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

post hibernation 2010

Stretching, yawning and scratching my head as I itemize the recovery plan for shedding winter weary, I have read some old posts revealing the quirky thoughts swirling in my head. Though a pastoral life would be an accurate pigeon hole for me, routine would not find a place on the list of descriptives for me. Last year's pictures stir fond memories of wonder and blunders; it all leads back to gratitude and a reaffirmation of the 5F's. My current time and place in life needs to focus on family, friends, farm and faith. Notice that failing is not among this list. My long winter absence from this journal is largely related to the constraints of time, especially productive time. While the weather this winter was untypically mild, the season itself was a functional challenge that frequently confounded my broken brain. I did spend the season as a winter hiking guide for Smuggs, and managed to complete most treks but my injured brain and resulting mis-abled movement stranded me a few times. It was a sharp reminder that time will march on and my warbling state of unwellness will keep in close pace with that rate of momentum. New meds, new priorities and tempered ambition brings me back to a doable reality. My plans for a soft fruit plantation, where once I rescued horses, become more vivid and the first steps for this conversion will take place in June. My motorcycle pursuits have evolved into a more practical journey with my surrender of the solo two wheeled adventure, transforming to the pursuit of a URAL side car rig with two wheel drive for both on and off road, in all seasons. I can tooly-dooly around my farm and still be road-legal it style, without the perils of dropping the bike. In the rideless months of winter, I have happily grown a kindred relationship with a favorite Harley driver becoming his official pillion riding enthusiast. An unexpected but deeply affectioned relationship nurtured from a mutual passion for loud pipes, Vermont roads and the other-adventures. So begins a new season of green and sleeveless days in the Former Republic of Vermont, my beloved Green Mountain State. In permaculture, the belief and practice that there is no such thing as waste ~ only misplaced energy:  it's all good. Ride on...
peace ~ ell

imagine

I've spent the last months of the summer motorcycle season riding with an "outlaw" Harley biker dude who has often made me smile so broadly that I have forgotten how to frown. We've had adventures and misadventures and our friendship is growing strong. He is not afraid of my oddly-abled movement, or my random quirks owed to my broken brain. He is good medicine for my ailing self image and doubt filled future. He lives the day seeing possibilities where I see limits. It's inspiring; inspiration begets hope and hope is good medicine. He phoned me a while ago, on a day when I was struggling with impaired balance, gaits and movement in all that I attempted. It was a bad day; a vivid image of one possible future constrained by dysfunction and little could be done to dissuade such an outcome. Hearing the blues in my voice he asked the reason. It's not my nature to be down on myself. Choking back prideful tears, I revealed that I was having an "off-day" and feared that it would become my norm eventually. "I don't want to live the rest of my life watching the world go by, sometimes on motorcycles. I can give up horses very easily after 43 years of my life with them. But the thought of not being able to ride on a motorcycle with a good friend is terrifying for me. . ." His confident response; "I've got that all figured out for you. I will get a side car so you can ride with me. If you are in a wheel chair, I'll modify the side car so you could roll right in, like a chariot. Then off we'd go; it'll be awesome. . ." I was elated, with all of this. Not just that there was a solution to my "worst-case-scenario"; but that this humble, green mountain man, imagined an exceptional solution so that I, and other differently abled persons, could feel the wind in their face and hear the thunder of Harley loud pipes. His spirit of "all things are possible and most of them doable" lifted my spirits and painted my future hopes and dreams the color of indigo ~ the color of imagination, the color of hope. When we said good bye and I drifted cheerfully into a sidecar day-dream, it was then I remembered that his eyes are a very warm blue as well. . . then thought, what other genius he might imagine for a differently-abled biker chick like me.
luv, ride, love ~ ell
this one is for them that can imagine genius. . .

the other adventure...

This weekend, I was invited for a long ride on a 1984 HD low ride, shovel head by a gentleman biker I met quite accidentally. He offered to take me for a spin on the other side of "the lake"... Lake Champlain, the NY neighborhood. It was a spectacular day so we made a plan of sorts to pick me up and then head for the islands, catch the ferry and then follow the other west coast down to the southern point ferry and back home. I've lived in VT for 24 years and never made such an outing. So"yes, seems like a grand idea" was my sincere reply. The weather was exceptional as he arrived on time and ready to load and go. His bike seemed smallish compared to the Ultra Classic I had been treated to in earlier outings. It lacked any kind of storage for coat or water so I strapped on my shoulder pack with all that I needed for a day trip. I was not expecting a smooth ride, but when I settled in, I found it was a good fit. The passenger seat is soft and very close to the driver so we were both in the center of the bike and that made for very comfortable 2 up travel, much to my delight. Off we went, stopping to fuel up at the local gas station. The bike refused to restart electrically, so being a vintage ride, he pushed it away from the pump and used the kick starter. Kewl, it fired up and off we went, loud pipes rumbling... We followed the black top through Lamoille and then Franklin counties, up to his childhood family fishing camp taking a break and stretching our legs. We covered all the single parent topics around the special sensitivities that children of divorce must contend with in their childhoods. He shared many tender family values and revealed his kindness in those stories... it was a pleasure to listen and to confirm those complex challenges that we try to balance for our kids. A family man with a passion for wind and loud pipes. This culture of biking harbors so many interesting and passionate people. I felt very privileged to be invited. Once fed and refreshed, we readied to mount the trusty pony... it resisted the electric start once again and I stood aside while he coaxed it with the kick starter into its rhythmic roar. He was a bit concerned as to the bike's contrary behavior... after all, he put in new plugs, new battery, detailed the block... but the iron horse rolled out and he was confident enough to go for the bridge over the lake. We cleared the span easily and I wished that I hadn't buried my camera under our jackets lashed to the back of the little sissy bar. Over on the NY shore now, we puttered through Plattsburg and recognized the bike was very ill indeed. We just wanted a gas station to refuel and evaluate the cause of the misfires, the gasping engine... I'm no expert, but it sounded as if it were starving for fuel, but there was plenty in the tank... a few more miles south, no gas station in sight. It gave up and stopped all efforts in its silence. My driver power walked it off the traveled lane, past the fog line. Where were we? A 360 degree scan revealed we were very near a golf course: Bluff Point. As he pushed the bike into an access road, I pulled the helmets, and water bottle off the bike and watched him check list the situation hoping he would have some idea and maybe he could "McGiver" a solution. He revealed that he volunteered on a pit crew for stock car racing once upon a time and knew a little bit but couldn't see the real problem. Some how, the engine was not getting fuel; gas in the tank, the fuel valve was releasing petrol, yet there was air in the line... not good, not normal, not working.... I wandered over to a foursome teeing off. They in their golfing wardrobe, I in my leather chaps and sleeveless blouse, mirror sun glasses... "excuse me, is this a public course or a private club?" my query as spoke my best etiquette (I remembered my last encounter in a family place when attired in leathers and a wet shirt... we needed some help, and I didn't want to scare them off). "No, its public; why?" his Montreal accent replied. "we're broke down and need a place to sit and wait for our rescue ride. Is there a club house near by?" I sheepishly answered. "yeah, somewhere, maybe up that road by the sign" as he pointed south about a quarter mile. I returned to my frustrated biker friend and shared the news. He looked across the way, and began pushing his bike along the flat road, all 660 lbs of it. At least it was flat on this side of the lake and he was a fit tradesman... if it had been me, I could not have done that and in VT, there would have been hills to fight. We found the golf club entrance and began to enter, spotting a gazebo in the shaded median just ahead. We stopped and saw that it was a good climb, a heafty push to the club house and neither one of us wished to try farther. We have shade, a place to sit, a good spot for the bike. In silent agreement, we parked and ciphered the situation. He called his best friend, who by God's grace was there and began the trip to rescue us; a two hour drive for him and his truck with ramps for the bike...I'm thinking that its not all bad, as we are comfortable, safe and help is coming... I'm good with it. We talked and joked and watched the golfers. They would stop and ask of our situation: "bummer man, have a beer..." was the theme. Seems like every golf cart that went by, had a stock of Labatt's beer. A sweet relief in the 90+ heat of afternoon. After two beers, I was dizzy, drunk and hungry but too wary of walking to the club house in the heat and my driver was not going to leave his bike alone with golf club wielding strangers. I retreated to the grass and lay down for a nap and idled away the time swapping stories. It was to our mutual surprise discovering how much we had in common... it had become a great afternoon, with good company and free beer. I began smiling, beaming when he asked, "what are you so happy about?" "I was just thinking about why I took up motorcycle riding as a passenger. Today, I have met every objective of my pursuit. I have made a new friend, ridden a bike new to me, gone down a new road..." He was puzzled, "but we broke down..." "yeah, but what a place to get stuck, nice seat in the shade, free beer and good stories. This is awesome... I love adventures and this is a good one..." now he was smiling too as he kept a sharp eye for his buddy's white truck. I felt no worries as it was all taken care of and I felt at ease with the current situation. His calm concern was all I needed to enjoy myself in the company of this new friend; the gifts of cold beer from sympathetic golfers was a bonus... It was a grand day out as we watched the sun dropping and the dew rising. The white pick-up arrived and I stood in awe as the two buddies pushed the heavy bike into the back of the truck. We all piled into the cab and thanked our humble rescuer for abandoning his life these hours and making the trek out. As we pointed for home, it was agreed: all's well that ends well and new friends are always worth the detour in the journey...
peace ~ ell
this one is for the immeasurable value of friendship

