in the locker room and there’s this fat old Jewish man standing in the buff next to me having a serious conversation with his buddy and its making me uncomfortable….Can you please enforce the thirty second no nude rule? And NO, I will NOT tell you why I think he’s Jewish”……Yeah, like THAT would go over.

Why can’t there be a third locker room for these jokers? Put them in a dark room with black light. A disco ball. Let them towel slap each other and recite poetry for all I care. Something. ANYTHING! Just keep them away from me so I can change.

Sadly, aside from me setting up a home gym, which is not in the cards, there is ultimately no escape from watching these guys perform the full monty.

Sometimes I find myself changing at work in the men’s room prior to heading to the gym in the afternoon. Sure, the cleaning guy might catch me but at least he knows my name. These guys don’t care who you are.  It’s more like: “Look at ME…Look at ME!!!!”. Unforunately, I can’t do that all the time and will inevitably find myself back in the bowels of the LA Fitness locker room. Where believe me, it’s only a matter of time until I reach down to tie my sneakers and rise up to find my head next to Jabba The Hut’s hairy ass. It will happen. Trust me.

Oh, the things I do to stay fit.

1980's, Childhood Memories, Life

School Daze

The last time I roamed the halls at the current Easton Area Middle School it was still called Shawnee Intermediate School. Although additions were made structurally and the grade levels and names may have changed the building itself is still pretty much the way I remember it to be from when I was a student in the early 1980’s.

Today was a special chance for me to spend the entire day with my daughter at her school and see what a typical day for her is like. Suffice to say, it had an impact on me.

First off let just say that there are several things that I’ll always remember from my time spent at Shawnee:

1. The Planetarium. The absolute coolest place in the school. The only time where if a visit to the planetarium was included as part of an assembly kids got excited.  Sadly, today it’s just a normal room now.

2. Shawnee was the place where I first heard of the band Duran Duran.

3. Reading the book 1984 by George Orwell in Mr. Pfister’s English class in the year, yep you guessed it, 1984.

4. Going to Mr. Heath’s Earth Science class where every morning began with him literally giving us the weather forecast. Mr. Heath would have a map of the US taped on the board complete with approaching cold/warm fronts and “H” and “L” letters representing the respective pressure systems.

5. Dale Wilson carrying around a briefcase and self-publishing his own newspaper. Why this one sticks out is a mystery to me.

Regardless, I thought of all of these things as my daughter and I walked through the doors this morning. Although I felt safe and secure, seeing the levels of security on campus reminded me that about the only thing still relevant in these hallowed halls was that big brother was now watching more than ever.

After spending the morning having breakfast we made our way to her homeroom. Once there I was quickly introduced to one of her classmates named Eric. Upon meeting me he immediately asked Jillian, “Does he know about David?”. “SHUT UP!” Jillian replied as Eric just chuckled. Later I would ask her what that was all about and Jillian told me that Eric thinks she likes David, another student in her class (one which she is quick to say she doesn’t)… Ah, young love.

It wasn’t long before the class clown/troublemaker made his presence known. Chad (name changed to protect the innocent), a ten year old boy who looked more like a linebacker was literally dancing around making “beat-box” sounds when the teacher’s back was turned. I think the level of commotion going on and students asking questions made her oblivious to his actions. Other kids were cracking up at his antics and as soon as the teacher turned back around he immediately would stop. Then sure enough, as soon as the teacher went back to work in a small group he’d act up again.

I had to laugh when I thought what the odds would be if I came back five years from now and Chad was still in the same class beat boxing?

BRRRING….School bell rang and it’s off to music class. My favorite. Usually there would be two periods of math but since she was signed up for band  I got to sit with Jillian in a small group for clarinet lesson.

When the bell rang again we made our way to Math class. As we arrived the teacher, who was working out a problem on the board asked “Were you at music?”. When Jillian responded in the affirmative the teacher replied, “Oh, too bad. You missed some really great problems here”. It was all I could do to keep from saying: “Uhm, yeah…right…SURE she did!”..

Before I knew it lunch had arrived. We scurried our way into the lunch line. A smile appeared on my face when I discovered the tater tots were exactly as I remembered. Memories of the second period lunch at the high school flooded my senses.

About the only thing I lamented about lunch was that there were no green beans. Oh how I missed stabbing the green veggies with my straw. Trying to see how high I could fill the plastic straw before squeezing it’s contents back out on to the cardboard tray.

