pillion project...

84 Low Ride

Pillion:(Wikipedia) A pillion is a secondary pad, cushion, or seat behind the main seat or saddle on a horse, motorcycle, or moped. A passenger in this seat is said to "ride pillion" or may themselves be referred to as a "pillion." The word is derived from the Gaelic for "little rug," pillean, which is itself from the Latin pellis for "animal skin." One or more pelts would often have been the form a secondary seat took on horseback, and the usage was carried over to motorcycles... [how I came to ride pillion, now that's another story]

Honda Shadow

Despite the marvelous sunshine this weekend, I could not catch a ride with my biker buddy. Oh well, an unfortunate peril of failing the BRC and not having my own wheels and endorsement to roll over our roads. Reminiscent of "the ride", I did manage to sift through old ride pics from summers past and noticed I've had the privilege to ride on several different bikes. Each picture evoked fond memories or shivers of their follies recalled. I might finally have enough valid experience for a viable comparison of the second seat that each steel horse offered. I'm thinking about the more savvy perspectives from where I was sitting for the ride. I'm no technical expert and a quick study of the choices in custom seats that are available for motorcycles was overwhelming. I can speak though, from the perspective of a petite passenger, weighing in at 128 pounds with not much extra padding over my seat bones. Each bike has its merits and one in particular is plush. So the story will unfold from the least comfortable to the most. A couple of disclaimers though: 1) most of the roads in VT suck, plain and simple. The damaged road tops range from small cracks to huge holes and even missing road (rte 105 in Richford). I can't always see what's coming and so I take the lump in full force ~ ouch as the impact resonates up my spine. 2) some of the bikes are undersized for a comfortable ride as a passenger; meaning they lack the horse power and smooth gearing to accommodate even my little bit of ballast. This can mean fatigue for a pillion who is "dragged" through the ride. These bikes also seemed to lack the shock absorption in the back wheel to take the extra load resulting in a harsh jarring over any irregular pavement. 3) the driver's savvy and consideration for the 2up rider is an acquired talent. While I never felt unsafe, I did notice a difference in the quality of ride when a driver was off with his clutching, slow speed moves, stops and start-offs. Interestingly, like airboarding, driving a motorcycle with a passenger is more comfortable when the man at the dash has a little mass. A well centered bike is happy over the road and that makes a nicer glide for the person in the second seat.

Valkyrie

Sportster

Ultra Classic

The story goes a little like this; it was great fun to ride these bikes with these good guys who invited me and so all observations are with the highest respect for their skills in driving and maintenance of their bikes. It's hard to learn to drive a bike requiring exceptional vigilance and responsive skills; I know this first hand. It's a bit harder to feel comfortable with a passenger... a few years ago, a good friend offered me a ride on his Kawasaki touring bike. It was made for a pillion rider with built in luggage stowage and an easy-chair backrest. The shocks weren't mint and the power was a little light given the hills our roads navigate; this made the ride a bit tiresome. The driver was a veteran biker and very considerate of my comfort. 4 stars for this one. Later that summer, my older brother brought his Honda Shadow up to NH and gave me a short spin over the back roads(former cart paths) near the lake. The bike was quiet, nimble and had a sissy bar. The seat was not supper bad, nor supper good. For a short ride, up to 90 minutes, the Shadow was a fun run. I give it 3 stars. By this time, I'm feeling hooked on riding in the wind. The following summer, I scored a riding buddy on a Harley Davidson Sportster. It had a well padded second seat with sissy bar though it's taller center made me feel more secure riding up close to the driver. ahh, now my favorite way to travel... The foot pegs were perfect for hooking the heel of my cowboy boots making for a spirited posture for me as pillion. The bike is made for the more narrow NEK roads with lots of twisties as it is very nimble and has power o' plenty for hills or speed on the flats, even 2up. Without a windscreen, its a thrashing to go down an interstate at sustained high speeds. A fun ride but 90 minutes, then stopping, was about all I enjoyed before a stretch was needed. I give it 3 1/2 stars. At the end of my second summer of 2up, I was treated to a ride on a Valkyrie. This bike was low and heavy and powerful. It had a sissy bar but no hand grips, so up close was the way to travel. It did have foot boards which are nice for the longer rides but a boot with a low heel is a better fit for the boards. The bike was keen, the driver was careless and that matters. Chose your chauffeur carefully, it can make or muddle the experience. I give the bike 31/2 stars. This summer, I've been out on a Yamaha V Star a couple times. It's a nimble bike with plenty of heft making ride feel secure. It was fatiguing though as the second seat was narrow and underpadded, making it tiring to ride any length of time. The first time out, the driver polished up the vinyl and that made it like riding a slippery fence rail at 60 mph... it had foot boards for my Milwaukee boots but they seemed a bit too short for my long legs adding to the fatigue. No way to let them down, but a change to a taller, plusher seat could make it a sweet enough afternoon twirl. I give it 3 stars. The driver was pretty good, just sparing with the rest-breaks which comes from riding alone allot and not reading a pillion's body language. I need to learn to speak up when I need a stretch. The final, and most appreciated ride for me was the luxury of the Harley Davidson Ultra Classic and its pillion "throne". This bike is made for long runs over any paved road. The second seat is so comfortable that I have dozed off and bumped my driver's helmet when he had to suddenly change gears for road conditions. He's good natured about it but still it's startling. Appointed with a generous seat hosting built in stereo and ample footboards for any boots I wore. The one very minor oddity was that the tailwind went up over my back sending my silk scarf forward into his field of vision. A little wardrobe adjustment solved that. One more notable feature as the pillion rider, the Ultra Classic purred in its effortless glide over the road. A powerful bike with grace and elegance for the pair on board...it never strained, never lurched...just a gentle glide as it is aptly named. I give it 5 stars...though the owner tells me a Honda Goldwing is ultimate passenger ride, if I am ever invited...we'll see. I am a fan of those HD loud pipes...
So for me, the summer of riding is about half over. Hopefully my notations may inspire others to ride 2up with an understanding that the comfort of the pillion fixings, the power and balance of the bike, a wind screen to deflect that force and most importantly the savvy and courtesy of the driver can make or break the quality of the experience. If I had had a rugged ride first time out several years ago, I would have never gone back. I'm so glad for the quality of that first ride over the road; thanks Rene for illuminating my summers...
peace ~ ell


