tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78007884179263827042024-03-05T17:53:07.491-08:00move your feetThe Power is in the Process ~ Live Like a Horse
resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-70057446602398215952016-04-20T05:54:00.002-07:002016-04-20T05:54:05.695-07:00for Quilla My second born child, a daughter with brown eyes of amber hue with a lilt of green from her father's side. She came to me from a flawless pregnancy and birth though I gained terrific amounts of water weight in those 42 weeks; probably why she loves the embrace of water. Named for a stunning horse i had rescued and retrained during her becoming inside my womb. Awesome brown horse, with beautiful brown eyes, maternally superior, begetting speed and strength in her foals. She was exceptional. I had hoped as much for my child.<br />
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My favorite memory of those new baby times comes from crossing a parking lot, holding my bundled Quilla close to my chest as we walked toward the giant box store. I must have been beaming and cooing to my wee lass as a passing stranger remarked, "....that child is loved...". Yes, this child is loved, my thoughts as I held her closer. <i>I will never stop holding you.</i><br />
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An April child, surrounded by the songs of birds she drew herself nearer to the sounds of music beginning with clarinet and exploring still other woodwinds. Proficient in reading and playing music she exceeded my limit in those fine arts. Don't settle for less than you're own expectations. <i>Be deserved more than desired, as it is a greater value for you.</i><br />
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She is patient and quiet when she's not leaping great heights without surveying the landings. I think I did that when I was her age. I recall sprinting down a mowed slope at a civil-war battle monument park, reaching a stone wall only to nimbly vault over the flat top, landing squarely about 8' feet down on the other side. Pausing my dash, I swiveled to gaze at the massive river only 50' away as it dawned on me that I leaped without looking. As the slope continued steeply, I could have fallen into tree tops, or concrete, or into the river. But my angels landed me safely on firm grassy ground.<br />
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I hope for you Quilla, your angels are always landing you safely when you leap with great vervre over random obstacles under skies filled with possibilities.<i> Look before you leap as you reach for your potential and live your dreams.</i><br />
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Have a groovy birthday <i>Quilla Frances</i>... be a work in progress all of your life.<br />
English vernacular for <i>Aquilla</i> the center most constellation on the equator. <i>Eagle.</i><br />
<i> Frances </i>the patron saint of nature, the purveyor of peace.<br />
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<br />resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-67376672591730985732015-09-22T15:28:00.000-07:002015-09-23T10:04:14.179-07:00outlaw bike and old ladies<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie7JkNjPmT-jtHE-m5sTOpG92m78l8ut2eizfcs5lYdesXJ-i5qxIkt2mR5dBTWqSd7BO7jbvtKx464SGP8Cd6S-boJUPMnOUew42vIrqQHZKDEAXZGUMqwsY-xHmw-0u5quR8fuLJKojl/s1600/harley+indian+old+woman+bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie7JkNjPmT-jtHE-m5sTOpG92m78l8ut2eizfcs5lYdesXJ-i5qxIkt2mR5dBTWqSd7BO7jbvtKx464SGP8Cd6S-boJUPMnOUew42vIrqQHZKDEAXZGUMqwsY-xHmw-0u5quR8fuLJKojl/s400/harley+indian+old+woman+bike.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Harley-Davidson Indian World</td></tr>
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Whoa, this photo triggered an instant flash back. Some years ago, bikerman and I stopped at Onion Flats in Bethel VT. A warm summer evening, the foodie house was filled with people young and old. Our vintage Harley was the only bike in the crowed lot. Roiling the hard-pipes thunder before shutting the shovelhead down, everyone turned their heads to the rumble. In front of the bike, a little boy, clasping his grandma's hand, stood wide-eyed at the shiney bike and leathered-up riders. When he removed his helmut, bikerman asked the small child, "if he'd like to sit on the motorcycle..." To which the child shrieked, shaking his head NO! and ran behind his Grandma. She on the other hand, was smiling large and took a step toward the bike. . . I think she must have wanted a ride on that old skool, outlaw bike..... gotta watch out for them old ladies, they're bold.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0GaVVYUXs_59SS3AJ39RIp3FAsujY47QefUhJ7sjOuR67jY_7nr2D_fcpahRje85n60KfHNaIyhrrm3LYvejO5rKsgHdgkv1rNEjPio4u2lP_USSTL3-fg_epGd59Xln04mxzv52KQz14/s1600/sunset+2014+July+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0GaVVYUXs_59SS3AJ39RIp3FAsujY47QefUhJ7sjOuR67jY_7nr2D_fcpahRje85n60KfHNaIyhrrm3LYvejO5rKsgHdgkv1rNEjPio4u2lP_USSTL3-fg_epGd59Xln04mxzv52KQz14/s320/sunset+2014+July+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bikerman on his old skool '84 lo ride</td></tr>
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resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-10825213854774208782015-07-23T12:53:00.000-07:002015-07-23T18:16:15.531-07:00the day I forgot my camera, riding naked<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IdgwhYQFxSkIWjAyKToQXqHjoCUT_WLpehx-eNXAG4yIE7QZaJ5Xwwa8FDZh4P2OHvD78KfJBf7zIMxuIGK4QzobyMAH0EKy0OCPWN2bgzVWrpdS2z7qlTMKpOOmXj06l0jnvhyphenhyphenuB_qh/s1600/pillion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IdgwhYQFxSkIWjAyKToQXqHjoCUT_WLpehx-eNXAG4yIE7QZaJ5Xwwa8FDZh4P2OHvD78KfJBf7zIMxuIGK4QzobyMAH0EKy0OCPWN2bgzVWrpdS2z7qlTMKpOOmXj06l0jnvhyphenhyphenuB_qh/s400/pillion.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my little Pentax in action</td></tr>
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Disoriented and a little lost, I missed the lens and looking for good subject matter to memorialise our motorcycle escape of the day. As the pillion, it's what I do. Pillion's expected duties: <i>look good on the bike, buy lunch, take pictures</i>.....and most recently, <i>don't start any fights.</i><br />
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When it was proven in a 2008 BRC motorcycle class, I couldn't and shouldn't drive a 2-wheeled cycle on my own, I searched for and rode with many kind motorcycle enthusiasts who offered a second seat and shared the ride. Making a record of the outing was a subtle way to insert myself into the motorcycling community. It has evolved into a psuedo-elite assignment that validates my thirst for this culture of challenge, resilience and the other adventures. But then a day came when I didn't have my trusty, tiny Pentax adventure camera; left behind in my son's back pack, it would not be back in my hands nor on a ride for a week.<br />
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Nonplussed at first, my empty pocket was merely a brief distraction; until he started the engine and the bike rumbled to life. The first few feet of rolling out the door yard felt oddly unfamiliar to me. Then refreshingly intimate as my attention was more focused on my bikerman chauffeur, now held with both of my hands, the lo ride motor-sickle steady and sure beneath us, my heightened senses of riding 'naked' (at least visually naked) filled my internal moment of re-adjustment. One layer , my small camera, removed and I was flying through the vast surround of green, and wind, breathing wholly the familiar smells of engine heat, biker leathers and sweat-stink helmets. I, boots hooked on the chrome pegs, grooving with my driver's every lean and list of his vintage bike as we threaded potholed lanes, rounded sweeping corners, and brushed arching trees pushing into our lane, without the distraction of composing a picture, was filled with a rush of gratitude.<br />
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Riding on a motorcycle bathes your senses in the all of it. Keeping my little camera in my hand or up to my eye was as dense a filter as a suit of armor. While it taught me to view the scene from the perspective of a framed and finite image, which in time, honed my mind's eye for that capture, it often left me deeply disappointed that the vast enormity of the sky or the expanse of mountain or meadow scapes, the depth of color and weight of the air, was left out of the captured picture. My photos are meant to stimulate imagination of voyeurs or to evoke a latent, complex memory within our ride; both of which seem to elicit the dimension of time and space that we travelled through.<br />
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Riding naked, visually naked, was a rebirth into the censorial infinity of motorcycle riding. Travellers through time and space, awakened to every fragile element of living...that's why we ride and why I some times won't take pictures.<br />
~ luv, peace and love ~ el<br />
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special thanks to the biker chauffeurs who shared the ride, sparking a romance for motorcycling and with deepest gratitude for my bikerman who rolls the sentimental journeys with the one he calls, Pillion Resa (my biker name) resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-10225592813317584112015-05-18T10:30:00.000-07:002015-08-12T10:10:05.448-07:00smarter than a horse, the zen of autism He is my horse-loving-child. With his blue eyes and rosy face, he smiles large when he's around our horses. There is one horse that is especially tolerant of his random sounds and awkward body language; Cam's Best Two, or just Cam to our family. He seemingly enjoys his solo time on the lawn, without our small herd bossing his every move, for the grass. His only competition for peaceful grazing is Graham exerting his unique style of horsemanship upon him as clips the tender spring greens across the lawn, soaking up the boy's persistent attention.<br />
When the boy wants to "play" with the horse, he'll bring me the lead rope and say "h--ppp" [help] cueing me to hook the line to Cam's halter so he can be coerced into Graham's world. This is a world that hosts common ground for both boy and horse. Graham's classic autism is a lot like a horse in the way they both navigate life around them. They are both creatures of fight or flight. Both are bound to their rules governed by sensory processing that defines their sense of safety, sense of trust where no speech is required to communicate. Horses learn by doing, its how they survive and so does my autist son. <br />
Stepping into the sunny glow of the spring day, stepping through hundreds of blooming dandelions, I step to the red bay horse who is so mellow he doesn't waiver as I clip the hasp to the loose chin-ring of his halter. Graham is delighted, jumping in place as he utters his trademark "deddle-deddle-deddle..." "Calm body and quiet voice Graham, gotta be calm around horses...", I soothe to them both.<br />