As we ate I asked Jillian what was next. “Science Class”, she replied. “But our normal teacher is not here today. We have a substitute”.

Substitute. That word triggered the memory of Mr. Stone, the universal substitute teacher in school. Mr. Stone worked as a substitute in pretty much every subject and to this day I’m not even sure what he was experienced to teach. When he was in for a sick teacher it was like study hall because nothing was about the only thing accomplished.

After Science, we made our way back to homeroom and then the funniest thing ever happened.  The teacher wanted to take attendance again and she asked students to please acknowledge with a “Here” when their name was called. Now. most well behaved students would simply give the “here” as their name was called, although some thought to give more cool responses like “Yo” or “Hi There”. But when the teacher called out Chad’s name, he decided to answer with the “beat box”. The teacher asked him to answer properly, but the damage to me was already done.

I laughed…and I laughed…and I laughed. For some reason, him doing the beat box at that particular moment in time hit my funny bone. I was covering my face looking down at the desk with tears started coming from my eyes. I don’t know what it was that was so damn funny when he did that, but I almost had to leave the room. All the kids, including my own Jillian sat there laughing at me laughing. I don’t know how I was able to pull it together, but class continued.

The day ended with of all things an assembly. We entered the auditorium to watch The Bach Choir of Bethlehem perform a few selections. Maybe its because I’m in a choir myself or perhaps because I’m well beyond the middle school years but in either case I found them to be very entertaining.

As we walked out of school and headed home I had a new found appreciation for my daughter. Seeing her interact with others, openly raising her hand to ask questions and actively participate in school is quite the opposite of the way I was. I thought about all the memories she would now be making in these halls over the next four years.

And I couldn’t be more proud.

Life, Thought and Opinion

The Things We Take For Granted

It was a rainy Sunday morning at the Wood Estate. I had just poured a cup of coffee and made the excursion out to pick up the Sunday newspaper which was sitting in a soaked plastic bag at the bottom of my driveway.

I know that in this digital age of technology I could have just popped open my laptop and browsed the news websites but the feeling of physically holding a newspaper and reading the headlines is one of the things I’ve just grown accustomed to.

While perusing the usual headlines of economic decline and political bickering I came across the movie listings. Something I typically just browse right over unless by chance I’ve already made plans to see a movie and needed to know the showtimes. This was not one of those days.

And yet I found myself stopping in mid page turn and going back to the listings to see what was playing at the two drive-in movie theaters we have in the area. 

As most people know, drive ins are on the endangered species list and I thought about making plans to take the family before summer ends. I always enjoyed the experience of going to a drive in movie growing up. I even worked at one as my first job out of high school.

All the while a voice in the back of my head was telling me that it’s already the middle of August and soon school will be starting and work will start getting busier again. The plan of my car covered in popcorn and soda might end up falling by the wayside but I justified it by thinking “Ah, the drive-in will always be there”.

But would it? All it takes is one bad year and the headline “Drive In To Close” could greet me in a future Sunday newspaper.

There are so many things we take for granted in the course of life. Little things, big things. Some that seem meaningless at the time. I found myself thinking about such things.

Real Things:

Our family: Grandparents, parents, aunt and uncles, brothers and sisters. We always think they’ll just “be around” until the day they no longer are.

Our children: Even though they grow up so quickly we always seem to take for granted the days that they’ll be the little toddler, the ten-year old playing softball or the bratty teenager. It never really hits us hard until they’re receiving their diploma and leaving the nest for new horizons. I wager I’m going to feel a huge emptiness on that day.

Simple Things:

The smell of honey suckle: I wrote about this in a previous post about motorcycle riding when I first reunited with a fragrance that signified the innocence of my childhood and running through fields.

How long until huge housing developments tear up the fields and make it obsolete?

Obscure Things:

The sun and the moon: These little spheres have been doing their thing in the sky forever. Without them, we’d be living in a block of ice and there’d be no high and low tides. But have you ever noticed the moon up there in the night sky and thought to yourself that people like Jesus, George Washington and Beethoven all walked under it the same way we do now? Probably not. But maybe you will tomorrow or the next day because it’ll still be there.

These are all things we don’t pay much attention to due to all the hustle and bustle of our lives. And why? Because we’ve taken for granted the fact that they’ll always be there. Always there for that one day when we actually want to call them, smell them, admire them.

As I closed the newspaper I thought more about making a family excursion to the drive-in. We can’t go tonight, it’s going to be raining. Maybe next weekend if the weather is better.

There I go again.