update in the Pillion Project:
I now ride 2Up regularly on my bikerman's 84 LowRide. I have to say for a smallish, pillowed seat with a padded sissybar, it's pretty comfortable. Though it's a good thing I love this man as it puts me close up to him for the ride. It is a nimble bike with plenty of giddy-up when we need it. Taking twisties on this chrome pnoy is way fun as he scrapes pegs leaning deeply into the corners. I can go about 100 miles on VT's chunky roads before a break is needed. Again, the pegs are set at a place that let's me hook my boot heels and my knees are lower than my hips. That seems to matter for me. Fun for a day run but the dressers are the best for the multi-day, high mileage adventures.

could, can't, can ~ just wishin'

Sunny, warm and breezy this July day... dozens of motorcycles rolling by... couldn't connect with my biker buddy for a ride so then the blues crept in. I can not get around very well in the high sun and warm air; an unfortunate reality resulting from the brain rot I live with. So down to the neglected basement, after some time pumping water from the relentless rains, I could stack firewood. As the stack took form, I got to thinking about making a list. I enjoy listing out stuff of all topics; its how I work the problem, try to see all sides before acting... This list started out as an exercise to encourage myself for the summer... it evolved into a "bucket list" of sorts; a list of can't do ~ can do kind of mantras. On a very warm, dull day like this, the can't do tasks are vivid, even cruel reminders of what abilities I've lost. But with a little out of the box thinking, for every can't do it, there is a viable, equally worthy can do it on the punch list. It was a fun process and will continue to evolve...

my bucket list:
what I can do ~ if only differently...
can't set a horse ~ can drive 'em
can't drive a motorcycle ~ can ride 2Up
can't run with my kids ~ can teach them how to play baseball
can't handle a horse ~ can teach others how to
can't paddle a boat ~ can float in a tube down river
can't do the tango ~ can slow dance with a good man
can't ski so well ~ can airboard like the wind
can't hike in the warm months ~ can ride an all terrain segway
can't cure my son's autism ~ can build him a blue berry farm
can't be an activist ~ can be an advocate
can't love forever ~ can love passionately
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.
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you get the idea, it's not wright, it's not wrong, it's just different...
luv and peace ~ ell

