two lakes, one story

On a mission for excellent ice cream, we commenced our adventure. What started as a strategic journey over the thin blue lines of our VT map, became a beautiful unfolding of excellent motorcycle roads, spectacular scenes and places known only by their names on the map. In our travel through the kingdom, a sharp contrast in philosophies was brought to light. It festers in my mind, even now.
 To begin, as we always do, he asked me 'where I'd like to go?' I had come across a gourmet ice cream shoppe in Groton on the Internet, I'd like very much to find it and taste the flavored cream and decide its ranking myself. We often sample the creemee stands of VT, grading the size, texture and service at each window across the green mountains. But this is more serious; after all, since Unalever bought out Ben & Jerry's, the 'home made' best of ice creams had declined in it's wondrous satisfaction of palate. It was time to find a new decadence in ice cream. So off we went beginning with a left out of my door yard, headed for a long run via the North East Kingdom.
   We wound our way over the distance of rte 109, standing up on the pegs when the pavement would jar the bike's frame at each pothole not yet cold patched. The junction with 118 would yield little better road surface, finally ending at rte 100 north. Heading into Eden where pavement would improve as we glided by Lake Eden and the obtrusive mountain behind. I smile at the memory of our woodland ride to Craftsbury only a week ago.

rte 58 N entering the NEK

  Through the burg of Lowell, we hooked right onto 58 north; a road with perfect complexion and vistas that left us speechless. After some miles, easing into Irasburg, we both commented how much better this end of the route was compared to the Hazen's Notch dirt lane we traversed a few weeks back. The expansive views revealed, the infamous quality known only in this corner of Vermont. We had entered the NorthEast Kingdom, 2000 square miles of God's country. Every mile tingled the senses with sights and scents unspoiled in these lightly-tread counties of Vermont.

rte 5 Barton and the lake

Crystal Lake Barton VT

 Divining our way east before south, we glided into Orleans and found the Rte 5 jct. Old city, with relics of Ethan Allen Furniture, Collette Stove Works and a once substantial RR junction. Hollow monuments to a lucrative past. Now so much of our brand-name furniture and wood stoves bare the made in China stamp. A once thriving local economy is fairing little better than the 'third world' manufacturing center that churns out the brands that Vermont made famous. We left this old place and marveled at the velvety black top of rte 5. Flawless, not a crack or hole in the rural road. Down thru Barton and then beyond. Few cars, no trucks and peaceful greenery all around. 'This is the Kingdom' as I smiled then wondered, 'how long will it stay so pensive?' Rolling onward, we spied a body of water through the trees, emerging to our east. Shortly we came to a state boat launch naming the lake. Turning onto the paved landing and to a pedestrian pull off, we could read that it was Crystal Lake. Enormous in scope, a steep ridge line on the east shore, just beyond our perch, a few power boats playing in the cool, clear waters; some fishermen casting lines from the grassy beach. We stopped and marveled at the shared beauty and versatile enjoyment of this lake. We said it together, "what a beauteous place, and anyone can access it. It's not the Lake Mansfield Trout Club. No "members only" in this place..." A pristine lake, held in public trust with access to any interested party. We could appreciate that.

lake Mansfield in Nebraska Ntc

  Only the week before, in our exploration of vintage roads, we stumbled upon a private lake high in the Nebraska Notch of the Mt. Mansfield  range. This was set aside a hundred plus years ago for members only. The heirloom Edwardian lodge was not open for a wayward traveler like us. It was nostalgic in its presence, celebrated by the member privileged guests enjoying the shade, the pure waters, the privacy that their restricted club afforded on that hot day.
 We weren't out to find this marvelous relic of the past; we were hoping to find the old road through the Nebraska Notch from the Stowe side giving way to Underhill. The very public town road of Stowe ended in the trout club parking lot.

Lake Mansfield Trout Club, members only

Rolling up on a vintage Harley with 'too loud' pipes and leathered-up riders; we got their attention. People looked on as we parked in the south end of the car lot. My driver remarked how there was not a vehicle there that was pre 2010 or under 30K in cost. Dismounting, we walked up the lane toward the lodge and opted to cross the spillway dam and rest on a shaded bench across from the swimming dock.
  Young swimmers were leaping and splashing, tossing beach balls and floaties in unrestrained summer glee. One ball drifted toward the booms set to stop hapless boaters from dropping over the jagged spillway. Kids were trying to chase it but abandon the task as it trapped itself on the gangway below the short suspension bridge. My big hearted biker man, leaped to its rescue. Navigating the steep weathered stairs to the catwalk, he reached over and grabbed the bright ball and handed it to the grateful children. They said thank you dashing back to the grassy beach and he ambled back to me. We studied the architecture and noted the meticulous upkeep of the sizable building. "There is a lot of care to this place; someone is paid, full time, to keep it perfect...this has to be a private place..."'indeed I thought, the kind of retreat where you must be nominated and approved to join as well as ample funds'; still, it was magnificent.

