heart smart

The Green Mountain State of Vermont is a very interesting biosphere of humanity and culture. It has a so very small populace woven from so very diverse life experiences. At least, that is my view of the changing face of Vermont demographics. I myself came to claim Vermont as my home in 1985. An over-eager college graduate from Connecticut, I came to begin my adult life beside my fiance in pursuit of "our American dream". In those days, I was a transplant snob of sorts; guffawing at the pseudo urbanites in Chittenden county as we beat feet to get out of that artificial replica of contemporary Vermont.
We settled in the Lamoille Valley in 1987 with youthful vigor in our quest to harness the Vermont hill farming life that we dreamed of. We started several business, began a family and crashed our dream in divorce court seventeen years later. Fortunately, time carries on and I've rooted myself perennially here at this old farmstead, defending the Vermont life of past generations and shunning the steady sowing of "flatlanders" bent on reforming these hills. In this, I have met the most wonderful people, inlanders and outlanders alike, and become part of this town in its ritual and rhythm year round. The balance is often razor thin as old standards are cast off for the "new and improved" version of community building. I escape this tide of "more is better" running Vermont roads on motorcycles; a culture that has afforded me the most genuine friendships and adventures that I could hope for. This day, I was on the phone with a favored biker buddy when he pondered why. Why would some one with all my over-educated, comfortable, suburban roots want to hang out with some one like him? He doesn't see himself as smart or worldly. 'Not so', I think to myself. He's a contractor, a Vermonter born-and-bred, living on a road on a mountain that was named for his family. He's been here awhile. His stories of hunting, fishing, camping, living are spell binding to a 23 year plus flatlander like me. As he puzzled his value in my life, I drifted back to an endearing story he shared on one of our outings. He qualified the tale as his favorite story about being a single dad raising his son alone. In this daily challenge, we had much in common. As a single mom, I listened intently to his recollection of how he acquired a small, tattered key chain clip buried in the bowels of his work truck. "Don't ever clean out my truck. In the side wall, I have the first present my son ever gave me. He was just a little feller when he gave me this plastic key ring. It's just a little thing, but it meant so much to me. . . still does. Don't ever clean out my truck. . ." as he swallowed a father's tear. I smiled softly and leaned into him in agreement. The recollection melted as I interrupted the present phone conversation with a weak interjection: "you are one of the smartest people I have ever known. Someday, I'll tell you why I think so. . ." my thoughts now fading into a long ago afternoon. I have a similar story, but it took me months to grasp the value back then. We said our good-byes and I lay across my bed unfolding a precious memory of my first born child giving me a tender gift on a hot July day when I was disenchanted with the world and my seemingly futile place in it. I had ridden a horse in the small town parade that day, struggling with the crowd, the truck horns and a powerful horse impatient with the baby-step pace of it all. After getting the big mare home, I returned to the town party hot, sweaty, agitated. It didn't go the way I wanted; it was not my best presentation of a magnificent horse. My daughter was perhaps 6 years old and having a grand time at the small carnival. When she saw my unhappiness, she persuaded her father to let her buy a ring from a jewelry tent. She presented it to me with an earnest smile and kind offering. "this will help you feel better, mommy. . ." I looked at the over sized gypsy like ring and gave a dismissive sigh. "oh, you shouldn't have spent your money on me. . . it's too big, can you take it back. . ." her face fell and I scolded myself for not saying thank you. "I'll wear it on my thumb. It'll be fine. . ." as she strolled off with dad for more fun. I sat there, still guiling over my poor performance, and the odd ring. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it till laundry needed doing. I put it in a cup, then a drawer, then a box. Weeks later, I would hold it and ponder a child's heart. I began to wear it on my right thumb every day, trying to live up to the sincerity of the gift. Some months later, I lost the humble symbol but recall the value of it vividly. Hearing my biker buddy's story made me tearfully long for that toy-like ring gone missing years ago. The answer to his minutes-old question: why I think he is just about the smartest man I've met. Not just because he can solve any functional problem; it is because this very competent, able, thoughtful, woodsman with a Harley Low Rider sees with his heart first. As time goes by, the value of my college education(s) become less and less relevant and the "university of life" has become the institution of higher learning. The lessons bestowed me during my days and months and years in Vermont have interwoven like an organic tapestry of living, learning, doing ~ better than I could have youthfully imagined. Ever the student, must be I belong here; always seeking knowledge, must be I needed to know him. . . some day, I'll have to tell him why and I promise; I'll never clean out his truck. . .
peace ~ ell

this one is for them that see with their hearts first . . .