good to go...

Eldest offspring shot this picture for her portfolio. Maybe it can get me a ride...the jacket is my upgrade from straight black I had been touring in. I had been riding in her jacket as she never cared to wear it. It was a bit too big for me; I caught this one in a good sale. The red and white help with conspicuity I hope, a little more visible with a splash of style...now maybe, I can catch a ride. (I don't really stand on the road and hitch, but lately just can't get my schedule in sync with my biker buddy...) You would think that it would be easy enough to get a ride but that's not been my experience... I see dozens, even hundreds of bikes go by my door, many without a passenger. But guys will say they want the freedom, or they aren't comfortable with someone on the back, or they are out with the boyz and not into any tag-alongs that ride...
oh well, check out the custom chopper trike that OCC build in 2004...maybe that will get me where I wanna go... It was created for a young man who was paralyzed in a car wreck. It uses only hand controls. Might be just what an oddly-abled middle-ager like me needs. It is a stylish ride with all the chrome a girl could want...keen indeed... live your dreams
peace ~ 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

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

churchin' up the Harley way...

We spent all day Saturday working on the farm, deconstructing the horse training arena. I plan to put the flat four acres into a soft fruit plantation. The old riding ring is the only sand I own on that piece of land. It will make a perfect spot for the raspberries. So then, the 80 x 120 foot three rail arena must come down. Last year, oldest daughter and I started that process and gave up with three quarters of the circumference to go. So there it stood, waiting for decommissioning. I say we worked; really I watched a very strong friend work, when I wasn't napping in the shade. He is so good to me. We stuffed the back of the mini van full of the salvaged wood for future barn projects and drove the sagging car to the hen house. Mission accomplished, I stole a kiss from each and sent them on their way, the day well spent. The sun easing behind the hills left me looking ahead to Sunday services at my beloved "Jeff Church~ the little church with a big heart..." a quiet day of rest and reflection...the usual small town day of comfort. That all changed when a brilliant beam of morning sun awoke me, with my little blue-eyed wonder boy jumping on my bed. No sleeping-in that morning. It's all good as I was wide awake when my riding partner beeped me on my cell. "So I was thinking of going for a ride today, wondering if you'd maybe wanna skip church and join me?...? his thoughtful lure. It took me less than the time to click his number in my call list to reply: "yes!" I love my church community, loving and giving people all of them...but I reasoned that God would allow if I got a little "churchin' up" on the back of a gleaming Harley behind a very good friend. My ride arrived on schedule; younger daughter tended the horses; older daughter tended the boyz. I leathered up and we poached a Sunday twirl. (poaching is taking a ride when maybe we should have been more dedicated to our responsibilities). "have you had breakfast?" he queried. "nope, I am hungry though," my earnest answer. "let's get breakfast up by Jay Peak then..." his solution. We headed east and north over the ragged back roads of Lamoille county. I zipping my jacket against the morning chill and closing up a little tighter to his broad, shoulders, holding tight over the broken black top. Seems like they pave our roads after all of everywhere else gets done, or so it seems. Early enough on a Sunday morning, we did not see a soul on this road. And quiet, not even a barking dog in a yard nor any lawn mower worshipers clipping grass. Only the rhythm of the loud pipes to lull us in the morning light. We rolled into our destination, a small home cooking kind of place in a tiny town. We grabbed a deuce in the middle of the crowded room and studied the menu. We were the only breakfast couple in riding gear; all others in their Sunday shirts...we stuck out just a little. With the order placed, we warmed up and plotted our ride. North to Newport, east and south to Lake Willoughby, down to St. J. and circle back home... its the nickel tour of the North East Kingdom. I never tire of riding up here, expanses of time and space that lift your troubles away. A brief chat with a patron and we were ready to ride, wet or dry. This day, we would head for the sun as we cheated the looming storm front. Skylines that looked ominous, storm fronts that promised mean weather. Bursts of sun streaking through darkening clouds, we followed their light. We journeyed up to Newport, counting more churches than I think Vermonters could fill at any given time. Another reminder of this day of rest. Amazing Grace would linger in my mind as the breath taking views would emerge. Rolling into main street Newport, our northern most "city" on the shores of Lake Memphremegog spanning the US/Canadian border, it is one of my favorite burgs in Vermont. We parked the bike in a generous lot at the lakeside boardwalk. The sun dazzled across the water as the wind snapped the flags at full mast in the court yard. We pulled up a bench and I leaned  my head on my abductor's shoulder pondering the "then and now" of this once thriving railroad town... The storm front was gaining on us, we had out run it so far, but we needed to head south and east if we had any hope of staying dry... a challenge in the Vermont spring time if one is any where near the mountains. Snapping a few pics before remounting, he grabbed a happy shot of our twosome, evidence of our day of "hooky"; I won't be able to fib my way out of this one...we were only half way in our day's venture. On the further journeying, still no traffic, the road and the vistas all ours. Looking westerly, the storm was coming and my belly was groaning..."I need to grab some pepto..." He spotted a small market, in Lyndonville, I think. He elected to stay with the bike while I procured the blessed pink tablets. In and out, we'd be off and out running the rain. Not today, everyone in town must do their grocery shopping on Sunday, no blue laws here, and no express line either. I found the shortest wait, I thought. I thought wrong. Though they had only a small inventory to purchase, the couple in front had coupons, lots of 'em. My tummy was aching, in my chaps and road jacket, I caught the eye of a beefy biker who slid in behind me and started the usual "what, where, how" chat. I learned that he "hated Harley's, what was I on?" I didn't answer, I was in no mood to defend my favorite ride, mustering small talk as I counted minutes, too many minutes. I finally got to pay, my cell jingled, I didn't hear the clerk's cost for the pink medicine rightly, "sorry, it's a loud pipes thing..." as I fumbled for bills, tried to answer my phone and get out the door. While I was nursing a belly ache, my driver was getting soaked. The rain found us, or more accurately, him. But still, he was smiling and that alone was worth the price of ditching church. I dried my seat and saddled up behind my soggy chauffeur resuming our course for St. Johnsbury and homeward...It all rolled gently by, a few more cars, the occasional bike, Sunday bliss. Meandering on rte 15 westerly homeward through the tiny towns left behind by time, the familiar landmarks more abundant now as we glided into Lamoille county. I'm 19 days from my BRC moto class, it was here in East Johnson, just 12 miles from my farm, I witnessed the stopping proficiency of the front brake. In a small line of traffic, we were cruizing nicely until the lead car stopped and turned left without warning. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! what the f_ _ k" I gasped as we decelerated from 50 mph to a near stop, running out of road and shoulder with another sedan in front of us. My driver's wits, calm and experience bought us the inches we needed to escape a ruined day. I was shaking, he was not. "sorry I cuss like a carpenter and swear like a sailor...that was close," my weak remark. "ahh, you said it for me" as he reached back to assure me, "it was all under control..." the moment crystallized a sobering note: three motorcyclists died on Vermont roads last weekend...its by God's grace and the biker's savvy that all's well that ends well. Breathing more lightly, holding on more easily, enjoying the view over this big man's shoulder, I mused the reassuring words Pastor Peggy opens every service with: "this is a day that God has made, let us rejoice in it..." Amen ~ let it be so...
luv and peace ~ ell