I hand him the rope and tell him to go ahead, "take Cam for a walk." and I retreat to a chair nearby where I watch the pair begin their negotiation for a walk about. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDAI7xz-S66-OSr3GBJ-2UOr6psSiaxtHvoyFHpeuKNKstD-9G4Mrc2aWQSLyv2XQlC-9e6Uke5i_iIx52GQQ7StrbMAAcnTY_zfoOnxh-wTAQvo4Z7oCyAuHn4eY0Um8s37O2mDiUQkP/s1600/cam+walk+about+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDAI7xz-S66-OSr3GBJ-2UOr6psSiaxtHvoyFHpeuKNKstD-9G4Mrc2aWQSLyv2XQlC-9e6Uke5i_iIx52GQQ7StrbMAAcnTY_zfoOnxh-wTAQvo4Z7oCyAuHn4eY0Um8s37O2mDiUQkP/s320/cam+walk+about+6.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">let's go for a walk</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCWAJYQ3yt25vnX5GenrrY203GisTqTgMApGCHzp0oFDbVcfhYXoTpew1xR0SUWYNbgpzaDMJCs5GHev8ZVaY4zE1nbQTnKln5UL3ME0lcDJ4DfeWKPOg32B5MeePkdlN3nGeZxuOVcti/s1600/cam+walkabout+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCWAJYQ3yt25vnX5GenrrY203GisTqTgMApGCHzp0oFDbVcfhYXoTpew1xR0SUWYNbgpzaDMJCs5GHev8ZVaY4zE1nbQTnKln5UL3ME0lcDJ4DfeWKPOg32B5MeePkdlN3nGeZxuOVcti/s400/cam+walkabout+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">wishing for a walk-about</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8tmj8TNdYlU3JPf173bqZvKgrOQRM7WZNn0Ktqhju4BBcADD3uQNiOKMvrQPZgVeyC3OuYuhMm6YOKE5wTpSJRYc9C7nP7iivK4pXPMsPbMHIzY4AnWx5G0ESYefbyIeiDxzl4V6Wc9x/s1600/cam+walkabout+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8tmj8TNdYlU3JPf173bqZvKgrOQRM7WZNn0Ktqhju4BBcADD3uQNiOKMvrQPZgVeyC3OuYuhMm6YOKE5wTpSJRYc9C7nP7iivK4pXPMsPbMHIzY4AnWx5G0ESYefbyIeiDxzl4V6Wc9x/s320/cam+walkabout+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Graham tries to blow him forward</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigrE3FVNHoCzabKo4IRMGI6ut0ABVS3i6i8Lx6MJfVzfawanXAQd6nc1NZzMsrRtLtFsRcsxff0WW04MvwSY_AHafEQTAyw9DWuvSecjcjhCp1XYC-wZUJ0R94PKk0J-pIrgxK5hKy1PbF/s1600/cam+walkabout+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigrE3FVNHoCzabKo4IRMGI6ut0ABVS3i6i8Lx6MJfVzfawanXAQd6nc1NZzMsrRtLtFsRcsxff0WW04MvwSY_AHafEQTAyw9DWuvSecjcjhCp1XYC-wZUJ0R94PKk0J-pIrgxK5hKy1PbF/s320/cam+walkabout+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">he tries a nudge with his elbow</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJpghTQ_Ja7u4phYfpCKa277B9KX3_eGazqjmybv1nYTxE5Ex3YVguMxtP_qSKXG3pZ-qiNvF7ATwG-45i6o8e_SFy5ReYbLBxPIqImdwEiyLGnYu7qhGxxlP8sTdSDkc0qnuKyj8RS_9/s1600/cam+walkabout+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJpghTQ_Ja7u4phYfpCKa277B9KX3_eGazqjmybv1nYTxE5Ex3YVguMxtP_qSKXG3pZ-qiNvF7ATwG-45i6o8e_SFy5ReYbLBxPIqImdwEiyLGnYu7qhGxxlP8sTdSDkc0qnuKyj8RS_9/s320/cam+walkabout+4.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">next a nudge with the knotted rope</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a bit of modelling with a finger walk</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCzuekhREO4-vU6MJvPtu8rPo0P7lT_79Lbdo30sarJIPI5AbhM1d5HLlxd26KW4jl1pPBpVp8zwHvjdm5eFRsFFrxe1fAH7VUSyZH18UdskTxKK64mUofE0z5oHOSQKPVubr-p7wtG-z/s1600/cam+walkabout+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCzuekhREO4-vU6MJvPtu8rPo0P7lT_79Lbdo30sarJIPI5AbhM1d5HLlxd26KW4jl1pPBpVp8zwHvjdm5eFRsFFrxe1fAH7VUSyZH18UdskTxKK64mUofE0z5oHOSQKPVubr-p7wtG-z/s200/cam+walkabout+7.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">more negotiation</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-HH6k3hxmfy_-ev_XVjIOYT0m7TFL7oAjdA3VwYLDnz_HUinCokG1uC2_3dG-NzzXtmc2NnsecmL796iDeFIsi_ErJ8uVPMGkLh40tIIYhJaVMRH5gSuBl-pk0yItkTK_AyKZ6kmMvcD0/s1600/cam+walkabout+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-HH6k3hxmfy_-ev_XVjIOYT0m7TFL7oAjdA3VwYLDnz_HUinCokG1uC2_3dG-NzzXtmc2NnsecmL796iDeFIsi_ErJ8uVPMGkLh40tIIYhJaVMRH5gSuBl-pk0yItkTK_AyKZ6kmMvcD0/s200/cam+walkabout+8.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a final elbow nudge</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Graham in all his desire is competing with the sweet succulent grasses and dandelions all bright with the promise that spring unfolds; Cam wants to eat, not walk and so the conversation begins.<br />
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Graham tries to cue the horse of his desired jaunt, beginning with wishful thinking and the power of intention. No sale, the horse is not impressed with the secret missives of the boy. He offers a puff of air to the horse's barrel, as if to move him the way he can move a bubble drifting in the air. Not a single hoof moves, in any direction. More giggles and big smiles and Graham moves a step back to the horse's flank and offers a very gentle elbow into the warm freshly scrubbed hide. The dappled red bay, a blood bay to the color enthusiasts of the horse world, does not yield a single step. The young horseman glides back toward the front of the horse and tries a nudge with the butt-end of the knotted lead rope; still no movement in the horse's stance.<br />
But the boy doesn't give up, nor show discord with his horse. No impatient threats nor harsh words are commanded. Instead he resumes the negotiation with gesticulating hands that appear to convey walking-fingers as a demonstration to motivate the horse. No luck, the lush grass is to provocative for the horse. Even though a generous 20 minutes have lapsed, Graham is not discouraged. So he repeats some nudging cues and finally Cam lifts his head to nip a fly and the boy steps forward cueing one step by the horse.<br />
This continues for much of an hour but no one is in a rush, the birdsong in the trees above the yard is melodic and cheerful to pass the time with. Graham is seemingly happy to be with his horse, holding the very end of the candy-cane twist of the soft cotton lead. I gaze at the bucolic scene and marvel at the restive nature of this time casually spent. A boy and his horse negotiating a walk-about on very gentle terms. It's very good medicine in our world spinning at a run-away pace and I drink it up wholly. I love when I am allowed into Graham's world where there is no haste.<br />
Quietly, I lift out of the chair, and over to the back of the horse and give a light tap on his croop sending him into a lazy walk. Graham is delighted and steps up to the front of his horse and they walk a few steps toward the back yard. Only 10 steps perhaps but that was enough to inspire the horse to follow the boy and take a short walk-about. In this place, Graham is the leader, the horse follows him and he is in charge. Someone is playing with him, following his ideas. A moment in time where its all figured out and Graham has a friend. In this world where our family lives autism, this is something so very precious to witness. I thank God that horses live long lives, and I snap some more videos of the young horseman with his steed.<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/Dgk0E3Qo1ok">https://youtu.be/Dgk0E3Qo1ok</a><br />
<br />
at the end of the day perseverance wins making for a very happy boy.<br />
luv, peace, love ~ ell<br />
<br />
“It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.”~ Albert Einstein<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0tYcwctMJEOBg9Rv399vTzxAsyHLYlczBXwtI7G2cJWumJ9v8LbtOcelpummh0asAUwoeCCDuUAyftDyqElwZsUTNjS-cT-GG8xWVk_vVoUq9kyKNfGpm9w0JU3VTEkE8ES4OYQoRbFSD/s1600/graham+and+cam+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0tYcwctMJEOBg9Rv399vTzxAsyHLYlczBXwtI7G2cJWumJ9v8LbtOcelpummh0asAUwoeCCDuUAyftDyqElwZsUTNjS-cT-GG8xWVk_vVoUq9kyKNfGpm9w0JU3VTEkE8ES4OYQoRbFSD/s400/graham+and+cam+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">there is zen in autism when its paired with a horse</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-41493051521651870452015-05-09T06:40:00.000-07:002015-05-09T08:04:05.760-07:00...move your feet, the power is in the process... flash forward 2015 I have not rescued a horse since 2013, I have not actively trained a horse since 2010. I was feeling rusty in my skill set of teaching horses and their people when I had the chance to help an accomplished horse-friend with her new horse today. A young, ginger mare of handy size and correct confirmation with a bright eye, nick-named lil' red.<br />
We did some saddle fitting with two distinctly different saddle styles, one a dressage type and the other a jumping type. I showed how an English saddle should not look on the little sweet mare with thick withers and then how the other fit well; ginger in its color it matched the mare's copper coat with style and comfort.<br />
Like all young horses, she had a very short attention span and we needed to work quickly and deftly in the multi-purpose dooryard.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiou_LuRnqJADH08GZEFeuPb44Poso9tz3vf4_YCi_ndxx7wCS-eMQxKLyXSjLE40ITI6DOuvg4aOsrnHEq0W01efmFq_VYiRvAy27YbDNr8vqZ3QnmWNKbVITp0FvIY2Pp-6YUYDplPAWu/s1600/lil+red+1a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiou_LuRnqJADH08GZEFeuPb44Poso9tz3vf4_YCi_ndxx7wCS-eMQxKLyXSjLE40ITI6DOuvg4aOsrnHEq0W01efmFq_VYiRvAy27YbDNr8vqZ3QnmWNKbVITp0FvIY2Pp-6YUYDplPAWu/s320/lil+red+1a.jpg" width="234" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my space~her space</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As I spent a few moments establishing her space, my space...she kept reaching for grass and got frustrated with my blocking her efforts. She clenched her jaw and I smiled as she showed me a flash of my beloved mare Fable, sassy yet loyal. This is going to be a lovely mount. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFivbMFgecykyCuBjqBH2w8IvscVJLrH5U9Fc1VJnW26Eqr7RVz-poH8s0b-urb-x1nb4ZWrZjt3JNYNJ4aodLmzDrHlTTX5Ba66kUpP1dZfg_h5K8DvYnpeqFtU4RHYpu-AhNBEU5-vM/s1600/lil+red+1d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFivbMFgecykyCuBjqBH2w8IvscVJLrH5U9Fc1VJnW26Eqr7RVz-poH8s0b-urb-x1nb4ZWrZjt3JNYNJ4aodLmzDrHlTTX5Ba66kUpP1dZfg_h5K8DvYnpeqFtU4RHYpu-AhNBEU5-vM/s320/lil+red+1d.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the jumping saddle fits very well</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Footing was recovering from spring's mud-thaw season and that's trippy for me. But the handy mare, just post-being-a-filly, did her best. We determined the Ovation jumping saddle was an ideal fit for the horse and next wanted my tallish, willowy friend to have a sit and see for her comfort in the saddle; it must fit her as well as her horse.. Deanna asked if she should mount from a block as her mare was not too tall, she could swing up from the turf. I suggested a block is always better for your saddle's tree, especially English saddles as they don't have a lot of tree to support the horse's back and you don't want to twist it from repeated mounts from the ground. <br />
We proceeded to the round pen and brought along the 3 step mounting block. "...has lil' red had any practice standing easily beside it?" "Not really..." We decided to start with a lesson in standing at the block properly. She had a rope halter clipped with a "natural horsemanship" lead rope. I've little experience with a heavy and long line on a horse and struggled with the coil in my left hand. Deanna stepped in and began moving the inexperienced horse around, but struggled to fit the horse by the block; to stand her broadside with the top step, standing on a relaxed lead. I advised that its worth it to teach a horse to lead up and stand quietly beside a block and practice both sides; its a good lesson in trust and self discipline for any horse.<br />
In my head, I’m thinking she's a young horse with limited experience and a swift moving attention span, so I’d like to see her quiet and breathing easy. I wanted to share so many things about the first mount. how it needs to be relaxed, almost boring for the horse. We don't want to induce a bad experience here. I see more injuries for riders at the mount/dismount time of a ride. people rush, let the horse jig, or crow hop or freeze. All end badly and the horse is reinforced, unintentionally, that rider up or down is a bad thing.<br />
Lil' Red struggled with the new info; I struggled with the heat as I stumbled around. She followed my aimless moves; good little soul she is. I just wanted her to move her feet, to walk with me, any manner of direction; just she in her space so I could have mine. We went very slow, pausing often so I could rebalance myself. But she stayed with me. We got to the block and she stood on a slack line. Success for step 1a,b,c,d,e.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQW9_23Y7xJ3KZcbXkAg-X0gtT4kDUftX6wJrIwLnb_uf96zU9Gy3cqEx8eJ1tHxbxPs5LfinVFlKchD1ODzHJXyvdxrARUnrYKz_1sNS6CfD4hhoA6L3F8gNAwet12xjJXAkw_p5fsuNw/s1600/lil+red+1c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQW9_23Y7xJ3KZcbXkAg-X0gtT4kDUftX6wJrIwLnb_uf96zU9Gy3cqEx8eJ1tHxbxPs5LfinVFlKchD1ODzHJXyvdxrARUnrYKz_1sNS6CfD4hhoA6L3F8gNAwet12xjJXAkw_p5fsuNw/s320/lil+red+1c.jpg" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">using my cane as a target </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We were all melting in the shadeless spring sun; My friend pulled the saddle and let it flop off the rookie horse just to add some resiliency training and let her chose her distance from us. Lingering at the block while she nibbled some grass, we swapped stories laughing and clapped hands startling the grazing mare. She crow hopped big; off all four feet in sudden fright. That was the best part of the lesson, she got scared, recovered and realized she could survive random, weird moments. I made that point out loud, "...don't be afraid of making mistakes because, as long as no one gets hurt, we all learn that we can survive..." it makes us all more confident, more savvy. These incidental learning moments are the most golden of lessons; it's very hard to choreograph, never mind anticipate, them(teaching the mare a reset button will come later). <br />
Satisfied with our simple accomplishment, it took all my concentration to walk back to the dooryard; I know my physical limits and had maxed them out in this short time. I'm no longer light on my feet or deft with the wand and lead-rope in my hands...no surprise to me. But, I was delighted to know that I recognized every sign in her body language, every movement in her confirmation, every message in her affect. Given cooler temps and lighter aids, I could offer her plenty to learn. If my friend is willing, I could teach her how to teach her lil' red horse.<br />
