“You are invited to meet your single neighbors.” I may never stop screaming.
Charles Foster Kane couldn’t reclaim his Rosebud. Until a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t have told you my Rosebud’s name. I remember every bicycle I ever had . . . except for my first serious 10-speed, which somehow completely slipped my mind. I remember my very first bicycle, a red Columbia that cost $48 plus tax at Duane’s Toyland when I was in fourth grade, and which a local miscreant decided would be fun to steal from our back porch and smash into pieces in the schoolyard. On a school day. When he was supposed to have been in school. (By the way, still waiting for the promised restitution, you shit-heel.)
But I prevailed, and I got a new bike. From a bike store (Plane Boys), not a toy store. And it was on this bike, with its gum-walled 27″ tires, its cheap Suntour derailleur, Dia-Compe center-pull brakes and that outrageously angled fork, that I learned everything I know about bikes. I learned to really ride, to dismantle axles and replace ball bearings, and how to take a tuning fork to a rim to true it. I rode it for three or four years, all over the place, nearly every day. I rode it into the hills of Glenville, through the streets of Schenectady, out into the horse pasture that used to be Clifton Park, and did it all in sneakers and cut-offs (and in fact my range was quite limited by wet feet and wedgies). This bike took me everywhere and taught me an awful lot. Nearly every meaningful conversation I had with my friends, those kinds of friends you only have when you’re 15, I had while describing a slow circle around an intersection under a street light, atop my trusty bicycle.
I took my faithful machine to college with me, where it was stolen within the first couple of weeks. Despite all the memories and the trauma, somehow I have not, for years, been able to recall the name of the bike. I can remember every other bike I’ve ever owned, where I was when I heard songs that I absolutely hate, where my pet turtles are buried . . . but not for my life could I remember the name of that bike.
And then, thanks to the magical Internet, it comes rushing back to me. Some vintage bike blog mentioned the brand, which was Ross, and the light went off, and with a couple of clicks, there it was. The very bike. Absolutely in every way precisely the same bike. The Ross Professional Gran Tour. And honestly, seeing that picture, I was flooded with memories, touched in a way I could never have expected. Strong memories of sitting on the front sidewalk, my tiny Clear Creek Bike Book propped open with a rock, learning how to tear down a bottom bracket (with a chipped screwdriver and another rock as my available tools), of packing lunch in a knapsack and riding up into the Glenville hills, of competing with the other guys to see who could get across the village the fastest, or, sometimes, the slowest.
So there it is. My Rosebud. My Rossbud.
Never was there a weekend like this. Perfect temperature, endless sun, no wind. Biking, horseback riding, cinnamon donuts and Byrne Dairy chipwiches, and the most lovely paddle of the Moose River. My strategy of filling my boat racks once again worked to keep me from bringing another boat home from the Mountain Man, but it didn’t keep us from bringing other outdoor goodies home. We stayed in a cabin but would have been just as comfortable in a tent. The moon was full enough to engender an argument about whether it was truly full or not. If I never have another autumn weekend like that again, it was enough.
- When she first slept in our room, I was terrified that first night, listening the entire time for her to stop breathing. Since that night, even when she was away, she was always under some form of supervision, and we had some idea of where she was and who she was with. And then she posted on Facebook that she was going to a concert at SPAC. Didn’t know who was driving her or how late they’d be driving back, and of course wouldn’t even know that she got home safely. This had to happen eventually, but it was surprisingly unnerving.
- She called and wants to join a fraternity. This was so far out of my realm of experience and expectations that I didn’t know what to say. (Starting with the fact that she called, instead of texting.) My understanding of fraternities is solely as organizations dedicated to binge-drinking and date rape, and I don’t think she’s into either one. Recall that I demanded that she read “Smashed” before going off to college, and I don’t think she ever did. But this is her decision, her experience, not mine.
- She sent a note asking us to bring her knitting needles.
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Generally, I would say that Newark, New Jersey is best seen from the train. Securely wrapped in steel and moving right along. I’ve seen it the other way, too, and prefer the rails. But sometimes as I’m speeding through I see something I’d love to see better, and this building is one of them. It looks much larger than it appears in Street View, and much more imposing. For a long time, I don’t know if it was an old factory, an old school . . . perhaps a factory school. Either way, I thought it was lovely and severe at the same time, and has a quality that modern architecture never does.