this one is for my "big man" who brings us home safely every time...

Will Ride: Wet or Dry

Last Saturday was promised to be an exceptional day. Sunny and warm, clear skies, open roads (its the off season for tourists). Ideal for a spring ride. I had an invitation from a very kind H.O.G. on a very keen custom glide. (that's Harley Owners Group). I met him at the creeme stand and we mounted his gorgeous bike, I noting his burly frame. We departed in classic Harley style. His was a big chromed out, fully dressed touring bike with a plush second seat complete with passenger foot boards. Spotless in immaculate black and gold finish with the full complement of bling... and a stereo on board. By far the best ride I've ever been on. We took the Mountain Road up and over Smugglers Notch. It looked so ominous without snow in the pass to soften the massive granite heights. The boulders were so close to us in the twisties that I could touch them. I did. Like a worshiper seeking the face of God, I reached out to the ancient power of granite, melded with the intimate power of clutch and chrome...We glided down, down, down, 1900 vertical feet to the Stowe valley and then onto the interstate. The bike never wavered; the driver never faultered. A mountain of a man, younger than I usually ride with, but seasoned, skilled, smiling broadly with his legs stretched out on the forward highway pegs . A modest helmet sticker on the back of his glossy black lid: "size does matter"... At highway speeds, tunes busting out, each one roiling with the throttle, the bike and man were flawless in performance...and by his grace, I was along for the ride. As loud as it was; this was peace. South we went, south to Woodstock and then Quechee. Gearing the throaty bike down when he spotted the pull off he sought at the Quechee gorge over pass. The sun was brilliant, the sky pristine, the view was enormous. We dismounted and walked about on the bridge. He shared the history, the geology; this mountain of a man saw minute beauty and massive fortitude of the landscape. He had my full attention; a gracious surprise. Remounting, we cruised farther along the road and swapped a few stories over a genteel meal. In a generous leather vest adorned with logos, ride patches, a massive American Flag spanning his shoulders, framing arms that could swallow me whole, he would flash a broad smile and wink his eye in hearing my tales. He is the "big easy" I would think to myself. Well fed and remounting his gleaming bike, we glided onward to the west picking up route 4 to Rutland, the mid point of Vermont. More stunning views on an open road with a rare count of cars. The skies began to darken so we amended our plan a bit and drifted more easterly, toward home. Coming into Rutland, I experienced the complexities of motoriding among cagers and developed a vivid appreciation for the skills at hand. The number and frequency of hazards was tremendous. There was an intersection littered with gravel and sand on the paved thruway. We needed to make a left from a stop at this light. I swallowed hard remembering the MSF warnings on left turn sight lines, road conditions that can bring a bike down, being seen in heavy urban traffic. We were in the middle of the worse case scenario. The man up front showed no such concern. He patiently waited, put her in gear, glided over the debris and into our lane. "I think we need more crud in the road..." I joked in his ear. He laughed easily. A ways up the road, he wasn't laughing when we were missed by inches as a car pulled into our lane from a parking lot. Inches, only inches prevented her broadside collision with us despite my bright gold jacket, the reflecting chrome and my waving hand. Only inches spared us as she never saw us right in front of her car. I held my breath, he shook his head and patted my knee. It happens too often, drivers looking without seeing. I bow down to his mastery of his bike, and our fate. Thankfully, we cleared the traffic and picked up 22A north. It was another empty piece of blacktop all the way to Middlebury. Vermont never disappoints in her scenery. I never tire of engaging it. The westerly skies were nearly black now, our lake Champlain excursion would be put off to another day. Two hours between us and home, we headed north and east, into the light...In downtown Middlebury it began to drizzle. The big man up front was a worthy weather break for me in my open face helmet. By Ferrisburg, the rain would sting my cheeks when I peeked over his shoulder to catch a glimpse. Still it was warm and wonderful with my arms around him, winding over the narrow roads of farm country. We rolled into Starksboro and the skies opened, rain fell, then poured. Neither one of us in rain gear, neither one of us cared. It was an early ride out, after a long winter of no such twirl through the country. Even the rain couldn't deter our hunger for a long awaited ride. By Hinesburg we had to stop; the rain too heavy in his face to push on, lightening ripping the skies. He found a nice dinner and parked the cruiser while I stepped through the door. Warm and dry and empty seats for us in this full house. I must have looked very foreboding in my sopping jacket, dripping helmet and limp pony tail with soggy black chaps. All eyes were on me, then my none-too-small, drenched motodriver stepped in behind me. Silence in the dinner as we were directed to a table in the back. Draping my wet jacket over a chair back, I could hear the mumbbles, giggles and low gasps. I was soaked, to the bone, and apparently, through my little white blouse....this wasn't a wet t-shirt kind of joint; wives and moms did not appreciate my new brazier, I would not win a free beer here... my shy friend cleared his throat and offered me the seat by the heater as he ordered up something hot to drink. When the mugs of hot cocoas arrived, complete with whipped cream, I smiled large. A neatly dressed man by the door chuckled and whispered: "they ordered hot chocolate!" to his spouse. "What did they imagine of us?", I thought to myself as I scooped up the cream and marveled at the "cats 'n' dogs" bouncing off the car hood out the window. I love the smell of fresh rain, of lilacs and apple blossoms; but my driver didn't know this and was concerned I was displeased. "no, its the first ride out...it's all good. Besides, I was dry until your jacket hit saturation point and then drenched my lap. That's why I shrieked a ways back. If I'm wet, you're wetter. You make a pretty good weather screen, don't you know..." He smiled, got a little warmer and waited a bit. When the rain eased up, he went out and got my leather coat from his "boot". It was thankfully dry. Final sip of cocoa and time to brace for the last leg home. He went out and turned the bike around, tried to dry my seat; I paid for the cocoa and started zipping up my damp layers. A curious patron asked "how far did we have to go?" I turned and smiled big: "about 40 miles I think, but my scarf is still dry so I got that going for me..." He laughed, I put on my lid and headed out. The last leg was getting colder with air temps dropping and water rising in the rivers. The closer we got to the Mt Mansfield region, the farther north we traveled, the wetter it got. But the bike handled easily, no slipping or sliding, none of the forewarned traction dangers in the MSF manual. A heavy bike with good rubber, a strong driver and his respectful skills over the road. As we glided down the Boyden Farm Hill in Cambridge, we hit a fast, wide and deep rivulet over the road. It never fazed me, I was secure in my driver's obvious competence in all we faced this ride. But he startled me when he gasped. "Never saw that!" he exclaimed. The bike did the work that time; we eased over the last 3 miles and pulled up to my waiting car. I was glowing, a fabulous ride, the dry, the wet, the edge of it all... We laughed; it was over for me but another 30 miles for him. He felt bad for me, I felt bad for him and then I smiled. "Ahhh, you just wanted to see me in a wet shirt...I know your game..." He blushed and smiled brightly, "we'll get it right next time..." and off he went winding out that HD throttle. Music to my ears. I love these guys, their bikes, their savvy... I have ridden many times since with this gentleman; we'll practice until we get it right...it's all good.
peace ~ ell