Walking away with that deeply warm familiar feeling of knowing what to do and how to do it, I smiled to myself realizing I may have lost my walk, but I have not lost my touch; thank you lil' red for teaching me that.<br />
<br />
luv, peace, love ~ ell<br />
this one is for the horses who teach without judging with every breath they take.<br />
<br />
photos courtesy of Deanna Stoppler lady centaur and farrier extrodinaire <br />
<br />resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-260460692161938442014-08-14T09:03:00.002-07:002014-08-15T15:47:48.720-07:00autism-ology<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1msfBTj4RSqrwj2YtKHzgBxlEzo5MTt4OHxzi_o_yYK8qbJ9MACX92oQGqXar8gozr6GsvhBYzjfqQx6BAH9EfXZK1DdjeslRAABIMemzxImBkR3WEcw99H0B-gX6_C0ThtbznJrNfBtf/s1600/graham+on+doc+nite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1msfBTj4RSqrwj2YtKHzgBxlEzo5MTt4OHxzi_o_yYK8qbJ9MACX92oQGqXar8gozr6GsvhBYzjfqQx6BAH9EfXZK1DdjeslRAABIMemzxImBkR3WEcw99H0B-gX6_C0ThtbznJrNfBtf/s1600/graham+on+doc+nite.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">pensive at sunset</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
2nd day at the lake..... After several weeks of their hosting grandkids, me and my boyz, one classically autistic & one aspie, arrive for a two day visit at grandma and grandpa's lake house.<br />
At the end of a day of playing with clay Graham joined us for a boat ride on the big pontoon boat. As the evening ride came to a close, I noted that grandpa forgot his offer to Eli for a chance to drive, he's tired i thought and distracted by my ruff housing with Graham to redirect him from his itchy boy bits... I lost my hat overboard and failed in the attempt to retrieve it... no biggy as it was not expensive and don't spoil a lovely twilight cruise over such a minor thing ...I notice my folks don't enjoy the pensive moments on their lake as I wish they could... the thoughts darting thru my mindful filters.<br />
<br />
Dismounting the boat now tied to the dock, Graham requests more clay which requires digging it up from the lake bottom. I say "no more clay today"; before I can add, "bed time now and clay tomorrow", my tired, disappointed boy runs to the far end of dock and begins to jump up and down and whine loudly as he is overcome with frustration. I grab the garden shovel to put away(reinforcing my 'no') and he gets louder, bouncing himself higher on the metal dock; he wants my attention. I determine he is safe where he is 80' from me at the far end of the dock; thus I follow the 2min-ignore behavior support practice his behavior team has in place. Grandma, in a micromanager command, begins to yell at him to stop and come back. She directs grandpa to go get him, so he throws the boat cover down and marches after Graham, escalating his anger in every step.<br />
<br />
As grandpa meets Graham, I see the affect in his face change from upset about no clay and fleeing to the end of the dock at my 'no', to shock, panic and then fear. ( fight or flight is the base line of processing thoughts by autists; my parents don't recognize this). He takes a firm hold of Graham by the arm and escorts him back to shore. At this point grandpa is angry in his determined, rigid body language (Graham reads body language very well, much like a horse uses it to measure their safety/trust with a person): at graham? at grandma's orders? at being interrupted in his boat-cover task? that Graham may throw post caps into lake? Who knows, but this act of non-compliance was not from a bratty point; it was non-compliance from a frustration point, Graham can not speak well, once he filled with fear (grabbed forcefully) he was consumed with flight or fight...he could not flee, so he chose fight. Full of fear not disrespect, he hit out at grandpa once on firm ground of shore. (smart enuff to wait til he was sure of his footing, I thought). Grandpa escalates in anger, and rebukes with angry words. Graham is in tears, I am silent and I walk him into the house and we stay downstairs. If grandpa had known to command him to "sit down, calm down, hands down" while at the end of the dock, he would have said it and Graham would have complied. If grandpa had known to ask him, "what do you want" Graham would have said, "stop" when he was evading the forceful grasp. But grandpa didn't know; he went to his default behavior...might.<br />
<br />
Back in the house, as he sits on the bed with me, both of us choking back tears(i'm thinking what just happened here?! will this be a lasting trauma?), my silent son relaxes and begins to giggle... relieved to feel safe? to be with me? to be understood? someday he'll tell me. If nothing else, this exasperating three minute incident was so clarifying to me:<br />
*he must have total supervision when he's in the bigger world (to prevent his mischief, yes; but more importantly to protect him from being misunderstood and maltreated by others, any others)<br />
*so the behaivor support plan can be followed and help him grow socially appropriate skills and use words rather than fight or flight. When grandpa got physical to get what he wanted (Graham's compliance), he unintentionally modelled 'might is right' solution for Graham, on Graham. Grandpa did the only thing he knew how to do; the baseline of his generation's oppressive social skills. This is exactly what we've been working so hard to avoid. We want him to learn to use his words as a preferred behavior when he is dis-regulated. Once Graham learns that physical reaction is an option, how will we unteach it?<br />
* his grandparents' (and plenty of others) perspective in this, is one of gloom and doom. They see me as unable to control him, too frail in my own illness (they don't get that we strive to teach him how to control himself), they feel he is hopeless and should be institutionalized (they are not in our world of empowerment, AT, behavior supports, consistency, rehearsal...they are not in the world of autism)<br />
<br />
So i am in a corner...how to defend my son in a way that affirms his progress, his desire to comply, his processing delays, that his difference isn't less. How to respect my generous parents and encourage their relationship with him. He does not have friends, no invites to sleep-overs or parties....family is the center of his universe. Many typical people will perceive him as spoiled, over accommodated but they don't have a grasp of the big picture for him in terms of crafting well practised acceptable behavioral communication for meeting their expectations. This puts Graham and others like him, at risk of trauma; not because he is a danger, but because he may choose the default of flight or fight when he is overwhelmed and that will put him into danger at the mercy of others.<br />
<br />
The whole thing was heartbreaking to watch. If family members don't understand his baseline affect...how will anyone else? I often leave any 'public' (aka not Graham's familiar environments) feeling so drained from trying to help Graham meet them where they are at, when they can not even perceive where he is at. My son is not the problem, his autism is not the problem; it's a dysfunctional, might-is-right, hasty world densely filled with rigid expectations and inflexible limits, that he must navigate, that is the problem.<br />
My autism battles with Graham are nothing compared to the autism-ology wars out there. I call it a war, as all parties need to see the perceptions of the other before 'peace' can be found. In his 13 years of being my son, ten of those as an autist, he has taught me so much about being human and 'what is good for autism is good for everyone'.<br />
<br />
<br />
how to live autism ~ the fine print in autism-ology:<br />
<br />
Blessed are the flexible for they don't get bent out of shape...<br />
<i>be nimble in your expectations</i><br />
<i>don't assume a situation is out of control because it doesn't meet the 'normal' expectation</i><br />
<br />
Baby steps are still steps...<i> the power is in the process </i><br />
<br />
Nothing for us with out us...<i>ask if we need help before barging into the process</i><br />
<br />
Different isn't less...<i>adopt a 'works' or 'doesn't work' attitude and omit right v wrong judgement from your mindset</i><br />
<br />
When one person's expectations exceed the other person's limits, conflict ensues...<i>feelings are information, not instructions ....learn from that</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbC3ZAvfCJYqTNeeiXFqoiUJyR1_5bkn0xtRtCflY4GRNl032F84dFJC5F6Jxat7icH7b8vhD_xBJ2UntUeJjUqVw9DFxnS-odEhVeJ-Mc7fRPkbTgaY_m4GuxKlNtYUFY7aUwVdQmnw-A/s1600/IMGP4367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbC3ZAvfCJYqTNeeiXFqoiUJyR1_5bkn0xtRtCflY4GRNl032F84dFJC5F6Jxat7icH7b8vhD_xBJ2UntUeJjUqVw9DFxnS-odEhVeJ-Mc7fRPkbTgaY_m4GuxKlNtYUFY7aUwVdQmnw-A/s1600/IMGP4367.JPG" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">joy riding the twin tube(Graham & Eli) just like his cousins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
luv, peace and love (my happy place) ~ el <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-89902434171536888492014-07-16T17:32:00.001-07:002014-07-16T17:32:17.680-07:00the hazy dreama poem or stream of conscience, really<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilDu8QQjHv98jI8oHJ4D4s1EhcGFmxUG_USh8ttLmK5xLMxJm8lx3hrKj3H7yHdrN8vK1tVhNU7eYWdZ0of7hZGf2qEX0BIwlxfQ5tKriZfV1opVmRhOkjCELMAn6utPlctouXytlBxMNP/s1600/IMG_1482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilDu8QQjHv98jI8oHJ4D4s1EhcGFmxUG_USh8ttLmK5xLMxJm8lx3hrKj3H7yHdrN8vK1tVhNU7eYWdZ0of7hZGf2qEX0BIwlxfQ5tKriZfV1opVmRhOkjCELMAn6utPlctouXytlBxMNP/s1600/IMG_1482.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">his world, his way</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
the hazy dream <br />
<br />
<br />
in my sleepy dreams, he can speak clearly as any other child<br />
<br />
in our hazy wakeful days, he can not <br />
<br />
he is blond, and blue eyed and thirteen and he is silent<br />
<br />he smiles, he laughs, he giggles and sometimes frowns<br />
the way everyone, anyone can understand him<br />
<br />
he walks, he runs, he jumps the way everyone, anyone can<br />
but he doesn't give hugs, he taps his forehead gently to mine<br />
<br />
when i ignore his mands, the way a distracted mother would<br />
<br />
he frames his face close to mine, and stares intensively into my eyes<br />
he gets my attention, the way the workers get his<br />
<br />
he takes my arm, leads me to his desired tact, but still he cannot say it,<br />
name it, describe the object at the tip of his finger<br />
<br />
an approximation is all i will hear, i will struggle to understand,<br />
i will attempt to form the word for him, to model the sounds<br />
<br />
he will smile coyly, he will giggle softly, he will take the thing...<br />
walk or maybe run to play with it in his imagined way.<br />
<br />
And i will smile, i will curse, i will wonder out loud<br />
<br />
when will the powers that be, step up their values,<br />
open their minds, reach for his potential<br />
<br />
and give him a 'voice' that we can all understand,<br />
everywhere, every time<br />
and if they won't do it, how do i? <br />
<br />
before he gives up trying<br />
<br />
~ellresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-34368097669206428422014-04-04T08:40:00.000-07:002014-04-04T11:16:45.495-07:00Autism Advocacy, from the front row<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZieYYKwjKs7SQbXEqmuZtNfEGPLPZ4aQGAqTowvUe6aloGXhc7kjxuvy-D6DGe9UeuUmgCQLsMmVfWCFbWUz5ibECtDuc5n5c7zjro_X1VMga0OvqWYadSP4dvVg17SGXZ-EZjKlbSs0/s1600/the+front+row.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZieYYKwjKs7SQbXEqmuZtNfEGPLPZ4aQGAqTowvUe6aloGXhc7kjxuvy-D6DGe9UeuUmgCQLsMmVfWCFbWUz5ibECtDuc5n5c7zjro_X1VMga0OvqWYadSP4dvVg17SGXZ-EZjKlbSs0/s1600/the+front+row.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the VT autism posse the front row at statehouse April 2, 2014</td></tr>
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<i>thru the years</i><br />