golden rules: number three

This summer has been an enigma of hazy ambitions restrained by un-yielding realities. It began with three clear goals set forth with leather clad vigor. I would go for my motorcycle license, I would get a small starter bike, I would expand my circle of motoriding friends riding 2up with them. In June, I failed the BRC with a spectacular scar and incredulous story from the muffler burn. Now that I'm once again convinced of my motorcycle potential, I am looking at small bikes to learn on and even acquired the "Ride Like a Pro" DVD to give it the 110% that it may take to become an accomplished lady-driver. In the last goal, I had the pleasure and privilege to ride along with some wonderful guys on some exceptional bikes adding wonderful friends to my short list of people to commune with. But then weather got too wet to ride, injuries took their toll sidelining moto riding, and even work schedules became obstructive for connecting with motodrivers. This is all painfully relevant because our summers are so very short in Vermont. We had excessive rainfall in June into July subtracting 6 weeks from our riding season. We did, however successfully grow weeds bigger than my horses. Looks like next year, I'll be getting a DR trimmer to beat back the understory... the warm weather of August left me housebound as I have sharply limited mobility in warm, muggy weather so I can't safely play with horses, can't even weed flower beds. I can surf the Internet and lust for beautiful motorcycles and the fantasy of driving my own someday. As I could not coordinate rides with my regular buddy, I tried for one or two other outings, only to be underwhelmed by the bike or the person. So then its back to the notion of driving my own. More than a few friends suggested that I get a small off road bike that I can play with at the farm to see if I can or can not achieve competence when I can take my time and figure it out. After all, this is a sport and an art of its own and it will require a learning curve. As I watch the bikers go by my farm on a glorious day, I renewed my commitment to really try this out, at my own pace, on a bike that isn't too heavy if I drop it and without all the breakable bling that street bikes have. If I can master a small bike in my pasture, then I could get a smallish street bike and take the next step. In any case, my kids would "inherit" the dirt bike for their youthful indulgence... having this dream helps to pass the hot, sunny days when I am heavy with frustration at my mobility challenges and begin to sink into blunted anger with my injury-mandated inabilities. The the brain rot becomes detrimental in my life and precious time is lost perserverating on unchangeable facts in my situation. It takes a small success to revive my optimism and perception of what I can do, if only differently, but it is what I can do. I become acutely aware of my window of opportunities and the choices I need to make to maximize the impact. I am more focused now on the journey, the process, the people passionate for their interests. The success is not in obtaining the end goal so much as it is about finding a way around the obstruction, discovering an alternate path that turns out to be more interesting and joy filled than the traditional paradigm. The motorcycle culture is particularly attuned to this as is the horse driving culture. In these environments, the success is in the clever accommodation for my engagement there. It is heartening to be among people who live the life and walk the walk of "what can be done. . ." The natural expectation is not that I will fit the mold, but that a new mold will be made to fit me... I sleep and breathe their boundless enthusiasm for my dreams; it gets me through the hard days and inspires me to try, just try, to live my dreams. Golden rule # 3? You can always make more money but you can never make more time... dream it then live it...
peace ~ ell

tear down

It wasn't long after this break down, when the owner of said Low Rider, called and invited me to come for the "tear down" of his vintage bike to ferret out the cause of its failure. He knew of my interest in "the way things work"; it didn't matter that I know nothing of motorcycle mechanics; but still I said "yes", happily so. Very motivated to see the inner works of this pre-fuel-injection Harley Davidson, I drove the 65 miles to the immaculate shop with my camera in hand. The scene felt very somber as the emaciated frame stood stripped of its trademark Vtwin engine with its vital parts exposed for diagnosis. The break down was caused by a couple of bad acting systems. There was air in the fuel line likely caused by a bad head gasket or a warped head... but why the power failure? A bad generator, most likely, sucked the new battery dry of power. Without electricity, the cylinders could not perform thus leaving us stranded with the disabled machine. As this bike has 33,000 miles on her, the owner opted to do a total tear down and re-tool all the original systems. I find it fascinating as it is so very simple a design and it all goes together so perfectly. No metric here so wrenching was easily accomplished with Craftsman tools for obvious fitting with a place for everything and everything in its place. To see it taken down to its "bones", it was hard to believe that this was once, and would again be, a powerful machine over the road. Watching the veteran mechanic, I marveled at his fluent knowledge of this classic chrome pony. He did his best to indulge my pre-novice questions with patient replies and showing the working details in each system. The machining of the metal parts was more precise than I could have imagined as components perform with surgical perfection. Hearing his presentation, my thoughts would drift to the 30 years-ago machinists and assemblers who worked with the same degree of accuracy as any brain surgeon would exhibit to save the patient. A witness to a rebirth of sorts as each component was taken off and cleaned and assigned to its own waiting place for reassembly, it was more interesting than the best picture puzzle one could ever hope to construct. I kept getting lost in the meditative ritual and found it nearly spiritual to participate in such an intimate process. I can see now, why so many Harley owners become emotionally engaged with their bikes. When it was time to leave, it felt like we were abandoning the once glorious ride. The owner, lugging the gas tank and a few other frame parts home for waxing, seeming to offer some mutual comfort for his trusty, iron friend by plying a little luv and shine for the trademark silhouette. With any luck, I'll be able to see the bike come back together in all her new gleam and glory... maybe get invited for a ride. peace ~ ell
this one is for the minds who could imagine such genius