April unfolding

April is odd. The ungraceful transition from winter wonders, slogging through mud-season, limping into a promised spring. There is still snow on the crown of Mt. Mansfield indicating the mountain road is still closed. The sugaring is done for this year; a short but prolific season, so they say. It has been blessed with more sunshine than rain; a precedent I hope continues through summer. We need a good hay crop this year. Last year was short and low quality driving prices up by 100%. May the trend continue for the weeks ahead; my biggest piece of hope is for a sparkling summer to ride motorcycles, drive horses, skid a little firewood(with horses)...
The highlight of April was the ascent to the top of Sterling Mountain for the sunrise Easter service. About a hundred intrepid souls made the chilling chair-ride up. While not raining, it was blustery. I gave my down parka to younger daughter as she dressed for the base lodge temperature and not the summit gale. I gave my sub-zero gloves to older daughter as she has never been to summit and was not prepared. By God's grace the service lasted only 20 minutes, a couple songs, one psalm, and a pastor with fingers too frozen to strum his guitar. As we faced easterly, singing Amazing Grace acappella ,the sun emerged from the clouds just in time to make it worth the frigid adventure. My girls were actually speechless and seemingly appreciated the sacrificial nature of the gathering; or they were too cold to complain. It was a good Easter, with good neighbors and good weather. No candy, no baskets, just luv and peace. Now my valley farm awaits and we clean up the toll of winter, coax the flowers out and count the hardiest moto-riders gliding by as they catch the earliest miles. Leaning on a rake, I smile silently: eight weeks, only 56 days until I take my Basic Riders Course...I'm primed. Meanwhile, saws, hammers and nails beckon me. Work smart, play smart...be well.
luv and peace ~ ell

wind in my face ~ winter

I'm more motivated to tell an airboarding story than I am to do my taxes; besides I can efile later tonite. Attached is a 60 second promo we did for Armed Forces Network back in February. We broke every rule the company has regarding airboarding at Smuggs. Things like following too closely - I was riding 10 feet from a very big snowmobile at 35mph. My colleague in the helmet cam was about 8 feet from me. We "poached" a closed trail just because the camera man asked us to. An hour and a half of nonstop runs was boiled into a minute blurb. That was the best promo we made this year. While it looks easy to do, and it is when the snow is good, you should know how I got the job three years ago. I was approached by my boss to see if I wanted to take a look at the program. I was a winter hiking guide in the mornings, done by 1pm, allowing time to do the airboarding in the afternoons. It was in December, the snow was frozen man-made and a "hockey puck" surface. That means it was fast, really fast not much snow to grab for stopping or turning. Airboarding is a sport made for people with mass. I have 128 lbs of mass, not much to influence the sled on a hard surface. Soooooo.... on my very first run, I managed to do all right until I got to the Hibernator dog-leg where things get steep. I dropped in, couldn't stop, barely turned, caught my downhill edge and just like skiing, rolled down-slope.....into the ski patroller and then into his snowmobile. I rang my helmeted-head, but good. I got up, continued down to the next steep section and managed to crash only 3 more times. All the while, my boss watching from the trail bottom. When I dragged my knees to a stop (ground them off would be more accurate), he asked how I liked it. My dazed reply: "it's allot of fun. . .once you know how...". His reply: "Great! the program starts on Monday..." I etched an impressive paint streak on the side of my helmet and so now I have a cover with a purple Mohawk. They call me an instructor, seems they'll hire anyone who will agree. I notice that I am the only female instructor among five men, all with mass. That was my first ride; now I am hooked. It is my favorite way to slide down the hill these days. This year, we taught daily clinics to some interesting folks. It's not a dull game to play. There was the young bride who used the SLOW sign to stop and then dropped her pants for the ski patroller so he could see the bruise on her thigh...."yep, that's a bruise. . . pack it in a bag of snow. . ." as he skwirmed out of the aide room leaving me with the blushing husband and his half clothed wife. I know the dude, he's a house painter in the summer; a doctor he is not. I learned that the men from Bermuda tend to be remedial as we screamed, bellowed for them to "ROLL OFF!!!" I think big Shawn, my fellow instructor, could be heard across all three mountains in his hopeless attempt to keep them on the trail. There were nine tree strikes in that clinic. One rider hit the trees so hard and so fast he tore his down jacket from his body. Feathers everywhere and his meek query: "can you fix my jacket?" But the most inexplicable event was the soriety girl who slid out of her snow pants trying to stop. She would just slide off the back of her sled and drag anchor to stop; this time her pants stopped and she and sled kept going. A colorful thong and no long johns. . . "ok" as I hustled to her. I blocked passers by with my sled and reminded her that Smuggs is the Number one family resort in America and she would need to put her pants back on to get down. There will be no riding pant-less. I was stunned when she said, "I can't put my pants back on; they're full of snow!" Whoa, they didn't have that scenario in the company handbook. "shake out the snow, put 'em on or I'm sure one of the Mountain Ops guys (snowmakers) will delight in bringing you down on a snowmobile. . . that would just be frosty, don't you think? She muddled her pants back on and hustled for the day lodge at the bottom. I'm here to say there is never a dull moment in Airboarding, its more fun than anyone should legally have....enjoy the clip, if you make it to VT, come ride with me sometime. . .
peace ~ ell