Graham was officially diagnosed with Autism (ASD to be exact) by the VT Dept of Health Children with Special Health Needs; Dr. Contenpasis on July 13, 2004. That was after nearly a year long wait for the appointment that lasted thirty minutes. That was after months of his silent developmental delays being normalized by everyone around him, even me. He is a twin and one is always slower, don't you know....Fast forward, the letter came in the mail and I dusted off the blurry xerox of the chart listing treatment definitions given to us then. Useless. I didn't want to become fluent in autism, or the system of care, or on what to do next. I thought surely the school would know exactly what to do. So we enrolled him in EEE and trusted the 'professionals' to know what would help him; and at our very first iep meeting, endured the disparaging remarks of the LEA (local educational agent)that we would have to spar with for the next 9 years. I soon realized, schools don't really even know how support typical kids; the truly brilliant kids learn how to teach themselves and like Mario jumping thru hoops to a pot of gold, they learn how to play the typical education game to get to the next level. And I learned how to play the system of care game, jumping thru hoops, knocking on doors, seeking out best practices, networking with other families, building a pot of gold for Graham...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQb2b8tIPY3-nKb9zhraZSmGS-gR5_yq72FnJMadu4WAuynTFN3d5AWo9DChFUhjony-8XAdNCTWqFP8UKRl5zVuk7HpwHtenyjkJT7H6HbdNMoN2IGHCQa5UgeY1Fd8OMF8c3gz3BrBG/s1600/graham+sporting+jenn%27s+glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQb2b8tIPY3-nKb9zhraZSmGS-gR5_yq72FnJMadu4WAuynTFN3d5AWo9DChFUhjony-8XAdNCTWqFP8UKRl5zVuk7HpwHtenyjkJT7H6HbdNMoN2IGHCQa5UgeY1Fd8OMF8c3gz3BrBG/s1600/graham+sporting+jenn's+glasses.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Graham trying on his teacher's glasses</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<br />
I What I wish I had known then :(<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I am the expert on my child </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Never settle for crumbs off the table.... solutions need to be creative, use imagination, be innovative...this makes the whole team stretch out of their comfort zones, where true learning begins</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Hold high expectations for Graham and for his support team. IEP Goals and objectives need to be to his benefit! not their budget, work day or limited interest. This is where great stress was evoked, when expectations exceed limits conflict will ensue....Conflict is not BAD, its a game changer!</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Presume competence for Graham! (I am not in denial, I simply do not accept your half-assed professional opinion) (oh, and my son is the best teacher you and I will ever have.... no charge) </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Be the squeaky wheel and pick your battles with the big picture in mind.</li>
</ul>
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II What an IEP is and is not<br />
The most important thing to remember about the IEP is that it is a plan for one year only. It will not be carried over to the next year, it is not continuous, it does not prepare for the big picture. Every year, you will sit down at the IEP renewal and you will suffer through goals and objectives that are so isolated from the big picture, adulthood, that you will drown in minutia. It will help with specific goals, like tying shoes, saying hi, giving a hi-5. Every year you will build the wheel all over again, despite a detailed narrative of present levels. The IEP does not address what has been done in the past, what has worked, what has not. It is a document dependant upon quantitative measurements of a qualitative challenge. Delayed development is a qualitative experience, becoming human is a qualitative process. But it is all we have for the first several years.<br />
<br />
III The Multi Year Plan,<br />
The big picture planning for the transitions through middle school, high school and into adulthood.....and a life worthy of his potential. It is a qualitative initiative and more in line with preparing for life beyond school. I have been asking all along for the long view, but the iep cannot address that, because the system of care which is a 'memorandum of understanding' between dept of education and agency of human services pit the quantitative DOE against the qualitative AHS and the battle begins. The suggested practice is to begin the MYP in summer before 9th grade....but I had been seeking it since 3rd grade, demanding it in 5th grade and still advocating for it in 7th grade. Just 5 short years from exiting school and entering the adult system of care.<br />
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IV What the 'system of care' is and what it is not = cost containment, turf battles, egos, politics...follow the money because that is the bottom line. If there were no laws like FAPE, IDEA, ADA... I am convinced that 'the state' would not rise up to the task of meeting the needs or providing access to human rights for differently abled citizens.<br />
a) the 'It' factor ~ along the journey of special education and home support, I have discovered what many in that deep end of the ocean call the 'It Factor'. Some people have It, they connect intuitively with differently-abled persons. They are nimble in evoking successful results for our kids, they have that warm-fuzzy aura that our kids gravitate to and give peak effort for. Most importantly, they believe our children are worth every effort.<br />
<br />
b) Then there are those who want It, attending workshops, clinics, symposiums in speciality topics to strive for a better understanding and implementation of a complex skill set to help our kids achieve. But their own doubts, or rigid minds obstruct their highest goals with our kids.<br />
<br />
c)And then there are those who do not have It. They don't know how to work with our kids, they don't want to, they don't believe that our kids are worth the effort or expense. Sadly, the It-less people seem to be in the positions of power and hold the purse strings that free up resources that would assist in our kids big pictures.<br />
<br />
<b>*</b>At the end of the meeting, the day, the year....few if any of these people will risk their relevance, their contract, their pay check, their comfortable professional lives to stand up for our kids when they KNOW they are being misrepresented, under-served or even abused. When you are supported by an exceptional person, thank them graciously at the table and very personally away from the school, where they won't be at risk for reprimand...we must take care of them that have It...xox<br />
<br />
d) Work-arounds there are ways to work around a dysfunctional system of care, to tweak an obstruction in service to better meet the need. Be clear about what your child's school can do well, i have learned to keep the academics in school and bring much of the 'medical support' home. If your school won't do that, won't give an extended day program, consider getting prescriptions for OT, PT, ABA, SLP via your paediatrician so you can craft a home program. In VT, we advocated for a law to mandate insurance companies to pay for these 'prescribed' autism therapies. You do need to be sure that the providers will take your insurance. In the ACA, it specifically mandates that autism therapies must be included for coverage in a policy. There are so many subtle and not very subtle ways to get what your child needs. Pick your battles. And don't underestimate the power of ADA, the 504 act which provides for access to education. Physical, Cognitive, Emotional....the phone number for your 'local' Civil Liberties Union office is in the front of your phone book! They exist to protect disability rights. Call them if you have a question.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Because my son will not outgrow his autism and I will not live forever.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> </i></b>V The exit plan: wills, trusts, family, community...<br />
a) Trusts~ All along this other-adventure, such perilous journey where no map existed, time took on a new meaning. Despite my rural rooted-ness, my bucolic life in the slow lane; time became urgent. The developmental time frame when Graham could be 're-shaped' for speech acquisition, he could learn a healthier posture, gain self control, become ready to learn, and learn how to learn. Time became a precious enemy. Not only did I research and investigate therapies, diets, leisure supports; I had to ponder his future as an autist. With 6th grade graduation approaching, I recognized the high priority for a Special Needs Trust for Graham, a legal instrument that would protect his interests in his growing, learning and living a life worthy of his potential. That's what his trust actually says. I found out about this tool at a family workshop, through friends who've done this and the network of Vermonters living autism. If you have a loved one with a disability, do it and make sure the attorney drafting it has experience specific to special needs and disability.<br />
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b) Family~ Graham is blessed to be born into a family with two older sisters and his twin brother, on a small horse farm with a very busy house. Things are quiet now and he enjoys feeding and brushing the few horses that are here, as well as the 'hikes' on the back pastures and wood lot. He lives a pretty interesting life here skiing at SMUGGS, on their Special Olympics Team Smuggs, swimming at our wilderness swimming holes and enjoying life on the 'fringe' of his siblings' social worlds.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3x86b4QtzMUYzhaHhjRoVpI2O2NrQrR6fE0iI76R1C2rn6rvU1NsFwptlRa8DQ7edkUZamhjbslCLupGStjYpH79mbNieVRZoQr19K2_yDVff2PV4AzsoaWHDTKxQTrTkiGZQpkwDwcVy/s1600/boys+walking+to+statehouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3x86b4QtzMUYzhaHhjRoVpI2O2NrQrR6fE0iI76R1C2rn6rvU1NsFwptlRa8DQ7edkUZamhjbslCLupGStjYpH79mbNieVRZoQr19K2_yDVff2PV4AzsoaWHDTKxQTrTkiGZQpkwDwcVy/s1600/boys+walking+to+statehouse.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eli & Graham walking up the granite lane</td></tr>
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At a recent advocacy event, he visited our statehouse, as he has many times, where he sat patiently through the reading of the proclamation for April to be designated as VT's month of autism awareness, he stayed for reception that afternoon as well. I had an opportunity to share some of these written points; and when I concluded his brother Eli, younger by 3 minutes, siezed the moment to walk Graham up to say something...just a simple 'hi'...he introduced his brother Graham and tried earnestly to prompt a 'hi', which of course Graham would not. It takes a lot of practice for Graham to 'perform'. But the HUGE revelation, the moment that won everyone's hearts was to see how very proud Eli is of his brother and for me to know that Graham has a family, and a community that 'Sees' him. In that, Graham is blessed.<br />
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<br />
c) Community ~ it takes a village, a cherry picked village... We are so very fortunate to live in a small town. I spend tremendous hours creating inclusion for Graham, building a hometown that will always have his back. I am setting aside 4 acres for a soft fruit plantation so he will have his own farm, so he will be a contributing citizen. Ever since he was born, since all of my children were born, I have been crafting a constellation of community where their stars will shine brightly. When Graham went missing in 2010, the whole community turned out to search. When he 'bums around town' everybody knows his name, says 'hi'; many have been coached how to prompt him and wait for his response. At his new school, that was a huge piece of his transition; ensuring inclusion and a community that would 'see' him. Along the way I have learned to advocate, to educate, to gently correct haters and complainers and jabberers. Graham has opened people's hearts and changed their minds and is tireless in teaching that different isn't less. We don't waste a lot of time on toxic people, just forgive them and move on realizing they are more challenged than Graham in knowing love.<br />
<br />
Often people will ask me what I want for Graham, "what do you expect!?" I answer sometimes calmly, sometimes not: this mom's expectation for Graham, Eli, Quilla and Zoe is to be sustainable, be resilient, be kind ~ follow your strengths and talents and the rest will be history ~ that is the opening line of his Multi Year Plan...our world needs people who can help it become more loving and less hurtful. Our world needs kids like Graham to open that place in our hearts. My only truly adamant goal across all settings is his self advocacy, a voice of his own; that anyone can understand. <br />