posted woodlands on a town road

  Rested and restored, we began to walk out of the shade, across the bridge and into the parking lot. This was an exclusive place, no public indulgences here. Still it was beautiful, a step back in well preserved time. Our attention was caught by a small framed man wearing pressed shorts, fitted sports cap and tiny round-rimmed glasses. He approached us as we tried to read the banner atop the flag pole. "this is a private club for members only. You are trespassing..." 'Funny how we've set here for an hour and he is telling us now. Bet he doesn't like my leathers or the well defined muscles on my bikerman's crossed arms...' I thought to myself. "ya, we finally figured that out... when I zoomed the Doppler trying to find the old notch road to Underhill, it didn't show the buildings here; only the green spaces. Guess I didn't zoom in enough..." I countered with a soft smile. "Can you tell me the name and age of this place?" I queried. "its' from the 1890's and its private, like a tennis club or golf course;  you need to leave and not come again..." his peevish answer. "We're sorry, the road is a town highway, we thought it would go all the way to Underhill. We've been riding the 'ancient' roads..." "It doesn't." he interrupted, "only, ski trails now. It's private property so stay on the trails. You need to leave now," he asserted "yup we were on our way out when you stopped us..." I defended.
 We turned and continued to the bike, smiling at his discomfort with us. "I didn't mean to barge in on this place, but the road is public - only the woods are 'posted'..." my driver confided to me. We mounted up and roiled the throttle for good measure before taking up the public road snapping a few more pictures on the ride out. 'Peculiar' I thought, 'how a small lake, albeit man-made, in the heart of the Mt. Mansfield State Forest, could be off limits to the public. Somebody had a vision way back in their time, but it didn't include the notion of Public Asset.' It was a legacy for the privileged only. Thank God our Presidents and Governors shared vision beyond that. I'm not bitter about a private lake and trout club; just confused as to it's location, on a town road, in a state forest; and sad that it would never consider people like us, despite our competent appreciation of the whole of it. Insiders and outsiders, exclusion just tastes bad in my mouth and sets wrongly in my mind.

success! Artesemo in Groton

exceptional icecream

  Oh yes, we found our gourmet ice cream, 191 miles later, in the classic Vermont town of Groton. Hand churned and scooped by the owner of the tiny ice cream shoppe. It was worth the journey and we'll be back. Artesano Ice Creame on rte 302 in Groton VT, and anybody can walk up and buy it.

This one's for them that ensured our public assets and the enjoyment of a greater good; a legacy for all Vermonters. peace ~ ell

ancient roads on a vintage Harley

   I have a collection of motorcycle photos showing the early days of motorcycling. Vintage machines with adventurous riders garbed in leather flight jackets and wide lens goggles. Occasionally, a passenger is riding pillion with a broad smile and flowing silk scarf. I love these images of the big-boned bikes, off-road tires and everyone so happy to be out enjoying the day. As it happens, I often don a long white scarf and wear a retro Harley Davidson cruizer jacket as my riding 'outfit'.

me in Retro pillion apparel

  I strive to re-live the nostalgia of the simpler times when we weren't 'bikers' but rather, motorcycle enthusiasts out enjoying an exciting jaunt in the elements of a tamed or wild world. This day would be such a day. As he often does, my driver will ask me; "...where would you like to go?" We knew our time was limited by a sunset curfew; that would keep us in our county for this venture out. I pulled out the map of record; a Vermont tourist map with many of the state and popular secondary roads already highlited by last year's  rides. On it was Hazen's Notch via VT rte 58, closed in the winter but open in summer. It's on the southwest fringe of 'the Kingdom', connecting two small towns. Let's start with that.

rte 125(?) along east of Lake Carmi

lake Carmi with locals on the dock

Richford today, once a booming RR town

  Stuffing the small tail bag with our coats, water bottle and map, we struck out first for my camera case, forgotten at my friends house along the way. It was muggy hot and my leather chaps were binding my legs when I would try to dismount in her door yard. She walked my tiny camera bag over to me and queried our travel plans. "Hazen's is a good run...have you ever tried Bakersfield Mtn road? it's a class 4; your bike can do it..." her appealing suggestion just the inspiration we needed for today's short run. I knew how to pick it up from Bakersfield, but not from Montgomery where we would terminate rte 58 and roll south to Waterville, after completing Hazen's Notch. So then, north to Richford then west to Franklin before drifting south to Bakersfield to trek the old mountain road remains open to the loggers and hunters in this modern era.

climbing to Hazen's Notch

  I smiled when I imagined our chrome pony, the 84 Low Ride, hiking along the dirt road past old farm fences and county markers long forgotten as the road was 'left fallow' when better lanes became preferred. I reminisced the old photos of bygone motorcycles on dirt lanes away from the crowded paved-ways. These 'ancient' roads would reveal evidence of past villages, lost farms, and hunting camps with stone walls, 'shoulder gaits' and faded signs. Cemeteries among the tall trees would mark the towns or villages no longer on the map. The thin grave stones would be broken or pushed over by rubbing deer or a bear gleaning the blackberries entwined between them.