the Ides of Summer

...beware the ides of summer. Those middle times when we are past the freshness and possibilities of a new season but not yet at the mellowing conclusion of a weathered season. We're not ready to reflect on our lists of do it/done that...these middle weeks and days of month and season seem so beguiling to me. Today was a test of treading water when the shore of my departure is too far gone to return to yet the shore I'm striving for is too far to be seen. All that means is, its easy to give up hope when treading water in the middle of the ocean. July has been a test of fortitude as I try to manage a serious legal battle for my maternal rights for my boyz. It has been a struggle for sustainable vocation given the poor weather and the fragile economy. I have been fumbling with a precious friendship and this morning I was met with an horrific wound on an exceptional horse. When collecting the horses for their morning meal and rehab program, the lovely Shood Ari ambled up to me from the south pasture only to reveal a bloodied chest. This strapping young gelding had somehow torn his hide from his front left pectoral region. He was gingerly walking toward me, head down with anxious pained brown eyes. He was oozing blood and dangling a web of flesh the size and shape of printer paper. 'Christ have mercy' my words to self. We had to start by moving horses, making a safe paddock...my young student put out some grain to calm the herd. I moved Shoodi up front and began the gauntlet of phone calls to vets. Who could come ASAP...by fortune, we would be attended by Dr. Steve from Large Animal Medical Associates. He arrived in good time and set to work. We cleared out a spot in the front of the barn and backed in the 16.2 h youngster so the natural light would illuminate the delicate task. We no sooner got the brown beauty in his spot that the skies began to erupt with thunder, lightening and more rain adding a sense of drama to our scene. With a little tranquilizer (ok, a lot). The horse became a perfect and passive gentleman. I was grateful that my young student volunteered to head the horse so I could sit out of the field of vision of this mess. I am a useless veterinary assistant for the bloody rehabs as the size and scale of this type of wound triggers an instant visceral reaction in me. One good look, and I am down for the count. It doesn't help the situation when I am on the floor passed out. It's always been this way with me and mangled horses. That said, young Felicia was the hero assistant while the talented vet worked his magic. It is spellbinding to watch a skilled vet perform flawless restoration such as this. Starting with ripped flesh and tissues, strategizing closure sequences, bringing together the seemingly destroyed live materials, first the big sutures placed large and wide, then the smaller refined stitches to close the gaps... when done its a normal looking body part with an excellent chance to survive and even thrive. All of this in a less than clean barn, in less than ideal light, with the simplest of materials. The wound was closed up in about 50 minutes. Intensive antibiotics to stay ahead of infection (the real danger in this type of wound), pain killers to ease his afternoon and the rest is up to his constitution and God's grace. This horse is ideal to be a carriage horse with his long graceful legs and powerful top line. I believe he'll recover fully and have that chance. The bill paid at $510 with treatment and meds (3 weeks of antibiotics), I graciously thanked the vet and marveled at his humble talent. At age 19, I so wanted to be a vet like him. At age 20 I had my first experience with massive equine trauma such as this. It dropped me on that barn floor and eliminated that career choice for me. . . probably worked out for the best. . . but still it would have been amazing to possess such a skill. The awesome brown horse is sore but eating well and enjoying massive amounts of TLC... all's well that ends well. Now if I could only get the rest of my mid-summer days moving in a restorative direction...if the doc can mend the horse's terrible mess and make him whole again... is it possible that maybe there is a chance that I can be a mom to my sons, that I can make a living and I can mend a precious friendship? I believe with some TLC, some good sewing, some strong medicine that its possible. I'll keep you posted on Shood Ari, you'll hear about my other follies and foibles too. It's all good, if I survive. Peace ~ ell
this one is for doctor Steve and his talent in healing...

Resilience...