winter wonders

Winter in the Lamoille Valley has finally loosened its grip. Looking up at Mt. Mansfield from the horse barn (it has the best view from my place); I take inventory of the bounty of winter wonders. I'm a winter hiking guide at Smugg's Resort, logging 328 miles over the mountainous trails on mornings M-F, December thru March. In the afternoons, I get to rip down the mountain on an airboard; peaking speeds of 42 mph when we clocked it on the GPS. It is pure fun; my favorite way to slip, slide and carve on snow. We filmed 4 different clips for various promotional companies to promote this growing game on snow. My favorite was the piece we did for Armed Services Network. Hopefully, they will send me the finished clip and I'll post it here to share (just in case any of you want to come up and give it a twirl). We broke every rule of Airboarding at Smuggs to make a good demo for the military folks posted abroad. In airboarding, no skill is required; that's why I love it. We are riding belly down, face first, in an agile bench press, on an inflatable wedge shaped sled. Nimbly shifting our body, weight and legs, we can turn it, roll it, stop it...riding only 6 inches off of the snow, there's no where to fall; we're already on the ground - "just roll off", if you can't do the swift stop. The only laws that truly matter? The laws of physics prevail and teach us all about snow rash, that which is in motion...mass, acceleration, inertia...gravity....I should have paid closer attention in school. ha ha The safety clinic for all newbies: "don't use a tree to stop, don't use the trail sign to stop, don't use bamboo to stop, don't use the skiers or snowboarders to stop, don't use the lift house to stop, and don't use your instructor to stop....ROLL OFF! It's comical watching people try to master the mountain. The stories about the people who come to play... the kids, the couples (almost always ends in a bitter row), the foreign guests who don't know enough English to understand the "don't list"...the folks who just plain disregard the "don't list"...
I'll save these for a future post, one at a time with some clips of this fun little rig.For now, I'm immersed in the work of repairing and recovering the horse barn from a winter's worth of neglect, finalizing the business plan for the soft fruit orchard and getting the Learned Horse Project ready for spring and summer programs. And, as promised to myself and my moto buddies, the anxious anticipation of the Motorcycle Endorsement Basic Rider Course in June. I'll get my endorsement (if my brain rot will allow), become a more informed passenger and someday ride my own bike. I am psyched, feeling primed for summer and praying for more rain-less days than not. It's going to be an interesting summer. More stories to tell....
be well to all ~ peace ~ ell

The wonder of horses...

If you know me, you know that I have a horse farm. If you don't know me, a little background may help you get a better picture. Its not an average horse farm, but rather a typical hill farm with an exceptional purpose. It does not have fancy barns or a comfortable lounge (coming soon in 2010). We sit on bales of hay and pee in a clean horse stall. This is a horse rescue farm specializing in assisting former harness racing horses. Awesome brown horses who have been lucky enough to come here instead of auction or slaughter. For twenty years, I've built my base of knowledge, a posse of volunteers and a community of learners to help with this comprehensive task. It has been the most rewarding and joy-filled experience I have ever known with horses. Through the years, we were becoming well known in racing; assisting dozens of horses every year and my group of horse loving volunteers needed help. I reached out to the differently-abled community and they delivered whole heartily. This turned a page for me and evoked a whole new professional path for my equinery skills. I now aspire to evolve my odd little farm into a therapeutic learning center. Several years ago I embarked on a masters degree in this field of horse-assisted therapies; I certified in my preferred professional organization, EAGALA, I drafted a program the Learn'ed Horse Project and offered it to the public. These days, I am enjoying the participation of a teenage student who is passionate about horses, beautiful, articulate, differently-abled. Working with Felicia is an endearing experience. It has rekindled my joy of horses and my faith in sharing that which I love. Though HOURSE in VT is paid for this service, it has become a restorative opportunity for me. It is one of my better talents to mentor a novice with horses and a very satiating endeavor for me. At our farm, we are horse-centered in how we offer horsemanship. Always infusing the empathy for the horse's situation, seeking in ourselves, what is our responsibility in supporting him in successfully working with us, how do we ensure his desire to be with us.... In this expectation, a little piece of magic happens. In this process of observing, evaluating, assessing, asking and listening of the horse, the student becomes entwined with the horse's perspective and perception; what it's like to be this horse as we ask for his co-operation. What a therapist would call an "empathetic moment". I call it becoming a better human. Twenty years ago, as a professional horseman embarking on this horse rescue adventure (sometimes mis-adventures), I never imagined that it would be a horse that made us better persons, a kinder partner in a relationship, a more forgiving friend, a more gentle member of a community... like a midwife for personal discovery, I am blessed to witness this "birth of humanity" with every student who comes to this farm, my farm. I hope when these people are older, wiser and set in their lives, they will look back and remember the glow in my smile as I stood at the back of the "session" and silently lauded their discovery, I hope in their recollections, they will then know the gift they brought to me. This is INFINITY FARM live~learn~grow, come visit some time, bring carrots.
luv and peace ~ el

this is for the awesome brown horses and all they have taught me and continue to offer me...

Good Life?