a class 4 road over Bakersfield Mtn

  Finding the graded dirt road to the Bakersfield Mountain Road, we began the ascent gliding past old farmsteads until the trees were the only residents. The bike was running perfectly and the driver up front lived on such a road since he could walk. He had no worries navigating the patches of soft sand or clumps of loose gravel. The small boulders were just something to work around. He wriggled his heavy cruizer easily over the first several miles. Crossroads aren't marked on these wayback roads. Somehow, we zigged and zagged until our class 4 town road became a snowmachine trail and the shady lane followed a steady downhill grade. We were sort of lost. We knew approximately where we were, just not sure of our road to our target destination. The canopy was so dense, the sun could not cast a shadow to give us our direction. In the peaks and gulfs of the Cold Hollow spine, we had more choices than we wanted to find our way back to pavement. The goal was to go from Rte 108 Bakersfield over that mountain, by the old road emerging on Lappland Road in Waterville on the east side of that ridge. The old road was clearly indicated on the map. In the forest however, there were many old roads, and few old signs. At each junction, we would follow the better lane and hope for the best. The engine coughing for fuel, he switched her to reserve and we both prayed that would be enough to get us out and to a gas pump. I didn't snap a lot of pictures while divining our way through the woodlands as I was careful not to be in the wrong place while he coaxed his beloved bike through the wilderness. My weight in the second seat could be enough to throw his balance and drop the bike. I would focus instead on my random thoughts as I bet these trees had never seen so much chrome. We found some evidence of progress toward domestication and took a short break to stretch and steel ourselves for the possibilities. His bike weighs 668lbs. If we run out of gas or road, he would have to push it. Fingers crossed and a silent prayer, we remounted for the last leg. I grabbed a hurried picture of what I thought was a sign post, but it showed a a brilliant flash in the mirror over his throttle. Could it be our 'ride angel' keeping us on the right road? Probably, it was just a confused light meter with a reflection in the shiny square, but still it was fun to imagine we had a higher power along for the ride.

this is a county road?!

our Ride Angel? lead us out

 Finally, crossing a narrow, plank bridge the lane would normalize and open into a class 4 road. This would empty onto a paved road;  revealing  the shadow cast by the afternoon sun. We could turn right and head south on VT Rte 118, we had found Montgomery, an interesting buro in these timeless mountains. Some miles back, we lost the Bakersfield Mtn Road and picked up the much longer, less traveled Enosburg Mtn Road leading us 21 miles off course. It seemed like forty. Fuel and shade was spotted at TJ's where rest and recovery was taken.

fuel and creemes and startled tourists

a good place to rest

   Cooling off with creemes, we marveled at how determined our early homesteaders were. The terrain was demanding, ill-suited to farming, rough going for logging. The fortitude of the early Vermonters is newly appreciated as we recount the woodland miles over ancient roads traveled on his vintage Harley on a beautiful summer day. No tough bikers here, just motorcycling enthusiasts out for a ride. Enjoy the day and live your dreams ~ ell
this one is for the biker man that takes me places I would never venture, expanding my dreams

becoming a Real Boy

this is an interesting back yard...

  My boyz are ten years old now. I marvel in their twin-ness and in their individuality. Each with their strengths and talents, their challenges and barriers along the weaving road to adulthood, creating the fabric of their lives. They are navigating a childhood in a world and time that is dense with media driven expectations where success is measured by data and statistics that fail to capture human-ness. I linger on the fringe of their days, observing the unfolding of their experiences as young boyz, on an ancient planet plagued with distractions that drown the natural learning of a curious mind in an interesting world. Most days I have to ration their time with electronics, animated stories, and sibling rivalries. But this day promised to be different. We were invited to visit the backyard of Graham's forth grade teacher, Ms. Aiosa.
  This is no small thing for us. Graham is classically autistic; non-verbal with some sensory processing quirks and a fearless curiosity that makes it stressful if not downright perilous to go visiting, anywhere. He approaches new environments with a mix of cautious yet persistent, exploration; able-bodied boy with selective reasoning. He'll take great care to climb a rock, but doesn't understand a road is a dangerous place. His twin brother, Eli, is quite opposite. Hyper verbal, precocious, articulate and larger than life. His imagination is vivid, fantastic and very absolute. Scary-smart, his reasoning is at the other end of the autism spectrum; making social algebra painfully elusive and emotions beyond his control when dis-regulated. But at the beginning and the end of their labels, they are boys. This is my favorite descriptor of them and watching them grow into their boyhoods is the salvation of my motherhood. This afternoon, would be a wondrous experience in witnessing this beautiful unfolding.
   Because we don't get invited to many outings, because it is often unsettling for the hostess, because it can be stressful for me to attempt to manage my boyz in a situation that is not supportive of their challenges, because I am a wilted parent on a warm summer day; this was an especially appreciated outing. It came about as I had given a thank you note to Graham's teacher as she was exceptional in her inclusive nature with him in her class room. Within it, I slipped a note, on neon pink paper, inquiring if she would like to tutor Graham over the summer, in a play-based, teachable moment  style. Some days later she phoned me and graciously offered to have us over to her back yard. She knows Graham and bit about Eli, but still she opened her home and summer comforts to us. A large pool, a deck, Popsicles, a frog pond, trails and her own young son... a boyz delight. I had to accept.
 After recording the complex, rural directions to her back-country homestead, we gathered up our gear and set out across our bucolic  town. I've lived here for 24 years and still, have not seen all corners of this Lamoille Valley township. Once 5 rural villages, the remnants of the farthest crossroads of Cambridge became visible in our drive out. Paved state roads, to dirt secondary, to smaller class 4 town road, to a narrow gravel lane marked private. Old farm walls and straining barns gave clues to a long ago place and time. Her directions were excellent and we glided into her door yard parking our 4wheel drive Honda next to hers. It was a custom cabin, following the round living style of a yurt but with all the artistry of a thoughtful mind. Surrounded by hardwoods, gardens, a timber gazibo and the grand pool, it had a welcoming energy. I would spend the afternoon studying the features of its design.