I was completing a personal profile for one of those match making outfits to pass the time and inventory what kind of person I like to think I am. They are great measurements for self evaluation because it is a private self exploration that can be very illuminating if done with honest introspection. It was the usual queries of disposition, personality, quirks and peeves.... It posited one really thoughtful question for me, that has kept my full attention through the day. "Other than your parents, who was the most influential person in your childhood?" What a kewl question. It instantly evoked fond memories of youthful exploits and adolescent striving, swerving and survival. All those awkward growing pains that would shape and sharpen the character of our core person. In my case, I answered my high school women's athletic coach, without hesitation. This may seem odd to those who know me, as I am opposed to organized athletics before middle school. I loath insider and outsider dynamics and secondary school sports can amplify that teenage misery of not belonging. But in my memory, I knew my coach as a mentor and respectful friend who made everyone feel talented and welcome to her teams. As long as they gave a 100% on any given day, strove for personal excellence and lived every day with integrity and perseverance. She was not a physically big person at 5'0", but she had a larger than life zest that was contagious to all who knew her. I was fortunate to spend four years, 3 seasons of sports in each, under her mentoring. Her tireless encouragement and gentle, loving critiques were instrumental in shaping my stubborn commitment to survival and never, never giving up. To give 100%, even in defeat so that we could walk away with our heads held high and no regrets. There was no such thing as a mistake under her tutelage but rather physical errors which were teachable moments and mental errors which induced laps, lots of laps...She made it possible to learn in that very indelible way of learning through natural consequences. It was the most empowering experience that a gangley, un-pretty, wanna-be success story could ever hope for. On her practice plain, there was no such word as "can't". There was no such thing as giving up. Failed attempts only meant there must be another way to succeed. If you fell, get up and try another way. It was she who would sift through our clumsy imitation of skills to discover and nurture our talents with her brilliant observation bolstered in her loudest voice to us: "...babies don't give up! you know why they fall when learning to walk? so they can learn how to get back up and try again!...so, get back up and try again!" Her words are resonating in my mind lately as it has been a particularly challenging time for me these past weeks...it has been a time when, giving 100% seems to fall short of the mark...but then as I sit with a glass of wine, a smile emerges as I hear her follow-up mantra for success: "...then give 110!..." I wish she was here right now; I could use a hug and maybe a lap or two...I miss her inspirations.
We all have someone who inspired us, encouraged us and made us strong...honor those memories and live their legacy...share the same with the next person who needs to live it...
peace and luv ~ ell