<br />
That's the simple version of my motivation to advocate on Graham's level, at a system level and at a more global level. The real benefit of advocacy, isn't that the system will change dramatically, despite our energetic and sometimes heroic efforts; but rather the opportunity to connect with other people living autism and to share what works, what doesn't work, what is disappointing, and what is amazing. <br />
<br />
Nobody else gets it...period. luv, peace and love ~ ell <br />
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the link to our latest field trip to Montpelier <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10201426890065443.1073741875.1570732991&type=1&l=95ae5d0b04">https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10201426890065443.1073741875.1570732991&type=1&l=95ae5d0b04</a><br />
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<br />resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-77958722988423066212014-03-30T10:25:00.000-07:002014-03-30T10:25:38.377-07:00riding pillion in the back country on snow<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUje9vdRXOJTMFH9LdyBd1JdmAg9xykeJEV4V2aRYpopdoI9uljRjdrjyNd4cv6Iim9JbZ_XiWBcf0R3-Is3K54UL4AEzvYm4Pu1iUEJM1-HfCFvwAoHdNLAShdQLZLfjAxHPNpA00IeuR/s1600/out+snowmobiling.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUje9vdRXOJTMFH9LdyBd1JdmAg9xykeJEV4V2aRYpopdoI9uljRjdrjyNd4cv6Iim9JbZ_XiWBcf0R3-Is3K54UL4AEzvYm4Pu1iUEJM1-HfCFvwAoHdNLAShdQLZLfjAxHPNpA00IeuR/s1600/out+snowmobiling.jpeg" height="224" width="400" /></a></div>
the weather was balmy at 33f and he rode from Brookfield to take me for a ride....on velvety trails all to our selves, better than chocolate... <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the ski doo ready to head out</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">miles and miles and miles to go</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">riding from my summer pasture onto the old Bakersfield Rd</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">on the VAST trail heading north, velvety smooth</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2Up on snow</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">trails accessible due to land owners' consent</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOk1ngRvA9tkWf-dVxQWIbSln3y2RCWOR5-J1phmUjoLWYp40NmZKCvVaMIobskJyXHqtOi0aNp1wmN6QKFDhSHmKlxCQlZpqQEuzFapoY-lT7XQYGLq_TKxGMAQcyCgiBmgFL1l2WQNx/s1600/green+crow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOk1ngRvA9tkWf-dVxQWIbSln3y2RCWOR5-J1phmUjoLWYp40NmZKCvVaMIobskJyXHqtOi0aNp1wmN6QKFDhSHmKlxCQlZpqQEuzFapoY-lT7XQYGLq_TKxGMAQcyCgiBmgFL1l2WQNx/s1600/green+crow.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">green crow, gang tag? lol</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6EtkYH5WJpb2JhSAHIz_n1Qcchb4q_CRHyFfSvQELX_3XbQp_8G7KWPTJtc9k71rIfn7g9j82ZPle4lAhkaw5HBULx8mEidevjUdGoSiJUaSVi8T7zUOnRVXAfsyBtjcPtgjy7zqBLUvw/s1600/IMGP5462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6EtkYH5WJpb2JhSAHIz_n1Qcchb4q_CRHyFfSvQELX_3XbQp_8G7KWPTJtc9k71rIfn7g9j82ZPle4lAhkaw5HBULx8mEidevjUdGoSiJUaSVi8T7zUOnRVXAfsyBtjcPtgjy7zqBLUvw/s1600/IMGP5462.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">i've welcomed VAST on my land since 1987, this is the first time i've ever gone way back on their trails</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYLF2J89G_FQs3yRt4jWv_yVRQC350Bu7R21tEmtbxtwcY_f3nm3sZGvCpRC7WfWSVbwQRJdaciVHF41aw1DHDSfPF_zVlcZwGayg-MP8-tsafMwq-XBjXBwJuZQw9LzUfqpWzQcB6-88/s1600/IMGP5464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYLF2J89G_FQs3yRt4jWv_yVRQC350Bu7R21tEmtbxtwcY_f3nm3sZGvCpRC7WfWSVbwQRJdaciVHF41aw1DHDSfPF_zVlcZwGayg-MP8-tsafMwq-XBjXBwJuZQw9LzUfqpWzQcB6-88/s1600/IMGP5464.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my driver</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkewCW0wLQ2UZfaDftUp6WZnnHXFv5Gm0fhJLfdWv17R891vd2IO7Agid8MmijLCyVmgZS6DaxwCX0GRJPsub8Q6ds1R8YLWr5Kn6B5NAwMvh7s3mHS3i5wpv1dLnNjbVDCgNEGHfzpCrn/s1600/IMGP5468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkewCW0wLQ2UZfaDftUp6WZnnHXFv5Gm0fhJLfdWv17R891vd2IO7Agid8MmijLCyVmgZS6DaxwCX0GRJPsub8Q6ds1R8YLWr5Kn6B5NAwMvh7s3mHS3i5wpv1dLnNjbVDCgNEGHfzpCrn/s1600/IMGP5468.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">i luv the woodlands in winter, with out leaves the expanses are generous</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdYaOg5rSPlGa5ThaENSQuhPOv7ohsHKy_PKHnzN6-Pnr07AEcvE6QFbCVVG5WGc1TrvVNBqQcrARnZKAEJGKGkLKPxNFzy1UFtysCTPlAUq_hu2-L624uXdlin7KB66Ad5j9-f-khf3yu/s1600/IMGP5469.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdYaOg5rSPlGa5ThaENSQuhPOv7ohsHKy_PKHnzN6-Pnr07AEcvE6QFbCVVG5WGc1TrvVNBqQcrARnZKAEJGKGkLKPxNFzy1UFtysCTPlAUq_hu2-L624uXdlin7KB66Ad5j9-f-khf3yu/s1600/IMGP5469.JPG" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a beautiful afternoon ride, 13miles in all</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA-7Gcoj6IfkGirmCVkmoU6HOyYsw8_YlsyxFosmBsFUvEHutyWDT5TphBV2M8SBhxcbPwEnXio9bdPd4IPkku9WO1tnS5iPt_7DVFreiCbzl1X7viSPZPxZu9xGgWkKa9CYACYDRvoRkg/s1600/IMGP5471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA-7Gcoj6IfkGirmCVkmoU6HOyYsw8_YlsyxFosmBsFUvEHutyWDT5TphBV2M8SBhxcbPwEnXio9bdPd4IPkku9WO1tnS5iPt_7DVFreiCbzl1X7viSPZPxZu9xGgWkKa9CYACYDRvoRkg/s1600/IMGP5471.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">falling in love with winter, again</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUU46C-IXHF7KUwcMME8uFeCqttX-sac06kI_u-fJLMUUYkL9Mtl5864x4QxVODv6ThXPrYouwFNKvfEIJxef_eOyaAMSAT7DCEUfwRttMJhHKEyrxLFvWPKL7wjUYnC9wqC2w1ZfkssZ/s1600/ski-doo+selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUU46C-IXHF7KUwcMME8uFeCqttX-sac06kI_u-fJLMUUYkL9Mtl5864x4QxVODv6ThXPrYouwFNKvfEIJxef_eOyaAMSAT7DCEUfwRttMJhHKEyrxLFvWPKL7wjUYnC9wqC2w1ZfkssZ/s1600/ski-doo+selfie.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">got that happy pillion buzz</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK3oeUyUCLNLBTnPjD49BWMdFKapWtzom8bDbCL2xLwPwh2_-SnGNf7eyMMxic_8dM-zPETlo-vtyhc-PP-6IeZD-kKwBzN1lN2nApUpPtJ6UrMZ8yKrNgB7I6dQhdrhkDPq87kR_0hIbN/s1600/IMGP5475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK3oeUyUCLNLBTnPjD49BWMdFKapWtzom8bDbCL2xLwPwh2_-SnGNf7eyMMxic_8dM-zPETlo-vtyhc-PP-6IeZD-kKwBzN1lN2nApUpPtJ6UrMZ8yKrNgB7I6dQhdrhkDPq87kR_0hIbN/s1600/IMGP5475.JPG" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">returning to find a fox enjoying his afternoon in the pasture</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<br />resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-8439676411714297712014-03-29T08:10:00.001-07:002014-03-30T09:48:22.622-07:00Graham's World ~ VT Special Olympics 2014<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWy0LVM3t2hY6oydMTonuTdyvd9Rj6tSYwa5b_uwco85CZsjtQFnx1NzO9XiTku2K1Y8jocmbYjlasPInJpaBJxTHtoHIYm1Ph6LzrY-n_SNkae_lbU8uz4HWvMhjHYlrYh_7gyebi7-jR/s1600/IMGP5380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWy0LVM3t2hY6oydMTonuTdyvd9Rj6tSYwa5b_uwco85CZsjtQFnx1NzO9XiTku2K1Y8jocmbYjlasPInJpaBJxTHtoHIYm1Ph6LzrY-n_SNkae_lbU8uz4HWvMhjHYlrYh_7gyebi7-jR/s1600/IMGP5380.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">it was and epic weekend</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Some things will never be normal the way the magazines define it; having a son with classic autism guarantees that conclusion. It can feel like an indefensible position on the battlefield of life and that is another story, entirely. But on this weekend of March 7,8 & 9, I would learn that some things would be better than normal; superior, in fact. This was the weekend of Vermont's Special Olympics Winter Games in Woodstock VT. It was our first year of participation and I attended with an open mind and none too high expectations. I just wanted to enjoy a weekend of sunshine, good snow, and a comfortable hotel room. Graham loves to ski, he's pretty good and this was a chance for him to revel in that. I invited his behavior instructor, Jenn, to come along and keep him on task, and keep up with his energy where I would lag behind. I could not have enjoyed this adventure as a leisurely spectator without her exceptional support for his task management needs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrV_zU6tk09arPncNSUMp8D23hyZPdAcllv6psHHJXYdJdI_E3PRj-GgnLjzOQHRCt_ImU2-aOMBZ1Rp1eTeayXCUx2mGGDL6TvyAKmDnOWxaRYP_-Spy7RFmvAsIOgr3CI5piAjXof2BY/s1600/team+graham+groovy+shades.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrV_zU6tk09arPncNSUMp8D23hyZPdAcllv6psHHJXYdJdI_E3PRj-GgnLjzOQHRCt_ImU2-aOMBZ1Rp1eTeayXCUx2mGGDL6TvyAKmDnOWxaRYP_-Spy7RFmvAsIOgr3CI5piAjXof2BY/s1600/team+graham+groovy+shades.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenn, Graham and coach</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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We began with Unified-Snowshoeing on Friday with his school team and learned in a hurry what unfamiliar tasks he would struggle with, like refusing to wear the number bib over his neck, so the special olympics staff found safety pins to place it on his back. He didn't really understand the lanes to race/run in with snow shoes...but his coach was patient and supportive...There was no wrong way, or bad job; there was flexibility and support and innovation to help him at least complete the task.<span id="goog_1889118260"></span><br />
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We came this year, to learn what would take some practice and preteaching for some fluency in his joining in future events. And all around us people strived, attempted and participated with earnest efforts because it was all about them; their time to shine in their light. Some folks were obviously competitive and some were just enjoying the glorious weekend weather in the midst of a cold and suffering winter.<br />
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That Friday night had a parade and opening ceremony on the Woodstock town green where delegates marched in with banners and flags and team jackets to the whoops and whistles of dedicated fans. It was their height of awesomeness as all eyes were on them and everyone cared deeply for the challenge ahead. Alpine, Snowboarding, Nordic and Snowshoeing would test the fortitude of athletes in the days ahead. For them it was serious and joyful and important. For some it would be the highlight of the year, others a grand day out and for all of us, it was a community snow globe that was magical to all who were included in the event.<br />
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This was a place where tradition met valor and 'different' was the new normal. Like no other sporting event I’ve been in or at, these delegates hugged, laughed and rallied for each other while families and fans went hoarse with cheering for each and every contestant, no matter their team. Ribbons and medals were won, but the best take-away was to be surrounded by families, fans, coaches and volunteers who celebrated the joy of being there. In this place nobody pointed in disbelief, nobody spoke in cruel tones; in this place we were the normal people living large, for a weekend anyway. Graham 'raced' in alpine slalom on Saturday and Sunday, and with the help of his coach, he medaled in 2 events. But really it was all in good fun.<br />
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In this rarefied air, in this winter wonderland of differently-abled Vermonters and their families I was overcome with an epiphany. Some people in our circles, many people in fact, want to feel sad that my Graham is not 'normal'. They want to frown and shake their heads in morose for me and the rest of his family. They want to judge him, and his family as broken, burdensome. But they are blinded by their own expectations of what goodness looks like. Through Graham's lens of his world, I have lived joy, wonder, magic and an un-apologetic view from the moment he is in. I came away from this weekend with a wiser, well fed soul. I have come to deeply appreciate his world, and often prefer it to ours. He has taught me that its not about whether the cup is half empty or half full; its all about the quality of the water within it. Why i love my blue-eyed wonder boy, probably more, than
anyone else in the whole world?...because through his cloak of autism,
he does not judge me, ever....to him, i will always be enough.<br />
to see the complete album of Graham's Special Olympics Adventure goto this link: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10201308772832586.1073741871.1570732991&type=1&l=d6e00439a7">https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10201308772832586.1073741871.1570732991&type=1&l=d6e00439a7</a><br />