Eli and Jaccob ~ Marco Polo

   She came to greet us and introduce the boyz to her backyard, her son and her vision of a summer well spent. There was no awkwardness, only easy conversation as we settled in for an afternoon of fun and sun. Graham explored the surroundings with careful attention and mapping every detail in his mind. He noted the yard, the mulch pile, the deck and the pool. He spied dead oak leaves  and made haste to them. Crumbling the crisp, brown leaves in his hands, he would sprinkle them in sun beams. Eli changed urgently into his swim suit and headed for the pool with a triumphant leap. All smiles and elated with the clear waters and the quick friendship of Ms. Aiosa's son. Graham required a little persuasion to get him into his swim trunks before attempting the pool's ladder. He loves the water and this was upto his neck so he could manage independently. He joined the two playmates, laughing and smiling as they splashed and tumbled in the refreshing waters. He enjoys observing from the edges, not sure how to play their game of water fighting. He soon tired of the cool water and wet antics, climbing out of the ladder expertly and choosing his land clothes. He dressed himself again and headed for the house. A bathroom break and exploration of the floor plan before returning to the pool deck.

"I can use this raft to get there..."

"first I'll get on it..."

"...then I'll get off it..."

"I'll use the ladder to get out of the pool.."

 He found a floating, fabric ball and began chewing it. Pool water won't kill, but it will cause a belly ache, so I commanded his release of it and tossed it to the middle of the pool. Graham didn't become angry; he studied the situation. There were floating rafts in the pool, one by the edge of the deck. He commenced to test it for worthiness across the water. With Ms. Aiosa's support, he touched it, leaned on it and then climbed on. He would ferry himself to the ball, that was his mission. Back into swim shorts and then onto the float and around the edge. The ball was forgotten as he explored the raft and all the ways to climb on and off. He became the master of his ship. I smiled with his teacher as we realized he figured it all out by himself and that we don't give him enough credit. Graham learns by doing and he taught himself a new game. I pondered, where on the developmental milestones lists of autism, did this accomplishment  belong? In his boyhood adventures, it was a natural event that most parents would never witness and perhaps take for granted as a part of growing up. With Graham and his autism, nothing is taken for granted. Every success is marvelous.

"...humm, now where's the frog..."

"... come on Ms Aiosa.."

  Satisfied with his rafting skills, he left the pool and went for his land clothes again. He is diligent about the right clothes for the task at hand. This time our hostess would walk him to the frog pond. King Frog, immediately appeared and he was filled with curiosity. Though he doesn't speak words, his body language, and facial expressions convey volumes in his desires. He began to walk out on the narrow plank that united the shore to a small rock centered in the marshy pond. He's sure of his steps, so I wanted to watch; Ms. Aiosa was not so certain. He made it out to the rock and reached for her to come as well. She elected to stay on shore; he elected to move his feet on the slippery surface. SPLASH! and then splash again. He slipped off the rock into the murky waters of lilies, algae and frogs. She lept into 'save' him. The silty bottom made it hard for him to find his footing; he flashed a look of panic but then smiled when he could stand and his teacher's hands held his. My camera was shut down, so I missed this precious picture of a little boy, covered in green pond slime, smiling and pleased with his survival in this 'other-adventure'. For Ms Aiosa, it was a moment of "oh-no"... but for me I witnessed my son become a real boy. He took a chance, tried out an idea and survived the consequences. How many times do real boys take a risk, try something foolish, pick themselves up to try again. It makes them stronger, smarter, happier in testing themselves on the way to becoming human.
  On this day, Graham lived this milestone right before my eyes. In all my wishes for Graham, in all my hopes and dreams for him, the hope that he will know what it feels like  to be A Real Boy, is the biggest and broadest of them all. Another proud stripe in his boyhood; a gift beyond price given by a teacher who sees what I always see. The little boys beyond the labels. For Graham, self confidence; for Eli a new friend. Thank you Ms. Aiosa for a summer afternoon well spent.
luv and peace ~ ell