Childhood Memories, Life, Motorcycle

The Five Senses of Motorcycle

It’s a beautiful summer day in mid July. The kind where the temperature is just perfect. By that I mean not overbearingly hot or humid which is typically the norm for this time of year.

I think I’m going to take my motorcycle for a ride. In fact, a day like this pretty much requires it. Riding a bike on a day like this is spiritual catharsis.

I’m not one of those people who has to ride the bike everywhere I go. To me, motorcycle riding is sacred. I’ll never ride my bike on the highway on long trips. Not just because of the danger factor but also because it’s pointless.

I’ve come to the conclusion that any thing that requires using a “from here to there” means of transportation is what a car is for.

In fact, other than two wheels, there is another huge difference between cars and bikes. Cars are meant for “driving” while bikes are meant for “riding”.

People often ask me what makes riding one so special. It’s easy to explain.

Have you ever driven in a convertible? Do you remember that feeling you had of the top being down? The wind in your hair? Well, imagine that times ten. That’s what it’s like on a bike. 

Also, when you ride you immediately become a member of an exclusive club with full benefits. For you see, there’s a special camaraderie among motorcyclists too.

It’s the only means of transportation where, no matter what kind of bike you have, when you pass someone coming in the opposite direction of you also riding a motorcycle expect a head nod or to be waved to. It took me a few times to figure out what that salute was all about. 

It’s actually a means of communication between two motorcyclists. A language only we can understand. We’re both members in a special club. Essentially, it’s saying we are one in the same.

Motorcycling to me is all about the experience. It fuels the senses. Every last one of them. Even if it’s a simple trip through the back roads to clear your head. There is nothing in the world that can compare to the feeling of being in control of a motorcycle.

Let me explain what I mean by fueling the senses:

Seeing: When you’re out on the road you have a better visual of the world. From the green pastures to the asphalt. The beautiful sky, the animals of the forest and the old structures you pass near farm lands is simply breathtaking. You can take in as little or as much as you want. There are no limits.

Riding without the constraints of a car surrounding you puts you more in tune with nature.

Hearing: The sound of the bike as you shift gears is exhilarating. Listening to the water fall as you drive past the creek or the birds chirping makes you one with it.

Smelling: I still remember the first time I smelled honeysuckle while riding my bike past a field. It was a smell I hadn’t sensed since I was a child. It’s always there but, like many other things, I was always too busy to immerse myself in it.

Then there’s the smell of fresh bread as you drive past Maiers bakery. Can there be anything better? Only perhaps the smell of someone cooking out on the grill. It gives you the feeling that there’s a picnic somewhere you need to get to.

Touching: One hand on the gas and the other one on the clutch. The feeling of power and control. Sounds corny I know, but it’s true.

There’s also the temperature change element. You really feel the coolness on your skin as you wind your way into “cool spots” along your journey.

Finally, the touch of a beautiful woman holding on to your waist as you drive her through the back roads is a feeling that words just can not express.

In summation, riding a motorcycle is freedom. Do it safely and it’s almost like flying. There’s no need to be in a hurry. You can clear your head, relive your childhood, stop and smell the roses, be with someone special. In a nutshell, it’s the best of everything. So, yeah, I think I’m going to indulge.

Oops, I almost forgot the most important sense when riding a motorcycle.

Easily summed up: When you ride a motorcycle, you taste life.

So, who wants to ride with me?

Childhood Memories, Life, Pets

For The Love of A Pet

It was just your typical blistering hot Sunday afternoon in July. I had just completed mowing half of my lawn and cultivating the care packages my dogs had deposited on it. Now I needed to take a break lest I die of heat exhaustion

As I sought refuge from the heat of the summer sun and with nothing else to do, I found myself in my office looking at old books and magazines I had accumulated.

After going through quite a bit of the outdated stuff I never look at and pledging to eventually get around to throwing a bunch of it out, I noticed an odd volume I hadn’t seen in quite a while. Much to my surprise, amidst the guitar song books and fitness magazines was an old photo album.

As far as I’m concerned, family photo albums are useless most of the time. They just sort of lie around and take up space. Oh sure, there’s plenty of memories in every Kodak moment. But the unfortunate thing is, the only time most people look at photo albums is right after a loved one goes off to college, gets married or passes away.

Even then, the manual of memories is only useful for short-term therapy. Once the grief of the separation has been accepted the book, much like the family bible, goes back to collecting dust. But on this afternoon for no apparent reason, marriage or death included, I decided to have a look-see.