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I am grateful to Suicide Six for giving up their whole mountain and ski lodge to these olympics, to the Woodstock Inn for lodging all of us, the entire s.o. body of delegates, families and coaches in their 5star accommodations with luxurious service from curb to bedstand for the whole weekend. For Team Smuggs for being the most fun, happy and stylish team on the slopes.<br />
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This was an epic weekend.<br />
luv, peace, love ~ ell<br />
<br />resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-36298472736183447992014-01-17T09:33:00.001-08:002014-01-17T09:34:35.147-08:00walking with horses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The way a herd moves, assembles, ebbs and flows, relates to its members, is a work of social art among horses. When I watch the horses here, only five of them now, I am a distant being, like a bird in a tree just watching and listening to their equine community. This particular group has been together since 2005 and six, they are so familiar to each other and dependant, the way horses are, upon the movements and affect of one another. The comfort and alarm by each other and correct or errant behavior. All shared with the slightest gesture in posture or gaze. It's marvellous to observe and i feel like a tiny outsider until they spot me. Then they will come up to me, seeking food or maybe just some touch, some reassurance that i will care for them. Horses are followers, even the most strident alpha seeks a leader and will follow a person through the most unnatural applications of their strength and power as long as one is clear, consistent and fair in the asking. They are 'feelers', always judging the content of our character and responding accordingly. For all of my life, they have captivated my imagination, curiosity and awe. That a full grown horse would allow me to mount and ride or drive and make course mistakes with their sensitive natures always leaves me amazed and humble as i grow older in years, increasingly aware of that trust and responsibility to them. For most of these horses, they are 'rescues' from the high stress industry of horse racing. They came here because their owners wanted to send them some place safe and know they would have a chance at a 'good' life. We used to retrain them and seek out forever homes where they would be the center of someone's universe...These last several years, I stopped actively seeking such homes; few and far between, they were sometimes honored, but often used and then forgotten like a novelty toy. Not always the case, but it happened enough times that I have largely given up on people that are transient with horses. So here they stay, on eleven acres of lousy soils, nasty hollows and deficient grazing; but they are largely free to do as they please as long as they honor the fences, the thin crinkled electric wire that keeps them in. Yet they are so happy here; unaware of such rustic keeping, happy to chose who and where they will stroll with in this way. No to low stress for these slick coated horses who once performed peak athletic endevors despite their breaking hearts as they were deprived of herd living and dusty wallows to roll in. For this tight band of horses, knit together over the last eight years, this is home. I am wracked with guilt when I think of tearing it apart, sending one away; its actually easier to end their life here, to let them die among friends and be buried where they have been so happy. This is were their heart is. To laze away a day, and walk with these horses is the highest privilege i can enjoy as a horseman. I wish that others could live that dream-like way of being with horses.resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-11229502282341790602013-10-08T18:31:00.000-07:002017-04-02T09:13:41.947-07:00for Fable<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtHRxkqfDHErybYSMSkC2xUOcNi-BSTo9SYEEJD-0TbulasA19C13lO0v_WJ1UbrCTB_go6OQdqLc975UXFQQTj6jvfJrgnnAXih-jeToGjXB6UGofn3bXeMih89qTBpTedDb3frP6R-v/s1600/Falble+and+me+2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtHRxkqfDHErybYSMSkC2xUOcNi-BSTo9SYEEJD-0TbulasA19C13lO0v_WJ1UbrCTB_go6OQdqLc975UXFQQTj6jvfJrgnnAXih-jeToGjXB6UGofn3bXeMih89qTBpTedDb3frP6R-v/s320/Falble+and+me+2012.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a photo shoot for her memory</td></tr>
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The day was right. the weather was cool and windy, shaking the golden leaves lingering high in the popple trees. It was a good day to die. For my beloved Fable to die.<br />
<div id="r1PostCPBlock" style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; left: -99999px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
<span class="bqQuoteLink"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgeelio401719.html" title="view quote">What
greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are
joined - to strengthen each other - to be at one with each other in
silent unspeakable memories.</a></span><br />
Read more at <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1AcolQHGIj1S1Usy.99" style="color: #003399;">http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1AcolQHGIj1S1Usy.9</a>al trees. The grass was still green and lush as autumn loped easily along in its parade of color on the hillsides of the Lamoille Valley. It was exactly the kind of day that i had hoped for. It was a good day to die, for my beloved Fable to die. </div>
She would be 29 in January, if the math was right when she came to me in 1991 as a seven year old, un-raced, Standardbred mare. She was the most delicious mahogany bay at 15.2h, the color of dark chocolate with straight, scar-less, legs and the most correct hooves a farrier could love. Her neck was feminine, powerful, elegant, sporting a 'torn shirt' whirl. She held her fine head high with broadly set eyes in a child like gaze. She had a small scar beneath her right ear, from a bridling injury gone wrong when she was a younger filly. They tried to confine her, restrain her...to tame her with misguided power.<br />
She came back to the rescue program, newly under my care then, because she fought back, they were afraid of her, she would not acquiesce to their clumsy attempts at horse training. So she came back, into my barn and made her way into my heart.<br />
It was a good sized herd here, back then. Eight to ten horses on 18 acres of various pastures. She had room to run, buck and rear. How she loved to rear and challenge the other brown horses. Not so keen on Fable's lust for 'reindeer games', Big Kate would snap her a quick kick, a smart tap to remind her to behave.<br />
As those summer weeks went by, Fable learned when and where to be rowdy, a little less impulsive. She would gallop to and from the little band of brown horses and check in at the barn for water. She wouldn't allow a halter or a brush at first, then she gave in, asking for some love with a still body.<br />
Her coat was like satin, smooth and warm and silky to my hand. She liked a steady, firm stroke with my palm and would not tolerate feathery lite movement on her hide. Ten minutes or so of rubbing with my hands and she was off, just like the wind across the grass. Our pastures were lush in those days, not over grazed or trampled in mud-season year after year. Her coat burst forth with glowing dapples from the good food, herd living and a life without restraints.<br />
When i groomed her, she would be on a loose rope, unhitched so she could walk away if she needed. She was so very sensitive, her hide would shudder at the lightest touch; out of her eye she would study my every movement. By the end of summer, I felt ready to back her and feel how she rides. I start most of my ex-race horses in an eggbutt snaffle on a simple English bridle. I remove the cavasson, and fit the bit the way a very wise man had taught me. I figured 2 wrinkles at the corner of her mouth would be a firm but soft fit for the gentle bit. Fable said I was wrong, very wrong and we had our first fight. I lost.<br />
So I pulled out my western bosal and slipped it over her ears after some negotiating with grain. Acceptable to her, and she willingly learned to neck rein with ease. That was the beginning. Our time, our miles, our adventures and silent memories got better and better. She hated shots, but agreed with the farrier. She loathed dogs but would allow a chicken to roost on her thick winter coat when temperatures would freeze the footing beneath them.<br />
She would pony freshies, break trail and gallop a lane or a field with fearless grace. Fable was a gaited beauty who could single foot for miles. She would have raced as a pacer if they could have held on to her. But for me, with my foot front of center in the stirrups and riding full seat, she would give me the sweetest single foot. Gliding like a light breeze over the grass. Her canter and gallop were clean, meaning like any other horse, not always common for a Standardbred, but she would trot over the covered bridge then onto the cornfields where I could let her break into a canter then a gallop on the soft, empty lanes between high summer corn standing like soldiers as we raced along the secret, green alleys.<br />
She was light and nimble on ledge or mud; careful with her footing on the flats or the steeps. She once brought me through a hunter-pace timber race saddled in a heavy western rig, while i wore black gauchos, satin vest and a black western hat and she went in her classic bosal. We took the lower rails, hopped brooks and glided up and down hills easily. With our Fjord mounted team-mates, we came in second.<br />
On a good day, before so many children filled my life, we would ride for hours covering miles of Vermont trails. One September day, I noticed she was very intense, hyper alert as we poked along a lost trail through a sugar bush. I couldn't hear it, or smell it but she could. When the trail broke out to the road, we were not ten feet from a black bear snacking on black berries, her twin cubs feasting beside her. Fable froze but never flinched. As the bears sat up to ponder the two-headed beast before them, I let my breath out and reined her gently to the left, to the other way of that road; no need to cross the mama bear's path. Fable stepped lightly but never in a panic and we strolled all the way home. If charged, could she out run them with me in the saddle? I believe so and grateful that it wasn't proven that day.<br />
So many more glittering moments with my Fable, my silent partner. She didn't have to talk, neither did I. We would ride in silence and we learned to listen to each other. I learned that listening is love. I loved our rides, I loved this horse. Our last years together were as casual friends. She ran with the band of horses, maintaining her rank as senior mare racing out to the round bales to meet the herd once finished with her grain. Power laced in poetry even as grey hair crept into her face. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGosKzIOrNHFS6KmxnnJ1-Kx84fG-kXeX33_-Ivb4KNqB_F92l3wWYPZcmudZZlupYPGR0V3JTneQUGYTGjqm6U0hx-6clbfCpll6EKhjCM0r3PxSYNL9eSXkrIeFAEy2ctn86huhgQze/s1600/fable+on+summer+pasture+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGosKzIOrNHFS6KmxnnJ1-Kx84fG-kXeX33_-Ivb4KNqB_F92l3wWYPZcmudZZlupYPGR0V3JTneQUGYTGjqm6U0hx-6clbfCpll6EKhjCM0r3PxSYNL9eSXkrIeFAEy2ctn86huhgQze/s400/fable+on+summer+pasture+2011.jpg" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my Fable on summer pasture 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I could have let her carry on another year; she was still looking sound, still lite on her feet and a lady to the end. But arthritis was in her coupling and her hocks. It was hard for her to hold weight, her once powerful neck was a lite wisp of its once glamorous arch. I did not want to , would not, let her fall off her bones in old age. I would let her go this year, before the ground hardened and snow piled high while bitter north winds howled, before she became afraid to live. I would wait for a day that had a brilliant sky, and shimmering leaves with a rustling wind in the grass.<br />
When she fell to her knees I would fall to mine and lay my head on her warm neck for the last time, I could listen to her heart beating out its life and sob for the good times, the lost times and all the glistening moments that will never be again. Riding Fable was like riding the wind, and today the wind has died.<br />
<br />