Horses astray... faded dreams

    The bird song outside my window was a lovely way to greet the morning. I lay there, eyes still closed, listening to the ambitious melody of birds in the great, white birch tree along that side of my house. Trying to follow their conversation, I was startled by a non-bird sound. Clip-clop, at a rapid tempo, of not one but at least 3 horses, on the pavement in front of my house. My clock confirmed the time: 4:40am.
    I sat bolt up in bed, and listened harder trying to place the direction of the hoofbeats. 'were they coming toward or going away from the farm? If I hear 3, where are the other six horses? With the trees in full leaf, I couldn't see anything, yet. Outta bed, trying not to fall on shaky legs, trying to focus my blurred morning vision... I made my way to the bedroom door and down the central stairs. Now I could see them. Three geldings, my brown horses, trotting gracefully north on route 109. 'they'll turn for the barn and I'll have them...' Nope, they ignored my thoughts and continued briskly up the easterly neighbor's drive way. 'good enough, they'll put their heads down in his ample grass to eat; I'll have time to gather halters and ropes and walk them back...' But meantime, 'where is the rest of the herd?' I grabbed Honda car keys and fired out to check the summer pasture behind my house. Half way up the old farm road,  along side the 8 acre field, I could see them, all six swatting flies and un-concerned about their eloped herdmates. I counted heads and named them in my mind. 'good, the alpha mares are here still; that's why these ponies didn't go venturing with their boys...' I need these horses to stay put, 'don't follow the naughty ponies...'
   Driving back to the barn, I threw in two bales of hay and a bag of grain returning to the good ponies at near frantic speed. As I scurried to put out their grain, I remembered I'm wearing pink pajamas, satin no less, a curious sight if my neighbors are awake this Sunday morning. Dashing to my back door, with hay in the car, I skidded up the hilly lawn and I put out the hay by the water tank. Food is the best reason for a horse to stay put; I needed this to work while I figure it out.
    I puzzled the options for the escapees. I didn't hear hoofbeats on pavement and so believed they were grazing next dooryard. I'd collect them and apologize for damages as I back filled the dipples in that turf. I had time to change and take some water for my panic-parched throat. When I began pulling my car out the drive, a neighbor rolled in. My car clock blinked 5: 10am. I have to get going, traffic will pick up soon and endless blind curves and hollows on this road.
   "Are you missing any horses? There are 3 on our lawn! we're a mile away...the little log cabin...can I help?" she queried from her window.  I paused long enough to register those precious words. "yes, you can block north bound traffic, I'll drive after them and try to nudge them home...they are lost and confused without their boss mares... but they won't know to avoid cars..." I grabbed a ball cap to keep the stray hair out of my face.
    Winding north, a trolley speed, I spotted them sauntering back toward home, but still a thin mile out. Horrible piece of road for sightlines; hitting one of these thousand pound horses would be fatal for horse and car alike. This thought set me to shaking. I'm insured, but not enough if there is a strike. I eased north of them and herded them with the nimble Element. Until they spotted a lawn, then cut off the road for the lush grass; this was my chance to halter them. I borrowed the driveway to park and quietly stepped out. The horses were curious but hyper alert as this was not their pasture. They were content until they heard the halter rings jingle. Heads held up, they started trotting off the lawn. A shake of the plastic grain scoop and they stopped quick and rolled back cutting the rain softened turf. I'll apologize and repair this one as  I approached and haltered the wayward lads, hooking a lead onto the alpha gelding. I finally took my first deep breath, and walked the lead horse off the lawn. Just in time for the first vehicle of morning, a large container truck in full chrome, to race past us blowing off my cap. 'f*%#er I thought, he'd kill a horse just to be on time for his donut'. It was my first, and only cuss of the morning. Haste and hassle have no place with horses; especially not with at-risk horses.
   Facing my horse in hand, I puzzled still more, ' I've a thin mile to gettem home, the others will follow him, I know; but I can't leave my car, can't walk that far on my wobbly legs... 10 years ago I could have easily... but not these days. Lord, make me strong and smart here...' I looked at my car, the large driver's window, the empty road... I will lead him from the car; I have to. These horses are used to following a car for race starts. This horse is smart, obedient and fearless. If we all stay calm and just breathe, with no impatient drivers, if neighbor stops all northbound traffic, we will get back without mishap. That's the plan. Now to think it there...
  My tall, elegant gelding wasn't too sure of his first step aside my vividly orange Honda. Thankfully, the all-wheel drive rig sat high off the ground; that put the horse's head at a natural height for our walk back. The first half mile went easy and I wondered what my horse training mentors would say if they could see this sight. GoGo walked casually with his mates behind him in perfect hiarchey to his lead, until we rounded the corner that put our homestretch in sight. With a tenth of a mile to go, the younger geldings burst out in front like the race horses they were bred to be. I had to drop the lead shank and hope their common sense would guide them to the barn. As they broke away from my mindful grasp, I watched their beauty and held my breath.
  Down into the barnyard and into the parlor they trotted gratefully. Safe at last, I could hook onto their halters, feed them each their grain and scold them while they chewed. "what were you thinking? you've never gone so far in your jaunts, you went past all the hayfields, what made you do that?" With the horses secure, I went up the road to thank my neighbor and send her along. "Amazing they came back like that... safe a sound...just lucky...", she offered. My sincere response, "... thank you for helping with traffic, only the early morning saved them... I'm surprised they left the herd at all... the storm last night must have broken fence and they found it...alls well that ends well...", my voice was shaking as I spoke. All the adrenalin and crisis had caught up to me. I went back home to check the grazing horses who stayed with their feed. 'I'll have to sit a bit, eat a little and move them to the barn later...' I reflected on how lucky I was, my young boyz slept through it all, no real harm was done, just another year off my life and more gray hair, and the hard reality that I must dissolve this dream of mine... I must acknowledge my limits in health and finance and farm. I must let go of my model horse centered experiment, once and for all....before I loose it in tragedy. Everything happens for a reason; this was my wake up call. At 5:55 am, I finally had a cup of coffee and resolved to re-home the last rescued horses of a 20 year odyssey in equine welfare. It's time to let it go. Some dreams die hard; I'm grateful that this one is quietly slipping away.
peace ~ ell
this one is for the awesome brown horses who teach me in every way