Have you ever heard the saying: "the faster I go the behind-er I get", "the harder I push, the farther I fall"? So why do I get so swept up in this futility that our culture demands... literally dragged along? Consumed by the gravity defect? Just recently, I was driving home from NH and even though I was speeding along, "n + 10" as they say, cars were zipping past me. While I was anxious to be home, back at the farm, where time is more relaxed and life is much more mellow, I found myself stressed by the crush for time. It wasn't until we hit the VT state line that I felt some relief from the frantic pace of traffic in NH. Why is everyone so pressed for time? If one doesn't like their lifestyle, stop doing it. I can't buy into it. I don't want more stuff, or bigger stuff, or more costly stuff. I want less. I want more experiences, more friends, more adventures (the gentle, pensive type). I am exhausted watching other people sprint towards material debt, drones in mindless jobs, slaves to monster homes, ailing in disenchanted lives. What happened to the enchantment of everyday life? Enchantment is what I seek, where ever I find it. So then, to my family, I am "odd", quirky, lazy... I don't have an impressive title at a corporate monstrosity so I am failed. Less worthy because I choose family, farm, friends, faith as the center of my universe. I have enough stuff, all that I need, most of what I want. I have enough and more. The "more is better American guidepost" doesn't suit me. It's my vision, my legacy, for this farmstead and my life to live richly, share the enchantment of everyday life, be sustainable and welcome others to this bounty. This past year, my differently-abled brain has taught me that it's ok to let somethings be undone for awhile, its allowable to suspend the measure of time, it's a good thing to be still. I've happily found that things still got done, even if I could not do it myself. Good things still happened. Maybe just maybe, "everything happens for a reason"; when I ease up, let go a little, wonderful things happen...must be, I needed that.

luv and peace ~ el

gentle thoughts go out to you....love is on the way....

to the Man Responsible for My Addiction ~ wind

a recent photo of Rene, leathered up on his HOG, ready to go

   My day started out pretty poorly by any terms. I was awakened at 6:30 am with a phone call from a disenchanted horse adoptor who was impatient about the process. Ten minutes later she was resolved to be patient with the methodical process for the placement of this horse. I hung up; I rolled over; the phone then rang sharply with the previous adopter, the one surrendering the horse to his new home. She was frantic, in tears and irrational, at first. Ten minutes later, she was settled down and committed to proceed according to plan. It's not even seven o'clock yet and I've conducted 20 minutes of mediation. Not the best way to start any day, by any means. I slothed out of bed, took a shower, had some coffee; the phone rang at 8 sharp. It was a good friend inviting me out for a "twirl" on his bike in the North East Kingdom. Did I want to go; yes!

   My gentleman chauffeur biker friend showed up on time with a toot toot of his Kawasaki touring bike. As I leathered up, fussing with long hair, sunglasses, and the finale silk scarf around my neck (I've been badly sunburned before, looking like a massive hickey at ride's end); he blushed and remarked that he liked my "outfit" (I don't ever hear that!) and I "looked very stylish and people would get the wrong idea..." I joked that I hoped so. We mounted his very comfortable bike and departed for the journey north. He spent the ride explaining the survival points of sharing the road with "cagers" (clueless people in cars) and the precarious conditions of Vermont's roads. And he did show me roads I never knew of, villages I'd only known about by their tiny name on a map. We did the "Lake Willoughby-tour".

  It was glorious over every mile. We took lunch at a little dinner and swapped stories about horses. I've know this fine fellow for 15 years or so; he is a retired mounted policeman from NYC. He has great pictures of his spectacular mount during the 60's when America was torn with civil events that often turned contentious and violent. He is a a very interesting person. He spoke with every intention of encouraging me to ride my own motorcycle next year and expected as much, brain injury or not. As we enjoyed lunch, a gentlemen-couple seated behind me  were discussing us. Finally, I stood up to put on my scarf and jacket and one patron felt compelled to speak to me. I turned to hear him say: "Do you know you look just like Julia Roberts? Have you ever been told that?" I could only respond with a shy smile and answer: "I have been told that by more than a few people over the years. I just don't know why. I can't see the resemblance at all." His reply, "Well you do, we really thought maybe she was up here, hiding out.." I laughed, "no, it's just me. I do wish I had her money though; but she can keep her problems, I have enough of my own." He laughed, "she has twins, you wouldn't want them." I smiled broadly, "I have twin boys; they're awesome but one set is enough. You enjoy the day, now..."

  I turned back to my riding partner and he was beaming. I shrugged, "the least I can do, is look good on your bike." He said, "we'll be heading home now, I'll show you a different way from how we came," as we strolled out the door adjusting our helmets. We mounted his bike, talked more about the motorcycle classes, the endorsement and his favorite memories on trips. A spectacular day in glorious country with very kind company. Perfect weather, warm wind, inspiring scenery, a very good friend at the dash. As we covered the last mile home, the spell lifted gently, we rolled to my door yard. I dismounted and gave him a kiss on the cheek, hug at his shoulder, farewell good man. He blushed and made a pact with me: "I will not see you again until you call me and tell me you have your own bike next summer...you can do this and you should, you need to be out here, with people, its a great culture and its made for you..." I interrupted, "I know, but its so much fun riding two-up...thank you for a wonderful day, for your wisdom in the ride...give my best to your beautiful wife..." He smiled: "I didn't even tell I was bringing you; this is our secret and I'm not telling! Don't say anything if you see her. I have a reputation over there; I'm 82 years old you know!" I was floored; I wouldn't have guessed that age for him. Strong, competent, adventurous, seventy maybe, but 82?! I gave him one more hug and walked to the house, peeling off leather as I went, swelling with inspiration. I hope, by the grace of God, I am riding my favorite bike over the hill and dale of VT when I am 82 years old. God bless you and yours my friend...until next time, happy riding.
luv and peace ~ ell

   this was 2008, he still rides giving a toot when he's rolling by my farm; always I smile when I think of him and our ride and my addiction for ridding and all of the friends that has brought me. Ride on Rene, always and forever.

It's all good. . .