I began by taking a trip down memory lane through my old baby pictures. Ones I’ve looked at hundreds of times. Nothing really “new” to see there. I quickly passed through photos of long ago Christmases and summer days at the pool but all that did was remind me I still needed to finish mowing the other half of my lawn. I was beginning to understand just why this book is only useful for therapy.

As I turned the page again I came to section of pictures from my youth that made me forget about the lawn. For there in front of me were photographs of the pets I had growing up. And one photo in particular caught my eye immediately: Me and Susie.

Susie was the name of my first cat. A white cat with one green eye and one blue eye. A color combination that’s not at all uncommon in white cats but back then it was the coolest thing to tell your friends that your cat had two different colored eyes.

I recalled how, thirty some odd years ago, if I would hold my hand out above her with my palm facing down, she would jump up and rub her head across it. I bet not many cats could do what Susie could do. To a seven-year old boy, she was something special.

As I remembered all the good times with Susie, I soon came across another picture. This one taken a few years later of me and another cat, Fuzzy. Ironically enough, Fuzzy was the offspring of Susie and pretty much adopted me as his own. Where ever I went, Fuzzy went. He was my home boy and we were tight for years.

Of course, seeing those two cats now opened the floodgates of the pets I’ve owned over the years. I began seeking out pictures in the album of all of the critters that have gone through life with me.

There was Sheba: the Siberian Husky, Scruffy: the mutt, Mitzi: the black kitten I found under a car and wound up keeping. And the list goes on.

More recently, there’s been Timmy: the Shih-Tzu, Baci: the Pekingese and Stanley:the fat, orange tabby cat. I even had another white cat a few years ago named, wait for it, Snowy. She didn’t have Susie’s eye combination though. Her’s were both green. All of these pets have long since gone off to the Rainbow Bridge but hold a special place in my heart.

The funny thing is, looking at all these pictures didn’t make me sad to realize that they were all gone. It was different kind of therapy. Looking at their faces and remembering all the good times we shared together was encouraging. It only helped reinforce what I already knew: I’m a huge pet lover.

Today, my pets include two Boston Terriers (Sparky and Bruno) and two cats (Samantha and Marigold) in addition to Pokey my 25-year-old cockatiel, which I discussed in a previous blog.

I enjoyed getting to spend some time with the pets I’ve had over the years. It’s hard to imagine what life would have been like for me without them growing up. Sometimes you need that little reminder that you’re human and have compassion. I suddenly couldn’t wait to get outside later and play fetch with my dogs.

As I closed the photo album and started to head back outside to the lawn it occurred to me that maybe what they say about animal companions is true:

Pets aren’t our whole life, they just make our lives whole.

Feel free to share your pet stories in the comments section.

 

Art, Life, NY Ink

NY Ink-ed

I’ve been surrounded by tattoos pretty much my entire life. I’ve seen the tramp stamps and the Dallas Cowboys logos. Met the “Keep on Truckin” man up close. I’ve seen cartoon characters and witnessed wizards and their crystal balls casting spells along shoulder blades and caricatures of marijuana plants on forearms. Yep, if it’s a generic type of tattoo, I’ve probably been exposed to it.

About the only types of tats I’ve never seen up close are the Popeye anchor and the original old school “Mother” one sailors used to obtain after long voyages at sea. Although I’m sure I could still find a few if I searched hard enough on some nursing home tenant’s upper arms.

My uncle even ran a small tattoo business out of his house when I was growing up so it’s safe to say that pretty much everyone on my side of the family, with the exception of me and my mother, has at least one tat on some location of their body. Well, that is of course unless Mom’s been keeping hers a secret. Then it’s just me.

I’ve never gotten a tattoo in my life and haven’t even been in a studio for that matter. I’ve passed by quite a few of them in my travels but never had the urge to go in. Kind of strange since I also consider myself an artist.

Drawing, painting, songwriting – I’ve pretty much run the gambit of art but I’ve never gotten into the whole tattoo thing. Even when my own relatives were lining up at “Uncle Sam’s Southlands Tattoo Shop” up the block I never went. Not even to sit there and chuckle as they writhed in pain. No, I had no interest in even seeing how it was done.

So with all of this skin art surrounding me you may be wondering why I didn’t also partake in the merriment. Perhaps it was all the bad tattoos I’d see or the muddy green color that initially turned me off to them. But the truth is the biggest reason is that I don’t think there’s any type of script or picture that could be tattooed on me that I wouldn’t get tired of seeing on my body at some point.