dream to live

   In my dreams he speaks easily, has wavy blond hair and and rides a chopper-like stiletto bicycle trike with an electric motor. He smiles always, and chats with kids and neighbors he meets on the sidewalks. When I dream of him, all his best qualities are vibrant in his young man's competent body. He is gentle and loving and a popular member of our small town community. I wake renewed and inspired in my commitment for his quality of life.
   As I go to him to admire his sleeping features; I wonder if God sends me these dreams to affirm my belief in my blue-eyed wonder boy. I take in the faith, that my son's best interests will be ensured and his strengths and talents will be nurtured. He will become a happy, contented person. In my dreams, his challenges and barriers become great tools of teaching for all who know him.
  In my dreams, he succeeds in teaching all of us, what truly matters in our lives. He teaches us that quality of our experiences is a greater measure of life's value than the quantity of material gains. Like a prophet of love, giving and being, he radiates goodness of a life lived well.
  I wish that every person who knows him, could dream my dreams of him. His limits would become differences and not obstructions to knowing him, to guiding him to his person-hood. In my dreams, he is my hero. In my life, he is my greatest teacher. And I thank our Lord for bringing him to me and purposing my life in the quest for his wholeness and I thank my son for teaching me how to be a better human. I love you Graham, always and forever.
love and peace ~ ell

  

memorial day 2011

   Finally, a beautiful day of spring-like sun graced us. It was Memorial Day  in our small town and kith and kin were here with their assorted tasks to abide. The boyz, Graham and Eli, marched with the scouts in our town's brief parade to Memorial Rock. Daughter Quilla, would be marching with her school band and my outlaw biker man decided to bolt the 3x5 flag to his Harley and cruise into the village to watch it all.

walking the great flag to Memorial Rock

   I love our town's solemn tribute to this day. The local women and men in uniform will participate bearing flags; they will adorn the veterans' graves in the town cemetery, make some speeches and, hopefully, feel the appreciation of the townsfolk who line the route and surround the service.
   Lining up the parade participants at the school, it was a somber group of scouts, vets and families. Uniforms were straightened, flags were unfurled and formations were practiced, as the bands tuned their instruments. My boys were assigned corners of the very large flag. Along with their den-mates, they would walk this flag, holding it taunt, for the quarter mile distance to the ceremony. A den leader defined their roles, "...you all need to walk in time, be aware of each other..", as the young grade schoolers flapped the great flag and marveled at its breadth. I had to add, "... I don't think they can understand that advice, Mr. Barnes; may I? men! just keep this off of the ground, do not let it touch the ground, ever! You can do it!", was my simple advice. Eli took the front corner and then, Graham walked up and took the back corner. I was delighted and then realized I would have to walk that distance along side him on this hot day. With a shout from the leader we were off.