OK, since some friends have been compelled to ask; this post is about me and my injured brain. I do often reference it as though it were some kind of limb or appendage independent of my will. Unfortunately, it some times behaves as though it is, indeed, a separate entity. In the beginning, I had a healthy mind mostly, although that is up for debate; just ask my family. Then in 1984, I had a debilitating heat stroke while working construction that summer. I put myself to bed and slept it off for two days. The problem evolved when I did not know how devastating a heat stroke could be regarding permanent damage. So time muddled on, symptoms of "damage" were so subtle that I dismissed them as odd, random events that quickly self corrected. I always considered myself clumsy and prone to accidents. (Boy howdy, I've had more than a few) Meanwhile, throughout my twenties, thirties and until recently, I could do most everything I wanted to try in terms of physical accomplishments. Enter summer of 2007; a sudden change in ability emerged. I had to deliver a horse about 9 miles across the valley. An easy ride for me not many years ago. The horse was up for it as well. So, off we went on a gorgeous July day, on a veteran horse over an easy route to his new home. I made it a third of the way when debilitating balance and coordination issues beset me. About twenty minutes further along, I could not stay in the saddle; I wanted to gracefully dismount but instead, I tumbled out of the saddle. When I hit the ground, I couldn't help but wonder how many horses would have liked for that to happen years ago. Once on the ground, I could not coordinate my legs to stand me up. I could not gain my balance to hold my head up without holding it in my hands. I sat there, in a "neighbor's" driveway for thirty minutes before I could stand up and stagger over to a lawn chair where I sat in the shade for another thirty minutes. The neighbor took the horse the rest of the way to his new home (another 3 miles). I sat there, angry, annoyed, terrified. I resolved to see a neurologist, asap. A bunch of tests later, I mean a bunch, an MRI revealed clusters of areas of brain injury. Old brain injury. Recently however, it has expanded a little bit. No one knows why. No one knows if it'll stabilize, get worse, or resolve it self (highly unlikely). I was awash with confusion. How can this happen to me? Squeaky clean habits, healthy lifestyle, strong by vocation. . . No use in that line of thought. Within minutes, I was relieved that it was not a tumor or ALS or something mysteriously fatal. Fast forward a year, I am gaining some improvement over the symptoms which knock me off of my feet. I'm learning to read my needs for rest, wine and treatment. After a few false starts, we (me and my head doctor) are managing an effective plan of treatment and support. Over all, I'm happy that I have what I have, can do what I can do, can stand up and walk on any given day. Though admittedly, some days are worse than others. In this story of unexpected outcomes; there has been a delirious dance between the good and the bad. The realization that I have brain damage is terribly unfair. The symptoms, when acute, are blatantly laughable (a convenient scape goat when I screw up on anything...), humbling (a precarious position of "needing" help sometimes - most of the time - often from perfect strangers) and clarifying. This "brain-injury-thing" has forced me to focus, really focus, on what is dear to me. What I want for me, my kids, my legacy. With this involuntary limit, these binding rules of random dysfunction, I have to choose how I want to live life ~ everyday, every experience, every choice, every relationship. Nobody promises tomorrow. There is a silver lining; this is my second chance to live life with no regrets, no" if-only's", no "should'a" or "could'a". To say YES as often as possible. The only rules that matter now are be kind, be fair, practice forgiveness, listen well, answer gently, live fully, feel everything, look for goodness, be open to the possibilities. A promise to myself to laugh louder and cry harder, all with a good friend. To hold on, be held and follow the platinum rule: "treat others the way they would like to be treated". I've lucked out in all of this; God's grace and some good science have given me a very vivid look at my possible future; its up to me and my imagination, as to what I make probable. Don't worry about me ~ 'cause I'm not; I'll be out and about, living some dream with some friend with all my heart...
luv and peace ~ el

this one's for the folks who love me as is. . .
when life hands you lemons; make lemonade ~ when life is hard; make hard lemonade!

running the river

Along the south boundary of our old farm we are met with the muddy banks of the Lamoille River. Situated in the north of the Mt Mansfield region, all towns, burgs and villages along this winding waterway are collectively known as the Lamoille Valley. It's a rugged, beautiful, historic place. The river eddies right at my pasture's edge as it makes a switchback at the base of the old rail road trestle bridge. In this place, it is very deep with a strong twirl for anyone who gets caught in it. Through the years, we have paddled this river in canoes, kayaks, and lap-strake guide boats. It's a very slow river in most places with more switch backs per mile than any other river in VT. It's perfect for beginners if not terribly dull for anyone seeking challenge of white water and hydraulics, until it rains. This summer, we have had endless rain, sometimes pounding rain. As our river is located at the base of the big mountain, 4300' of granite, all that rain must come down hill to the Lamoille via the Brewster river. In a matter of hours, the placid riverbed becomes a furious torrent and the "river beaters" venture out in their high tech kayaks. They mean to pound that river into submission. They can have it. As I've lived in this old house for twenty years now, I've come to an agreement with nature; I no longer wish to dominate it. It's not my quest to force its submission to my will. Not that it ever worked out that way, but most of my youth and good health was wasted in that futile pursuit. I am a devoted observer now; and there is more than enough to observe. My favorite subjects on the river are the flatlanders. (a generalization for anyone not born of these green mountains; it should include the suburbanites of chittenden county as well but that's another story). We have three river boating tour groups in town. They do a thriving business for tourists who wish to tame the river. Canoes and kayaks litter the banks, the landings and the river-way on any clear day. I enjoy watching them go by. Many are focused on the perfect stroke, committed to the precise execution of the craft. It's entertaining to hear the people bark out orders, panic at a shoreline critter, elate over a busy beaver. I ponder at their motivation to be there, on the river. I've taken a habit of piloting the river in an inner tube. I like hanging my butt and feet in the swirling waters. I like that the river picks the route of least resistance. I like the very mellow pace letting me see everything there is to see. It is a chance to step away from time and expectations that demand compliance. Huck Finn would delight in this passionate waste of time. I sometimes imagine offering it as a trek for tourists, but I don't want to spoil my idle outings. A selfish indulgence. When I'm drifting down the river, saturated in its ethology; it strikes me how much it reflects what life would like to be, if only we allowed it. When it comes to the river, some people want to tame it, harness it, defeat it. The slayers (they are in the kayaks). Some people want to organize it, master its purposeful current, unity with paddles, negotiated compliance with its forces. (they are in the canoes) Then there are those who are the spectators from the banks, intimidated by its size, breadth, unpredictability. They are the ones with cameras, standing at a respectful distance, more comfortable watching than doing. Then on a very perfect day; you might spot me. Big hat for shade, little tube with my cooler of water and fruit in tow, blue jeans, feet in the water, just drifting where ever the river wants to take me. Effortless, carefree, worrying for nothing, feeling everything. When I can meet life on these terms, its a perfect day. It's not complicated, once you know how. . .this one's for you Huck.