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A quick look around the corner reveals that it’s the Murphy Varnish Company. I hope they were proud.
Update: Turns out it’s on the National Register of Historic Places, too.
What is there to say about what’s been going on in this corner of the world since tropical storm Irene started a dump of rain that has barely let up for a day since? Yesterday was another day of that mounting sinking feeling, compounded by being away and worried that I wouldn’t be able to get home. There was also substantial flooding down where I was, with delays and backups all over the place, and as I watched news feeds and Facebook and saw the bridge closings and evacuations up here all over again, it became hard to pay attention to anything other than whether I was going to have to get reacquainted with the Greyhound schedule in order to get home. In the end things were okay, a little delayed but the tracks didn’t go underwater.
Stunning to me is the damage to the Barge Canal. Infrastructure that has survived a hundred years has been damaged or destroyed in a system that was held together mostly by bobby pins and the good will and ingenuity of the people who run it. Underfunded and misunderstood, I can only hope that this is an opportunity for the Canal, that its importance will be recognized and its transformation from pure transportation to a phenomenal recreational resource will finally be understood. But it looks like it will be out of commission for the year, and some locks, bridges and dams may be seriously compromised.
There really couldn’t have been a better way to wrap up a summer, much as I would like it not to end. Went from too much free time in the last few summers to not nearly enough in this one, with a lot of travel and and a very slowly healing ileotibilial band. So when friends were gathering in one place and family was gathering in another, the bike had to be ridden to one or the other. Picked the first but decided to take the shorter route with the much steeper climb two-thirds through. I raced the BusPlus on the nice fresh pavement from the Capitol into Schenectady, where I left it in my dust. Took a couple of breaks to look at flood damage along the way through Scotia, and then had to hit the hill. Up Waters Road because I’ve done it before, but apparently amnesia set in and I didn’t remember there was a hump in the middle, which amounts to wasted climbing that I started to think I didn’t have my legs. Had a few minutes of bonk as the computer showed my speed in the single digits, and not some of the higher ones. But once I was up and over it, the last 15k or so were fine.
So a lazy, hazy day with old friends, the kind we see once a year but think of all the time, then a drive over to family to celebrate with a three-year-old who was much more interested in cake than presents, and back across the river again for a campfire and smores. A campfire and smores! What could be more fun? Well, perhaps singing along to Beatles and McCartney songs all the way home. All together, couldn’t have been a nicer time.
Love living in a region of rivers, but the post-Irene destruction really gave me a new appreciation for, and concern for, bridges. They were closing left and right last Monday, to protect from runaway barges, potential scouring, who knows what else. Yesterday, I crossed the Mohawk and Hudson 7 times in our running around. Miraculously, only one of the bridges, in Rotterdam Junction, is closed. The flooding has receded, leaving everything coated in clay and endless debris and very strong currents, so it may be a while before we can put the boats in again.
A lot of us are sending our kids off to college for the
first time. It’s stressful and exciting all at once, and I think if we just
remember some of what we learned when we went off to school, it can really make
things easier. So here are a few tips:
- Make sure your student knows how to dial long-distance. If
they haven’t done it often, it can be confusing. Since direct-dialing means
sitting in the phone booth with a pile of dimes, it’s best to just show him or
her how to make an operator-assisted collect call. Yes, collect calls cost more,
especially if they’re person-to-person, so tell her to make it a
- When calling your student, understand that he won’t always
remember to be by the hall phone at the appointed time, or there may be another
student using the phone. If another student answers, make sure you have your
student’s room number so the hallmate can easily check if they’re in. If not,
just ask them to leave a short message on the dry erase board.
- Mail time is the biggest moment of every student’s day. Even
a short letter from friends and family is a great way to stay in touch. Every
now and then, send a sheet of stamps so your student doesn’t run out. If your
student is particularly homesick, consider a mail subscription to the local
newspaper – it’ll bring a touch of home into her mailbox every day!
- Money is always in short supply for students. If your
student is close by, she may be able to keep a bank account with her home bank,
but if she’s going across state or out of state, she’ll need a new bank. If
you’re sending checks, remember they can take a week to 10 days to clear.
- Care packages are great, but don’t limit yourself to cookies
and Rice Krispie squares. Kids also need fresh typewriter ribbons and
Ko-Rec-Type. I know that as a student, I never had enough Ko-Rec-Type, and it’s