Free Hot Chocolate. . .green mountain economics

There is something to be learned in every story. When persons of different worlds, cultures and expectations collide with ideology and reality on a snow bound mountain road, a story unfolds. As a winter hiking guide for Smugglers Notch Resort, I was charged with the morning ventures into our mystical winter wonderlands. I would gather a group of guests for the daily quest "into the wilds" of the Mt. Mansfield region localized to the less traveled back country of the resort's expansive terrain. This is an invigorating experience; at least when I'm out front leading the more metropolitan brethren who sign up for these off slope excursions. Having lived here for 23 years exploring much of these hills and dales on my horses, I became a little familiar and very comfortable trekking through the forests of our great mountainside. Three years ago, I answered a job posting to guide these winter walks thinking it would be pedestrian employment but better than joining a gym and it gets me out in the winter. It has been a grand experience for me, and for many of the guests who partake in the journeys. They are very much like expeditions for these folks. Coming from all ranges of cities, suburbs and foreign places they perceive our woodlands as a privileged place of untamed wildness and personal challenge. At least, when I fill their heads with local lore, real or nearly real. Working the season, spinning the yarns, casting the possibilities of the wild things...seeing them drop their mask of material surplus and open their minds to the organic rhythm of this natural world is food for my soul. Like bringing water to a thirsty traveler, they are quenched and then primed for more. The winter walking, wiking and hiking program was designed for off slope guests who sought something to do with the mornings. Fitness was the first framework. The stats make it clear: (winter walking expends 22% higher caloric expenditure, 16% higher heart rate, 20% increase in oxygen uptake...it is 46% more efficient that regular walking) To some that means calories burned, butt firmed, thighs toned, waist trimmed; to me that means we can eat 46% more chocolate cake to break even...This winter of walking was an exercise in mental fitness as well. People's minds were heavy with fear and discontent due to the struggling economy. Some would not have any other vacation. Some would have to give up their second homes. . . from early in the season, a pattern of disconnect was emerging. I get to hear a lot of conversations whether they are directed at me or not. Some are very memorable and we solve many world crises on our three mile tours. Politicians and policy makers should walk with us; they would learn volumes of concerns and solutions, could potentially solve problems. One of my most memorable wikes (walking up hill in snow) was late in the season with a multi-generation family from New Jersey. The first day out, we were joined by an older woman who placed herself in the back of the group. As we ascended the reservoir hill, she kept a steady pace with no break in stride. It's a short but steep hill; a challenge for those not used to that kind of push. She made it easily, the rest of the group, younger but less fit, gasped at the crest as I monitored their breathing. No heart attacks on my treks please, breathe in ~ breathe out. "It's all down hill from here, only a fat mile back. If you can handle today, you will enjoy the week..." , my usual pep talk for the introductory group. It's mostly true; the walks get longer, deeper into the woods, Friday is up the mountain road for a steady mile, going up and up still more...As we caught our wind, I noticed that our senior guest was grinning and breathing easily. So I asked how she felt, "Great!, this is perfect!" I was curious about her age and so I politely inquired, "may I ask your age?" knowing this is hallowed ground for women. As I leaned on my trek poles, I nearly tipped over when she beamed; "you may, I am 82 years old. I'm here with my son and his family for the first time ever..." I walked to her and asked for a hug. "You are an inspiration to me; I hope by God's grace, I can hike the woods in winter when I am 82...", a genuine pact from me. She walked with us every day, never faltered enjoying the pensive journeys of the forest. On Friday, she persuaded her middle-aged son to join us. He began the outing by conducting a business call on his cell phone as we loaded the shuttle with 24 guests for the mountain road ascension. I threw a few glares his way. Still he talked, voraciously negotiating some deal...I finally interrupted him with earnest jest and strident body language... "Do I have to take that away from you? The group is here for the peace and quiet of the mountain. There are no business calls on my hikes. Give it to me, do it now,,," His wife smiled, one guest applauded. He relented and closed the conversation;"...I have to get back to you later, the guide is going to kick my ass..." He pocketed the device and we settled in for the fifteen minute ride up to the barricade. A few fast facts for the mountain road and what we might see... Dismounting the shuttle, it was a glorious day with sunlight filling the winter lane and glistening off ice bound boulders and mountain faces. A wirery stretch to prep our bodies and off to the top of the Notch. As a closed road, there is no way for anyone to get lost so the pace is leisurely. I get to chat with everyone on the walk and learn of other places and communities. The man left his mother to her own pace and strided up with me. In a few steps, he had me trapped next to the guardrails emerging from the thawing snow banks. Must be his cell phone didn't get signal up there because he began by introducing himself, drifted through the who, what, where and why he was there. Announced his professional status in marketing, salary plus perks and wanted to know why, "why did Smuggs discontinue the free hot chocolate at the end of every ski day at the base of Morse Mountain?" His was not a casual question. He posited the query with an indignant tone and hand on my shoulder. My first thought was my assessment of our distance from the 2240 foot summit. We were not even half way up and he is already probing for answeres that are beyond my scope of company knowledge. He would not yield and asked again. So we stopped, and I took the perspective of a local citizen and tried to explain. "Management crunches a lot of numbers. They recognized the light attendance for the season. They processed many possibilities for tightening the expenses. They made a commitment for the hourly staff like me, to keep positions filled, to not cut jobs. They froze payroll, RIF'ed some management and then reshaped some of the free programs. The hot chocolate hour was reduced to weds and Saturdays to save jobs. As a single mom, I am grateful to have this job." It sounded credible to me, pretty close to the actual reasoning behind the program changes and hoped it would appease him. It didn't. He followed his first jab with a blunt reproach regarding the free fireworks and torch-light parade of Thursday nights. This year only four such events were to be held. "Why did they cut those out?" he persisted. "Well, they are costly to host but no fee is charged to the guests. The fifty or so skiers, instructors and patrollers, have to be paid overtime to do that. Then there are the pyrotechnics license, insurance, payroll and product. They are doing it four times this year. This week was the last show. Did you see it? It was for Canadian week..." He stopped in front of me this time. Vividly annoyed in his response, "what!? I am offended! Why for the Canadian week but not for next week? Don't they know that next week is the spring break for every private school in America? Why wouldn't they target that week for a show?...I run focus groups for my marketing firm; it sounds like Smuggs needs some focus groups to make these choices. Why weren't the home owners consulted..." He was on a tare now, increasingly agitated and invested in his perspective. I felt defensive and obligated to defend the company and my meager paying job..."I am a farmer, there is not a lot of farming in winter up here. I have this job so I can maintain my house in the winter, heat it, light it. . . so my kids can learn to ski; for me and many families like mine, this is the only job that we can fit into our patchwork of income...the median income in Lamoille county is like $28K...a winter job means paying our property taxes or not...keeping our only home or not, , ," He interrupted and declared, "they should have fired 10% of staff and kept the hot chocolate! My kids loved that daily ritual, its how they make friends..." My thoughts focused inward at that point. I was startled at his words. 'this man is over employed, over paid and over privileged...his disconnect is huge... and inhumane...he's worried about free hot chocolate and I'm defending heat and groceries...' With nothing to say, I hustled up to the summit station and avoided him all the way down. He's a guest, I'm a wage slave, can't get mad or even attempt to justify my reasoning to this man of luxuries. Half way down, I summoned some courage and re-ignited the conversation. Rehearsing the guest relations mantra: L>A>S>T listen, apologize, solve and thank... " so I've been thinking about your question. Maybe if Smuggs got a sponsor for the hot cocoa they could do it. Like Nestle with a banner and enough money to cover the staff and the bonfire...they could keep the free stuff going. I could keep my job, and your mom would have something to do while you ski when she comes up here..." He seemed brightened by this idea. "who owns this resort? I want to talk to him about this, set up a focus group..." was his tact. My cheerful reply, after all someone else could take the heat, "Bill Stritzler, top floor of the Admin Building, up the stairs, go right, left and corner office is his. His car is here, so he is here, he'd love to talk I'm sure..." By then we were loading the shuttle. The accomplished man mounted the stairs with confidence in his new mission; he left his 82 year old mother to her own resources at the foot of the stairs. Standing at the door, I stretched my hand to guide her up and smile in the high sun of noon. She turned her twinkled eye to me and lavished my palm with a fifty dollar bill softly praising, "Bless your heart, this was the best winter week ever..." "thank you and you have a groovy day; it's been a pleasure to be your guide..." my genuine gratitude. 'the disconnect this man has is bigger than this mountain...he didn't even help his own mother here...' my self speak as I entered the shuttle hearing him share his discord with is captive wife. The experience still resonates with me. How even disappointment is a relative experience. Employment vs free hot chocolate, that was the contest; thanks be to God that the directors at Smuggs see the value in local employment...it's all good and winter is not so very far away from this cool summer day to imagine the people and the stories and the mountain that brings us all together in our Green Mountain economics...
peace ~ ell