Eli with serious thoughts

  These young boys can walk briskly, but I managed to keep up and we arrived in perfect form to the ceremony. I was pleased with these youngsters, taking this so seriously and rising to the occasion. I snapped a few pictures. The speeches were made, a couple kids needed to be escorted to shade while I delighted in the event's small town endeavor. It's so humble, an authentic tribute to our local sacrifices. I ignored my inner doubt of war and focused on the human scale of the offering. By the time we had returned to our car, settled the kids with their charges, the afternoon had be planned. My bikerman, inspired by the patriotic tone, announced the flag would stay on the bike and we would "...take a little ride, go get some lunch, and enjoy the day.."

a shade break in Eden Mills

   Back at the farm, with chaps and lid buckled, sun glasses adjusted, tail bag full of jackets, map, trailmix and water; we mounted and headed out. We followed rte 109N; it was in good condition compared to so many other VT roads. Smooth and lightly traveled in the northern reaches of Lamoille County, it was nearly free of traffic. An occasional traveler, some bikes out for the sites, like us. But most folks were gathered around picnic tables at family round ups, was my guess. As we rolled by small groups, the loud pipes would turn their heads our way; the whipping flag would garnish waves and "wows" and thumbs up. The deeper we rode into the small towns, the farther along the way back roads we traveled, the more exuberant the random spectators became. They would leave their lawn chairs, stand up on their porches, lean over the fence rails to give a long look and enthusiastic wave at our one bike parade.
   We left the state roads of the county and followed the winding pavement of the back roads through Eden Mills, Lowell, Westfield and Troy. Gliding past crumbling hill farms, bygone shanties from the asbestos mining era, and rusting homesteads still occupied by the same generations that staked out these sites. This was a very real Appalachia, very much alive and firmly rooted at this edge of the Northeast Kingdom. This is a Vermont that the 5 o'clock news has ignored and a media savvy government has neglected. Riding past the poverty, I thought that maybe these Vermonters like it that way. No one bothers them and they don't bother anyone else. A patch of shade loomed ahead, and my driver elected to stop and stretch.

   The road would take us to rte 100N, the main way to Newport and its spectacular Lake Mempremeggog. We've been to it many times, but manage to enjoy it afresh in every visit. This trip, we would divine our way to the Eastside Restaurant and Bar. Taking a table on the deck, we would enjoy the eats, the rest and the shade. Thankfully, it was noticeably cooler at the water and the crowd was thin so we could linger and revive for the ride home.
   Mounted up, we resumed our odd circle of the north country with our flag still in full glory. Route 105 to the Port of North Troy was in near perfect condition and too few cars to count. The station was all quiet, no cars, or cyclists or flags. Tough day for the patrollers assigned here; we snapped a picture and went south.

2up in the Green Mountains

These border towns are small, remote and original. The architecture hasn't changed much and offers a glimpse into the past of  Vermont's glory days. I get lost in these imaginings evoked of the old sepia prints of the decades past. In those historic still-lifes, people were abustle, streets were busy, and villages burst with community. As we roll by, there were no dapper strollers on the sidewalks, no patriotic banners on porch rails, no parishioners gathered on the church lawn for cool drinks. These towns weren't dead, just in a coma of comforts as folks had retreated inside, in their own living rooms with cable or Wii or iTunes.  I held on  with a squeeze to my driver and changed my thoughts to the emerald wilderness around us. We are so lucky to live here, to travel to places that weave past into present while the mountains, the valleys, the waters stay constant.

sunburnt for the East Side Grill

  With that, we trolled through Jay and then onto its infamous ascent. Where expansive vistas and tight twisties challenged the bike. The Low Ride throttled, climbed and wrangled that mountain road easily, proving her worth and grace in that gauntlet. Over 38K in miles, a major spring tune up, and a sparkling day to ride as she showed herself off to all viewers. The road was rough, unkept for some years, but it was doable and my driver made the journey happen. Up south over Jay Peak and then down north and finally onto the familiar road home.

Jay Peak summit house

   It's still early in the season, and as the bike defied her vintage limits, we were aware of ours. One hundred ten miles and we were sunburned (forgot the sunblock), aching (forgot the Advil), cussing our Vermont roads, and smiling as we cracked our beers in celebration. It was a grand run; a few more roads highlited on our recorded map of traveled roads. No place in Vermont is disappointing to see; I am so blessed to have a biker man who plans to get me to every one of them. I close my eyes and recite a biker's prayer: 'ride safe with the rubber side down and the shinny side up ~ ride on.
ell
this is for them that take the road less traveled

I just wanna ride...