That cute little Tazmanian Devil tat isn’t something you can just wash off if you grow tired of it. And what I think may be cool at the moment may not be as cool a week, month or year from now. I’m also not about to put something forever on my body by just looking through a book and seeing what strikes my fancy at that particular moment.

It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that everything changed for me and the real possibility of eventually getting a tattoo entered into my head. I was stumbling through the high-end cable channels and came across a marathon of NY Ink episodes.

NY Ink is a show on TLC which follows the events of a famous tattoo artist, Ami James, as he opens a tattoo studio in New York City. After watching the first few minutes of it I almost immediately became hooked.

The built up drama and confrontations among the staff was over the top at times but I realized they needed that for good television. But I found myself more interested in seeing how the whole tattoo process worked and one of the artists in particular, Megan Massacre.

Here’s how the whole process would play out: A client would come into the studio for an appointment with Megan. After showing her a picture of what kind of tattoo they had in mind Megan would go draw up an incredible rendition of the idea on a stencil, place the template on the selected portion of the body and, after approval, would tattoo it.

I found myself fascinated not only with the whole needle, art and ink concept but also the conversations between Megan and her client. I began to understand that getting a tattoo can have a much deeper meaning then just being cool or wanting a picture of some dude smoking a blunt.

As Megan tattooed her client she would ask the person to tell her why they selected the tattoo. Usually, the person would tell her an interesting story as to why that particular piece was decided upon.

I would listen to stories of heartbreak and redemption as Megan applied color and wiped off excess ink. Some tattoos were of symbols or script gotten in remembrance of a lost relative while others were of dream catchers to symbolize family unity. The stories behind the tattoos were what really hooked me in and Megan’s artwork was incredible.

After watching several episodes and seeing all of the artists do their work I decided that if I ever were to get a tattoo, I would want Megan to do the job. First of all, she’s an incredible artist but she’s also in an occupation that is almost exclusively dominated by men and I’m all about the underdog.

But what tattoo would I get and what would my “story” be?

I like to think that it might be something musical since that’s been my passion. Something with a lot of color it. Blues and reds would be a good starting point. I suppose my story would involve something about my life as a crazy musician.

As I pondered the question as to what I’d consider, the following ideas were quickly rejected:

A photograph: Some people get their children, parents or grandparents faces tattooed on them. No matter how life-like it turns out I don’t think I’d want someone’s face on my chest.

A sports team logo or band name: What if I change teams? What if that team moves and changes their logo? What if the band breaks up? And besides, I’d look awful silly with a Seattle Seahawks or REO Speedwagon tat on my arm. No, what ever it would wind up being would have to have a deeper meaning.

So even after years of having no desire or ever visiting my uncle’s tattoo shop, after seeing Megan’s work I went from a definite “NO” to a “Maybe” as to whether or not I’ll ever get a tattoo.

In the end though, whether or not I do get one, it’s really not what type you get or how many tattoos you have.

It’s how comfortable you are in your own skin.

Life, Summer

OCMD 2011

It’s been years since I’ve been down to Ocean City, Maryland for vacation but on the drive down I quickly remembered how thankful I was that they opened that new stretch of Route 1 that runs adjacent to Route 13 past Philadelphia. It literally saves you an hour in drive time through Delaware by not having to stop at all those pesky traffic lights every damn block.

This time around for vacation my wife and I allowed our daughter Jillian to take a friend along which was another thing to be thankful for. She’s at that age now where she needs to be moving or doing something constantly and only another human being of her age, sex and stature will keep her parents from going insane.

We made exceptional time for a Sunday. In fact, I think we hit Route 50 (the main hub into Ocean City) in a little over three hours and coming from Easton that’s quite an achievement. However; my driving, and parenting skills would be put to the test just three miles from our resort. Traffic came to a crawl as we approached and at some points even a complete stop for several minutes.  As the heat of the early July summer pounded the car the air conditioning did little to bring down the rising temperature of my rage as I was forced to listen to Jillian and her friend make up all kinds of scenarios on how they could get to the resort faster if I would only just let them out and walk.  After sixty minutes of bumper to bumper traffic and listening to how they could jog, ride a scooter or hitchhike there quicker, we finally arrived at our destination.

Spending the Fourth of July holiday in Ocean City, or any vacation destination for that matter, can definitely wear you down. Sometimes it doesn’t even seem like a vacation. Aside from the traffic and lack of parking there’s the hustle and bustle of the crowd and the long lines at nearly everything you want to do or see but we made the best of it.