best~guess~mud and other weather science

You can't get through a day in Vermont without commenting on the weather. It has been a lottery of forecasting. I don't have television so I surf the weather links on the Internet. I monitor weather channel, WCAX tv 3, NOAA (http://www.nws.noaa.gov/), and underground weather (http://www.wunderground.com/)....I like Underground weather the best as it has an easy interface with hourly guesses for a seven day span. Between all of the sites, none of them have been more than 50% accurate up here in the Lamoille Valley where my farmstead sits at the northern foot of Mt. Mansfield. Less than 50% of correct forecasts for this summer; I'd like to have a job where I can get paid whether I am wright or wrong. It makes outdoor work difficult to pursue never mind enjoying it. The rain has been so persistent and poorly calculated that motorcycling has been an armchair day dream for most of June. Riding in a light rain is kind of fun, a change of pace; but when the rain impairs visibility for the driver, and for the cagers sharing the road, then it is discomfort of the stressful type. Seeing and being seen is the golden rule of outliving the ride. With the best-guess-mud of Vermont forecasting being what it is, more than a couple of my friends will give me a jingle on my cell and ask: "Terry, I'm thinking of riding, hiking, biking today; do you smell rain?" It's always a bit of a tickle to hear this query. I can be conducting a clinic or a class and surrounded by horses and eager students in the middle of my pasture, only to stop all activity, look skyward, take a deep breath, smell the ozone thickened air, feel the barometric pressure level upon me and know what will come. I have been 100% accurate all season long. Often I can even make a good guess at how many minutes or hours until the rain will fall upon me. Amazing. No mystery at all. My science is primitive at best. The one limiting condition is that I can only forecast for my immediate location and only if I am outside. So if you're headed for my neck of the woods, and you need to know the status for precipitation, give me a jingle and ask me what I smell; might be I'm more wright than the overpaid, blue screen, broadcasters... oh, and this works for winter and snow as well...
today, I smell rain ~ we'll be on the bike tomorrow taking a long run. Smile! it'll make the rain go away...
peace ~ ell

what is that brite ball in the sky?!

Jumping for joy...a tribute to that brite ball in the sky. After a month of steady rain and wind, brilliant sunshine made an appearance in our back yard. The posse mounted a celebration on their trampoline breaking the bounds of gravity. What goodness to roar with laughter. We are all due, cabin fever was mounting and even the happiest among us was dulled by the endless precipitation. Summer is so very short in VT. The rain has kept us off of horses, trails and gleaming motorcycles. Even a few days of soulful sun will feel glorious. Pack it full with fun and frollic and remember to thank God for the good health to enjoy it and for making it so... it begs the question: is good weather so rare in Vermont, only to teach us the value of a fine day so we won't take it for granted...
peace ~ ell