Fly high and away Fable...no more winters, no more worries.<br />
<br />
a week later, in mourning for Fable, i came across a message from Pema Chodron:<br />
<br />
<i> <span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[vzhw].[1][4][1]{comment10200483116751700_35035627}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[vzhw].[1][4][1]{comment10200483116751700_35035627}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[vzhw].[1][4][1]{comment10200483116751700_35035627}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[2]">“Things
don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then
they come together and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The
healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room
for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”</span></span></span></i><span data-reactid=".r[vzhw].[1][4][1]{comment10200483116751700_35035627}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[3]"></span><br />
<div class="fsm fwn fcg UFICommentActions" data-reactid=".r[vzhw].[1][4][1]{comment10200483116751700_35035627}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[3]">
<span data-reactid=".r[vzhw].[1][4][1]{comment10200483116751700_35035627}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[3].[0]"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" data-ft="{"tn":"N"}" data-reactid=".r[vzhw].[1][4][1]{comment10200483116751700_35035627}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[3].[0].[0]" href="https://www.facebook.com/terry.holden.79/posts/10200483116751700?comment_id=35035627&offset=0&total_comments=1"><abbr class="livetimestamp" data-reactid=".r[vzhw].[1][4][1]{comment10200483116751700_35035627}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[3].[0].[0].[0]" data-utime="1381693714" title="Sunday, October 13, 2013 at 3:48pm"><br /></abbr></a></span></div>
<div id="r1PostCPBlock" style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; left: -99999px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
<span class="bqQuoteLink"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgeelio401719.html" title="view quote">What
greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are
joined - to strengthen each other - to be at one with each other in
silent unspeakable memories.</a></span><br />
Read more at <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1AcolQHGIj1S1Usy.99" style="color: #003399;">http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1AcolQHGIj1S1Usy.99</a></div>
<div id="r1PostCPBlock" style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; left: -99999px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
<span class="bqQuoteLink"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgeelio401719.html" title="view quote">What
greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are
joined - to strengthen each other - to be at one with each other in
silent unspeakable memories.</a></span><br />
Read more at <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1AcolQHGIj1S1Usy.99" style="color: #003399;">http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1AcolQHGIj1S1Usy.99</a></div>
<div id="r1PostCPBlock" style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; left: -99999px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
<span class="bqQuoteLink"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgeelio401719.html" title="view quote">What
greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are
joined - to strengthen each other - to be at one with each other in
silent unspeakable memories.</a></span><br />
<span class="bodybold"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgeelio401719.html" title="view quote">George Eliot</a></span>
<br />
Read more at <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1HK8VoUPoJMQzkdh.99" style="color: #003399;">http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1HK8VoUPoJMQzkdh.99</a></div>
<div id="r1PostCPBlock" style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; left: -99999px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
<span class="bqQuoteLink"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgeelio401719.html" title="view quote">What
greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are
joined - to strengthen each other - to be at one with each other in
silent unspeakable memories.</a></span><br />
<span class="bodybold"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgeelio401719.html" title="view quote">George Eliot</a></span>
<br />
Read more at <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1HK8VoUPoJMQzkdh.99" style="color: #003399;">http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1HK8VoUPoJMQzkdh.99</a></div>
<div id="r1PostCPBlock" style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; left: -99999px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
<span class="bqQuoteLink"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgeelio401719.html" title="view quote">What
greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are
joined - to strengthen each other - to be at one with each other in
silent unspeakable memories.</a></span><br />
<span class="bodybold"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgeelio401719.html" title="view quote">George Eliot</a></span>
<br />
Read more at <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1HK8VoUPoJMQzkdh.99" style="color: #003399;">http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_eliot.html#1HK8VoUPoJMQzkdh.99</a></div>
resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-59386359109783950412013-09-06T21:01:00.004-07:002013-10-21T05:55:16.798-07:00the why and wherefore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZVpBSNDvsUOP5d0DXWrw5AvlJcy_yxYrRobyNxKB_85fWe9mx6TLuIIAOjCoMFmOMVhjWD0AOyP2RK2Xdv_gQ7LSn0hMe0gzkyzgvmM8-kWWj3LEV7_aCbXcpnUQnlqi43RCjukY2M7P/s1600/gun+slinger+on+harley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZVpBSNDvsUOP5d0DXWrw5AvlJcy_yxYrRobyNxKB_85fWe9mx6TLuIIAOjCoMFmOMVhjWD0AOyP2RK2Xdv_gQ7LSn0hMe0gzkyzgvmM8-kWWj3LEV7_aCbXcpnUQnlqi43RCjukY2M7P/s400/gun+slinger+on+harley.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
That's it, exactly it. When I came across this picture of a very vintage Harley and its young gun slinger, dismounted...it finally made sense. Why, back in June '09, I kept dropping the motorcycle in the BRC (basic riders course). While I've spent decades riding, training and handling horses, it didn't mean that experience prepared me for riding a motorcycle. And while a bike will stay where you park it, doesn't steal a nip or hide in the farthest corner of a pasture when you wish to ride it...a motorcycle has its limits. In the class, I had extreme difficulty with right hand turns, sudden stops and null speeds period. With momentum , a bike will balance itself; but at very low speeds, nearly stopped or not moving at all....well, it needs support from its driver! Forty plus years of straddling horses, I can guarantee they never needed me to hold them up in a turn, of any direction, regardless of speed. They never needed me to put my feet down when they stopped. In fact, well trained, they would stand patiently still, while i chatted with other folks around me. But this is not so with a motorcycle, they must be supported, a reality and expectation that I was never prepared for as an equestrian. Hahaha, it only took me 3 and a half years to understand that. huh.<br />
Bet this young ranger feels kinda the same way; the bike may be barely faster than a horse, and it may not need as much attention...but it damn sure ain't gonna hold you up to take proper aim when you have to stop. Now that curiosity is solved, I can go to bed.resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-23231679361275869132012-07-16T10:03:00.000-07:002012-07-16T10:03:44.214-07:00it's all about the ride..<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk19L68Ru1Rg0mnU_M6nr6KAx0QPP6-XpmErrOrc435a3hfUBUdjiF05-aOrYNbvAQseBfE5jGcC0CtB4IXsgqAfqVmouQUeW5TbvcjYEceTyVFg4PszzPqbApIpny6XD83-QlbHLbiHuY/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk19L68Ru1Rg0mnU_M6nr6KAx0QPP6-XpmErrOrc435a3hfUBUdjiF05-aOrYNbvAQseBfE5jGcC0CtB4IXsgqAfqVmouQUeW5TbvcjYEceTyVFg4PszzPqbApIpny6XD83-QlbHLbiHuY/s400/photo.JPG" width="292" /> </a></div>
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It was a 423 mile excursion to bring my son to his boyscout reservation south of Tupper Lake NY. We took the Honda Element with all his camping gear, his twin brother and older sister to help with map reading. A skill she needed to practice and it was a great family day out. We traveled on the eastern fringe of the Adirondack Park enjoying old towns, thriving destination villages and serene woodlands. The roads were long, clean and barely traveled. They mostly wound around mountains and through gulfs in endless sweepers. On a motorcycle, it would be spectacular; in the car not so much. I phoned my bikerman from a rest stop on the Asable River and detailed the route from Tupper Village to the Champlain Bridge in Crown Pt, describing the beauty of it all. On a bike, the riders are engaged at a very organic level with every degree of detail; there are no filters to see or feel through. On a bike we would have been in rapture. In the car, we battled the radio for music, just to stay awake. The mess of wrappers, books and toys piled around our feet as we engaged the interior of the car more than the outdoors we piloted through. I really felt like we were in a viewing cage of sorts, like the motorcycle jargon touts. For this ride, we were "cagers" and I couldn't wait to be free, rolling on the Harley, holding my driver and shooting endless pictures on the fly. He agreed with me, whole heartedly; I could feel his smile even over the phone. In my heart I thank him for including me in his miles on the bike; it is the most earthly way to travel the world around us. Out loud, I encourage him to plan a ride in this 'neighborhood' sooner than later. Again, he smiles over the phone, and begins to plan the repairs of his bike while his injuries continue to make good progress in healing. In a car, we drive to arrive; being there is the priority. On a bike, we drive to look, linger and live an adventure. In a car its about the destination, on a bike its about the journey. Driving roads ripe for motorcycles, in a car... this was a glaring truth.resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-38204456573325891032012-07-13T13:19:00.001-07:002012-07-13T15:28:59.638-07:00"... I never saw him..." ~ the making of a 'lowside'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_u1ARUslmckFbUMoysPrFGLMzuEP51Z_MDNf2d2hZuIVYMDFPiCSIOKIwN3_xuxf4w5AgoLU_MNvDp7XGoXpvqJ0MblnFCz79kxb0YpTJBbCk9ipOTHLBe3WfQ2VeQykqSyMx1jqjuuz/s1600/382425_3240686627296_1828609373_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_u1ARUslmckFbUMoysPrFGLMzuEP51Z_MDNf2d2hZuIVYMDFPiCSIOKIwN3_xuxf4w5AgoLU_MNvDp7XGoXpvqJ0MblnFCz79kxb0YpTJBbCk9ipOTHLBe3WfQ2VeQykqSyMx1jqjuuz/s400/382425_3240686627296_1828609373_n.jpg" width="398" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
this is the story of what happened on June 21, 2012, it is offered in my words, <i>my thoughts</i>, his words, <i>his thoughts</i>. He asked that I write it up so it could be published in some places and readers would learn something; that bikers would learn, drivers would become aware and people would benefit from this experience. His recollection of events, actions and reactions is amazingly detailed. It's not meant to blame anyone, or to vent anger, or to shame anyone. It happened; it was the perfect storm; he (my tuff talking, soft spoken, Harley driving, back country gentleman) hopes that people will learn some things, that's all.<br />
<br />
<b>the phone call </b>~ in my words<b><br /></b><br />