I have to say that the fireworks display on the Fourth of July in Ocean City rival those in Philadelphia and other big cities. They definitely did it right. There’s nothing quite like celebrating America under a brilliant display of color coming off the boardwalk while simultaneously keeping vanilla soft serve from running down your arm. A hot summer challenge I think every one should take at some point in their lives.

The next day was “Beach Day” and was spent with Jillian and her friend braving the waves of the Eastern shore as we watched the wild ponies mingle with guests. It’s certainly one of the strangest sites you’ll ever see. Big, brown horses that just roam wild along the beaches of Assateague Island.

The way they majestically stand on the beach always reminds me of the covers of those Harlequin romance novels my Mom used to read. All that was missing was Fabio and some beautiful blond female in need of rescuing. I was more than happy to just sit there and read my own novel near them, provided of course, that they had the courtesy to not relieve themselves in my vicinity.

Perhaps the best day of the entire trip was the following one: “Boardwalk Day”. This is the day most parents dread because it depletes the bank account quicker then a stock market plunge. Jillian was quite adamant about playing those so-called games of skill. You know the ones, where you spend a million dollars to win a paper airplane.

As I gazed high above the booth at the humongous stuffed creatures you would “win” if you could only sink just one over-sized basketball into a tiny basket I wondered how many people have actually accomplished this feat. My guess was zero and it dawned on me that the way children mindlessly spend money playing these near impossible to win games on boardwalk piers and carnivals only preps them for the years they will mindlessly spend money in casino slot machines during their adult lives.

Turns out though, Jillian was actually quite good at a few of the games. Not enough to sink a basket or popping a balloon with a dull dart (games we thankfully avoided) but enough to win a few stuffed animals that will no doubt collect dust back at home with no recollection of where she got them from.

After spending her college tuition the day finally came to close and we walked passed the dreaded water gun game. This is the game where you shoot a continuous (monotonous) stream of water at a target and see whose LED light status board gets to the top the quickest.

As we approached the booth I noticed a little girl, who could be no more than 4, getting ready to play the game with her Mom and Dad standing by. No one else was around as Dad helped prop her up onto a seat and tried to show her how to operate the water pistol.

It was at that moment, over the smell of funnel cake and french fries, that I heard the catcalls from the vendor: “One more person to win any prize…I need one more person to win ANY prize”.

Well that was all that Jillian needed to hear. As she quickly sat down and assumed the shooting position I noticed Dad suddenly taking a reluctant interest in the game himself. I noted that his motive was now to help ensure victory for his little girl. He ponied up additional funds and took his place next to his daughter.

Ready. Set. GO!

The streams of water hit their intended targets and I watched the LED lights go up neck and neck between my daughter and Dad. Obviously, there would be no challenge coming from his little girl. This was a “two-man” contest. I could feel my heart race watching my little girl take on a challenger at least three times her age. It was a battle of David and Goliath proportions. Ok, maybe not that extreme but it was exciting none-the-less.

The alarm sounded ending the game and the flashing light above Jillian’s head indicated she had vanquished her foe.  As Jillian chose a big stuffed purple dog as her prize I noticed that Dad, now a bit dejected, was packing up his little girl and with Mom in tow began the slow walk of shame. Jillian noticed too. She looked at me and with a quick smile turned and walked towards the little girl.

I watched her ask the little girls’ Mom and Dad if she could give her the prize she had just won. “Hailey, look what this little girl wants to give you”, her Mom said. Hailey took the purple dog from Jillian and gave it the biggest hug I’ve ever seen. Had Hailey “won” the water pistol game, her prize would not be anywhere near as huge as the one she had just been given. As the family walked away I knew that Jillian had just made that little girl’s day just from that one little act of kindness.

It was then that I recalled a memory of my own from our last trip to Ocean City. Ironically enough, just a few blocks down the boardwalk from where we were standing the exact same situation happened with a then four year old Jillian.

As I tried to win a prize for her with our last bit of money we were both bested by another water gun expert. The winner then offered up her prize to Jillian, a stuffed Elmo doll that she still has to this day.

Strangely enough, with all the time we spent that year at the beach, walking the boardwalk and seeing the wild ponies, that stuffed Elmo was the most memorable thing about our trip to Ocean City. So I’m pretty sure that what Jillian did today for Hailey will also be a memory that family will treasure for years to come.