luv and peace ~ el

when horses act like horses

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a professional equine behaviorist and that I run a small, non-profit horse rescue at my farm. It has been an exceptional experience regarding the insights into horse and human behaviors. It lead me to my masters in horse assisted therapies. This past Sunday was a graphic reminder of the physical and social power of horses among themselves. They can be 1000 lbs of kindness, gentle companionship, docile communication. They can also be extraordinarily brutal to each other in a split second. Just such an occasion took place this weekend. It was morning feeding time and the 11 horses in our care had just received their grain as they do every morning. Usually there is no upset, no rivalry, no contention. Each horse goes to their stall or feeding station and waits for their portion. Soft nickers tickle the cool morning air. The sound of horses munching their ration saturates the barn.
All was well, I loaded two massive bales of hay to take out to the mud less end of the paddock and began setting out the portions. This took maybe 10 minutes. When I returned to the barn, a spectacular gelding was in a state of trembling at the gateway. At first no sign of trouble. All other horses were as they should be. But the horse wanted me. Then on closer inspection, when I entered the common area of the barn, I saw it. This horse had been savaged by another. One of the alpha mares took exception to his being too close to her stall door and lunged at his rump. She scored in her reprimand. With her powerful jaws, razor-sharp incisor's, and furious mind, she tore a slab of hide and meat from his hindquarters the size of a dinner-plate. The wound was horrific, mauled tissue hanging by a thin piece of hide, weeping, bleeding, purging. I could not fix this without a horse vet.
I had to move horses around, clear a stall for this horse's safety, roll my kids out of bed to come and help to sanitize a stall. I phoned the vet's answering service dreading the emergency-on-a-Sunday farm visit fee. This could not wait; if there was any hope in restoring the damage and avoiding massive, debilitating infection, the vet had to come today.
I spoke with the vet, she knows I don't call unless the damage is beyond my palliative skills and supplies. It would be an hour before she could get here. Oh well, at least she can come. If you've ever wondered how a lady vet who is all of 5'6" and 110 lbs can help a 1200 lb. horse who is overcome with fear and pain, the answer is drugs. Tranquilizers, numbing agents, more tranqs....
When she arrived, evaluated the damage and set to work. Stabilize, sanitize, begin reconstruction of tissues and structures. Three and a half hours later, every inch of suture material she carried used up, multiple doses of tranq and litacain, she had created a work of art. She was able to successfully restore all layers of tissue to their proper places. An adaptive suturing technique to accommodate the movement of the region. It was, compared to the mauled mess she started with, beautiful. The bill will be huge, $700 I'm sure. Now we are in the daily ritual of antibiotics, (25 cc penicillin am & pm, with 30cc genticin am), hot packs 3x a day, bute 2x a day, body work, arnica and hypericum homeopathic support and love). In 10 days, we'll know if he'll heal to a functional degree. He is a lovely horse; eight years old, nearly 16h, rich bay, beautiful face, former harness racer name of Mighty Legacy. So far, so good. He is a trooper and a talented horse. We'll do all that we can and more. My next two weeks will be dominated by his needs; my kids will all help. They will learn the value of caring for more than themselves, helping however they can, for one who can not help themselves. . . but Lord have mercy; I hate it when horses act like horses...

luv and peace ~ el

this post is for Mighty and his brave heart, the exceptional lady vet, Anne, who restored him, and the lessons this event taught my kids and me...be well Mighty, gentle thoughts go out to you

yes I can, watch me

It was such a promising day when I woke this morning. Temperatures were pleasant and I felt good, really good. By 10 am I couldn't walk. As soon as the temps rise, the humidity rises, I fall apart. More accurately, my gaiting falls apart. So I sit down, before I fall down. It's a brain injury thing. It sucks. It's out of my control; no matter how hard I concentrate, how much I will myself to stand up straight and walk like a sober person, my legs will not comply. I have a assortment of scars from stubbornly challenging this fact. Betrayed by my own neurology. I could sit and bemoan my frustration but I'm not one to concede my power. I'd rather close my eyes and relive the best days of this summer, the days that I win the dual with my disfunctional brain. The days that I leather-up, fasten my helmet, dawn my favorite boots and ride. . . on the back of someone else's motorcycle.
Every bike that thunders by, loud pipes calling to me, I'm reminded how much I long for the ride. I can sit on the back of someone else's bike without problems. I can enjoy the veracious wind, the intoxicating speed, the scenic splendor, the very contented feeling of riding with a savvy guy at the dash. When I reflect on my past rides; I smile. Deeply. My physical disfunctions evaporate and for those hours, I am whole and satiated. I smile broadly, breathe deeply while living the view over their shoulders; it's better than sex. I have a great relationship with my biker buds, they don't know of my challenges, such barriers to function don't exist when I ride with them. No need to tell them. We have a blessed relationship; pure love ~ for the ride. In this, we leave all manner of reality behind, and get in the groove of loud pipes, gliding on chrome, over the meandering roads and velvet hills of northern Vermont. God bless them for including me; sharing with me this sacred space, this wondrous time to ride. The power of platonic, the power in this process; unless you've lived it, you can't appreciate it. It truly does transcend sexual desire. It is a level of the purest delight that is beyond the physical realm and nurtures me in a spiritual way. When I ride, I am at the mercy of the rider's expertise and I am, we are, in the hands of God. Wholesale trust: it is the most liberating surrender I have ever known. It matters to me that I think this is so; I hope my biker hosts feel likewise. With my hands comfortably anchored on their waists, I know they do. Blessings upon them. May the Lord bless them and keep them, may He be made to shine his face upon them and be gracious to them. amen.
luv and peace ~ el

this post is for the guys who've stepped up to my dreams, honored their gentleman's promise and shared their ride . . .

what is a little guy to do . . .

I spent the afternoon watching my younger daughter play with some of her friends on our big trampoline. The bouncing, the giggling, screaming at bugs and high five culture for the bustling girls. After a while, my son with autism wanted to jump with them. He is an accomplished jumper and he wanted to join in at something he excels at. He mounted the round surface a confident boy among a swarm of girls. He jumped high, with split kicks and rips of laughter. In this he is like them, but he can't speak. So they ignore him, not so politely. "mom, does he have to come up now?" Never mind that its his trampoline and you nor your friends even asked him. "He just wants to show off something he's good at too." my encouraging reply. After about 5 minutes, they dismounted and left to my daughter's room. Mumbles of "what's wrong with him, anyway?"
I note to myself that I need to help my kids learn how to answer their friends' questions. I need them to see his strengths and talents first as they try to explain their brother's autism. I want them to live the habit of seeing him with their hearts first. He will need us, his family, to know how to teach others to see him in such a human way. His autism creates barriers to a typical childhood paradigm, but I find myself grateful for this. He is so sincere in his actions. He lives the daily trials of trying to belong, trying to feel competent in a world that is materially competitive and emotionally punitive to those who are different, differently-abled. When I watch on a play ground, how he tries to keep up, to fit in and he is often ignored or worse chastised, my heart breaks. But not for my son; he is steeped in love and surrounded by a fiercely loyal family. My heart breaks for the other children; whose hardened minds and perceptions are narrow and shallow, lacking the spacious capacity to appreciate his gifts. Kids who, at such a young age, are already glued to media driven brands and commercially defined ideologies. In this domain, my son has a mission. He will do more to enrich the development of many of these children than any paid assembly the school can offer. For the kids who will grow up with my son as their classmate, fellow scout, 4-H clubber and citizen, they will have enjoyed an unconditional gift from him. When they are older, wiser, parenting their own children, I hope they will remember how he helped them become better humans. It is a daunting task before my blue-eyed wonder boy, not to overcome his autism but to overcome the rigid minds and occluded hearts of sheltered children. I hope that they will remember him when they feel content in their lives. Will they recognize his gift of autism?
luv and peace ~ el

this post is for my son's tireless love of life and for those of us who have yet to learn what makes us happy
please enjoy the attached PSA from ARC of Virginia and Blueberryshoes productions... the r word