three pieces to my heart

"I want to ride. The weather today, sucks. The third day of hard rain, river is over it's banks. After 5 days of sun and dry roads. This after 5 days of rain that fell after the wettest April on record and a 100 year flood which has happened for the 4th time in the 24 years I've lived here. I want to ride so I can forget about the ruined pasture, forget about my un-mowed lawn that will now require harvesting. I want to ride so I can deny my financial realities and taunt my whithering gray matter. I just want to ride; to leave behind my child's special ed meetings and decompress my silent screams for his potential. I just want to ride, with arms around my lover, lulled by those vintage pipes, tickled by the scent of his leathers as we roll along in the primordial soup of it all. I just want to ride; to squint at the sun, feel the wind on my face and leave my worries in the dust of my door yard. I just want to ride...long enough to forget the bad-ass world and sooth my soul in the ride.
if only it would stop raining."
 I wrote this on my Bikers Post journal, earlier this week when it was still raining. I thought it was worth sharing on a motorcycle enthusiast site. But it garnered few responses. Perhaps too poetic for that posse of bikers. It is an interesting site to me, though. To follow discussions from riding in rain to why folks joined the site is a tiny glimpse into my mid-life obsession. It's a study in what draws remarks as many of the responses are short-and-sweet and often swelling with bravado. I hope to learn more about motorcycles, places, tricks to the adventure. 
  Like facebook, it's a 'social' network, yet they don't really replace the need to touch, hear, see each other. Kinda interesting to see how it will play out in 10 years. But still, when there is too much time in my lap, the weather is gloomy and my brain is foggy with disease, these sites offer a glimpse of a world bigger than my little piece of a small town.
 The bike is still in the shop for much needed upgrades  (I'm surprised how strong my affection for it has become) and the computer is still on my desk but the sky is blue for now and the list of life is calling. I believe I'll go visit the bike and plot our next road trip... it's about time to raise a some hell and disturb a little peace. Ride on. ~ ell

Read more: http://www.bikerspost.com/profiles/blogs/i-want-to-ride#ixzz1Mu6dOJ2i

a very fine line

   It's a fine line, that's what navigating life is all about. I'm easing into the April evening, trying to muster enough energy to finish the daily list of must-do's and should-get-done's. I must feed the horses and the kids, maybe I'll even eat more than a banana myself. But really, I'd rather go out to the carriage barn and polish my buddy's vintage Harley.
   I know winter is over, or nearly over, when my mind abandons all responsibility for riding that sweet bike' comfortably seated behind my outlaw sweetheart. The fences need mending, I need to scout out some additional Learn'ed Horse Project students and I really need to re-home the last five rescued horses. Yet my mind is easily distracted with the memories of past miles and the dream-scaping of this season's expectant rides. A trip to the Maine coast and one perhaps to Niagara Falls; and always the glorious roads of Vermont. Am I lazy or just tired or actually ambivalent. Just this puzzle alone drives my mind, again,  to the bike and her beckoning chrome.
  He brought her up to my place as I'm on a paved road and have ample space in my barn. We even found an ace shovel-head mechanic for his vintage low ride. He might even get the bike fit enough to pass inspection and dawn a legal sticker. I'll need a new nickname for my driver then,  but that remains to be seen. Still though, it'll be exciting to assist in the low-ride's rehab and learn the mechanical details of the chrome pony I've come to love as dearly as my awesome brown horses.
 When he surprised me two weeks ago in arriving with her tethered in his truck bed; I was as giddy as a child on Christmas day. It got better still, when after unloading her, he dusted off the winter grime and turned the key, sparking the hearty engine to life. The sound of her throaty pipes and rhythmic Vtwins was music to my winter weary mind. He turned her around to face the road and signaled me to jump on. There were snowbanks in the yard and plenty on the mountain still, but the traveled lane was clean and the temperature was 60+; we were gonna ride. On April 9th, it would be the earliest I had ever gone out.

   Where to?" he queried. "East and north on 109; it's in good shape; no ball-buster holes anywhere..." my eager reply. Zipping my leathers up snug; I was struggling to swing my right leg over the familiar sissy bar. ' I'll need to limber up and start stretching for the summer ahead...' I muttered to myself. Settling into my pillion seat, I gave him a hug and and my ready to ride smile. Pulling onto the lane, he revved the throttle and set a a pace that made my heart jump and then soar. We were riding, rolling past snow banks that would hide the wintry acres beyond them and marvel and the snowy fields that blanketed the hillsides ahead. What a rush to ride in warm wind with ample snow still lining the roadways. Onward through Waterville and Belvidere; to Eden and North Hyde Park;  deeper the snow became as we rumbled north.  
   Pausing only for a brief picture of him next to the banks of snow, as we toured the snow-littered spring time, I couldn't recognize our summer landmarks. The vistas that were so green and comforting in July were frozen and foreboding in this early April spin. Not a time of year to break down and no room on the roadside to push a dead bike. Fortunately, our ride ran flawlessly, purring without hesitation in the effort. Seeming like even she wanted to bust lose of winter and stretch her chrome features against the bare roads.  As we wound our way home, we had covered a pristine 44 miles in our first ride out for this promising season ahead.
   Watching the ribbon of road fading behind us in the side-view mirrors, it struck me how all of life is defined by a very thin line... between dreams and duty just as it is between winter and spring... a pile of work here, a bank of snow there. It all works out as long as we 'mind' the line and keep all things where they belong.
   enjoy the day and keep the shiny side up ~ ell

this one is for them that live their dreams, and share that ride ~ peace