June 21 at 7:45pm: It was a pleasant early summer evening, cooling down, clear air and mellow sun setting as daughter and I were feeding out hay and grain for the seven horses up in the summer pasture. With my arms full of fresh hay, I heard my phone ringing in my pocket. Putting out flakes of the green goodness for the gathering horses, I had to let the call go to voice mail. A few minutes later, hands free, I checked the missed call list and saw an incoming phone number I did not recognize. Ten minutes had lapsed from the initial ring. Daughter didn't know the number either; I almost deleted, but felt a stronger sense to respond so opted to call back. A strange voice answered and quickly handed the far away phone to my biker man. He: "Resa, I've wrecked the bike..." me interupting: "is this a joke, are you joking?" He: "I'm not joking, I had to lay the bike down, my leg is broken, going to the Berlin hospital..." I stood sill and concentrated (<i>thinking, this isn't right, he's a seasoned rider, he's careful, the bike is in mint condition, he was on his way up here, this isn't right..</i>.)me: "...what do you need me to do?" He: "call my folks and Mike to get the bike with his trailer...I'm at Hospitality Ave in Berlin..." I was stunned, <i>my thinking diverged, taking paralell tracks: he's spoofing me, getting the upside in our practical jokes, but still... he sounded genuine</i>...I commenced calling his parents and friend, imagining that this was a ruse; expecting them to jab me with laughter and 'gotcha'. My bikerman is extremely experienced, 35 road savy moto years and 44K miles on his vintage 84 Low Ride alone; this just can't happen, he's too good, too careful. In both cases, I only got voice mail for his friend and for his folks. I tried to sound calm as I heard the hastily rehearsed words fall out of my mouth: "....Chuck wanted me to call you and let you know, he had a wreck with his bike... he has a broken ankle, that's all, he's lucid, he's talking... he's at Berlin hospital, his phone is smashed so call me back..." <i>(I later gently learned, that just hearing the word 'wreck' before the injury was a heart stopping experience for his mom, regardless of how calm I sounded. A lesson learned for me</i> <i>though I hope I never have to make such a call again</i>) As I left the messages, I began to struggle with guilt and disbelief and fragile optimism. He was coming up to my place so we could ride for a day before he heads south for the week; he was on the road for me... on his bike to meet me... on his way to the store that I suggested, to save tomorrow for a long run with me...he's hurt because of me. Trying to shake off the gloom, I turned to younger daughter, "...I need to go to the hospital and I'd be gone till tomorrow; could you hold down the fort till tomorrow afternoon?" She was good with the assignment of running the small horse farm so I could drive the 90min to see him. <i>Sometimes teen daughter can surprise me beyond my comprehension. </i><br />
<i> </i>Once on the road heading south; I reasoned it had to be a joke. We are pranking each other always and I was convinced he crafted this complex ruse and his family and friends were in on it; at least I wanted to believe this. In my mind though, I would bounce from happily complementing his clever gag to being very concerned for him. <i>My self speak: "...how long will he let me drive before confessing all is a joke... he sounded so calm and assured but then I recalled the sirens in the back ground.... it's my fault he was on the road..."</i> Entering route 89 south, I was 40min from the hospital; <i>I felt more relaxed and grateful recanting the scenario as he called me himself; his speech was lucid and calm. He wasn't maimed, or mangled or dead...he was a little bit broken... it wasn't a trooper who called me, it was my biker man on a borrowed phone, a witness's phone. </i>The situation was looking better to me now, as I drove to the emergency room. Approaching the hospital entrance, I redialed the unfamiliar cell number just to see if this was for real. The unknown owner picked up and answered my feeble query as to my guy's whereabouts; "he should be at the hospital by now, good luck..." It was confirmed, this was no joke and I entered with a shaky smile. Directed to his curtained alcove in the ER, he was awake and sparing with the male nurse. Greeting him with a kiss and a gentle touch I began to hear the story. We would cypher the logistics later, solve the accommodations later, deal with the stuff after he was taken care of; everything could suddenly wait until later.<br />
<br />
<b>the wreck:</b><br />
~ in my words<br />
before I learned the specific details of the wreck, he told me generally how it happened, how he sort of had to 'lay it down'. That he was grateful to the man who lifted the bike off his crushed ankle, saving him from the scalding oil purging from the crank case - the same man who induced the wreck; to the lady EMT who stopped and helped him crawl off the road with a shattered ankle and get as comfortable as he could; how another man called 9-1-1 and then let him call me on the borrowed cell phone as his was destroyed in the slide. So many strangers who stopped, helped and never left him alone; to them we are both grateful.<br />
<br />
~ in his words:<br />
After securing the homestead, all was ready for me to roll away from my house. I'd planned and packed and prepared to go riding up north. To take my partner for a long day of cruising on VT's gorgeous roads before departing for GA in a week. The evening air was cool, clear and crisp, my favorite part of the day to ride. A quick tclocks showed my classic Harley needed a quart of oil; once added, the bike was ready. I was debating, should I wear my jacket or stow it; the pristine twilight convinced me to ride in t-shirt, jeans and sneakers as I usually do on a summer ride. I stuffed my jacket in the tail bag, pulling out my trusty gauntlet gloves in exchange. Worn and ragged, I felt compelled to wear them tonight in case the ugly bugs pelted my hands. Full face helmet strapped into place, visor up to enjoy the air, I mounted up, turned the key, hit the switch and then the lamp. Hearing the lowride clear her throat, sounding sweet and classic, CB (best shovelhead mechanic ever) did an awesome job getting her tuned tight for the season ahead. Down the drive and onto the town road, it was going to be a perfect nite for the 90min ride north to Resa's.<br />
<br />
Cruising north on rte 14, I mentally mapped out my options for roads. I needed to grab some gear for my pending trip to Fort Benning GA to be at my son's graduation from BASIC; I was planning to be there, with all certanty, next week. At the 4-way in South Barre, I opted to stay off the interstate an pursue the quieter airport road in Berlin, a straight shot to the shopping center and then the highway to Mt. Mansfield and Resa's. Enjoying the smooth road, I was humored to spot a lone beer can on the center line and then startled by a low flying plane buzzing over me in its approach to the runway beside my lane. I was thinking what a great night to fly and a great night to ride. <br />
<br />
My thoughts shifted to the up coming intersection and how to best navigate the congested crossroad. It is a 6 lane 4-way with timed turn arrows and hasty drivers. I wanted to be in the center through lane to move onward to the store. The wind on my bare arms and open visor was refreshing as I crested the knoll. The intersection was waiting in the distance, and the on-coming pick up truck. My northbound lane was clear to the lights, only the truck approaching in his up-south lane. No concerns as there was no directional for a lane change. If had seen a turn signal, I would have made eye contact to read his intentions. No directional, no eye contact, no need of that; I continued on my way, without hesitation. I'm thinking, he's in his lane, I'm in mine...<br />
<br />
In a blink, he's turned across my lane, headed for a road I didn't even know was there, new since last summer. I'm thinking fast, really fast; I can't go right, I'll hit him broadside; I can't go left, there's on-coming traffic. I have to stop, with 60 feet between me and him, I have to stop; at 45mph, I have to stop. I'm hitting the front brake as hard as I dare, the back break harder, and still harder on the rear brake until I've locked it up. Skidding now, I'm trying to veer left to clear the bumper. The bike was locked up, swerving now; I didn't want to hit the truck and go over high. The bike was no longer controllable, I knew it was going down or hit the truck.<br />
<br />
Blink; I'm down, hitting my head first, helmet bouncing back like a ball. I'm thinking: <i>I am so glad I have my helmet on...</i> It was like a movie now, I can feel my arms skidding along the pavement; aware the sensation was so odd, to feel the abrasion happening but no pain (yet). I reasoned I need to roll away from the heavy bike; but I was trapped. 680 pounds of hot steel had my left leg trapped. I was swept along with the bike. I had to get off my arms; I need to jump up on my hands, on to my leather gloves. I managed to continue the slide in a bench press of sorts, letting my gloves take the brunt of the skid.<br />
<br />
Finally, everything stops on the yellow center line; I'm pinned under the left side of the downed bike. Still feeling no pain, I could not get free. The engine was purging 3 qts of hot oil, seeping toward me. I was thinking: <i>'this is bad, and then, so this is where all the oil goes when added to it...</i> I wanted to be out of its way, but I was trapped. The driver who induced this situation appeared and asked, "...do you need help?" Me: "ya, get this bike off me..." He lifted it enough that I dragged my self away from the puddle of scalding oil, then on to my hands and knees to crawl off the road. Cars were trolling by my wrecked bike, I could see the wrong angle of my broken ankle. A woman who witnessed the whole thing stopped to help and a man asked if I wanted an ambulance. Peeling my gloves off, shedding helmet, plucking the shattered cell phone from the remains of my pant pocket, I answered, "yes". I pulled myself up to the new looking street sign and leaned against it. He called 9-1-1 and then my Resa for me. Now I could realize the gravity of it all. My bike was down, leg was smashed, arms burning.... <i>I can't believe this was happening. </i>I was thinking, '<i>I hope you have good insurance..</i> and then out loud: "you've ruined my plans, I have to get to GA and my son's graduation next week... how is that gonna happen now..." The sirens were approaching, I spoke with Resa on the borrowed cell phone and waited for things to happen as I was thinking: <i>'oh no, oh no, oh no... with the hospital in distant view, oh no, oh no, oh no... save my bike, put my leg right, get me home, get me to GA...I can't believe this happened...</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3IITXfYwY9x9v5k2_qvMlb87MfVLC6bB3GyoRuwMuazRRC1bYwSOSdFu7kdtrFiIGobIf64ec2GfsmrdLUu7uEBBZTkos8QRakwmHlskDbXi96c596dbsgLxrfmDlNtNINMc4k5t4-z0d/s1600/DSCN0020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3IITXfYwY9x9v5k2_qvMlb87MfVLC6bB3GyoRuwMuazRRC1bYwSOSdFu7kdtrFiIGobIf64ec2GfsmrdLUu7uEBBZTkos8QRakwmHlskDbXi96c596dbsgLxrfmDlNtNINMc4k5t4-z0d/s320/DSCN0020.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sporting some road rash, but glad to be home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwRAdkqI_-uemQS0XlhmSMexGkVb1jN0rw8-Orks0PaS1tdYorxnLG8Tt8Hl2QrFcv1VRcRpAQC5LvH6X2z_7RJHUYc0iJX8xeM6gDnxFsgLGkzcJfX3McDR2tRCprN2mgt_89B_qd6W94/s1600/DSCN0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwRAdkqI_-uemQS0XlhmSMexGkVb1jN0rw8-Orks0PaS1tdYorxnLG8Tt8Hl2QrFcv1VRcRpAQC5LvH6X2z_7RJHUYc0iJX8xeM6gDnxFsgLGkzcJfX3McDR2tRCprN2mgt_89B_qd6W94/s320/DSCN0003.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">leathers would have helped for sure</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Hindsight ~ </b>in his words<b><br /></b><br />
All my life, I have been riding bikes, many tens of thousands of miles on dirt bikes, sportsters and my beloved Lowride, what could I have done differently, done better? Did I brake too hard, or not hard enough? I spent the next 3 days in hospital replaying all of it, 1000 times in my head. This was my first wreck on the traveled lane. The driver said he never saw me, the cop said my headlight was on, road conditions were good, visibility excellent... the woulda's, the coulda's, the shoulda's nag at me. I'll for sure ride again, Resa won't let me quit. With leathers? you bet; over ankle boots? oh yeah; crash guards, maybe. My confidence in my driving is way high but I never will trust anyone else sharing the road.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiOFZw_VpdBwSt81bsHdHjKhjruDwoir2eHB5AApdIBJUlripNWqgUN4CEtnIfFVBHDUc036bchDTKIo-uM2dCu_n7jD1wSN4CBUIHdtERXlfv_Hl_LN3Sskivr7G7JQmjfCNUUjVKgMy/s1600/DSCN0008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiOFZw_VpdBwSt81bsHdHjKhjruDwoir2eHB5AApdIBJUlripNWqgUN4CEtnIfFVBHDUc036bchDTKIo-uM2dCu_n7jD1wSN4CBUIHdtERXlfv_Hl_LN3Sskivr7G7JQmjfCNUUjVKgMy/s320/DSCN0008.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">amazingly little damage to the bike</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3ez-FgxV6-VcEHCkJYSz5b6jr0spCR4lXH9jjPBsi1AwQjrcIzQrcFTNyY-qc0hfyPR6t2RNNiWsQhxbKZs4I-F-8-t0ZGsHLGNuVoESoN2PUZuK0Dl0WPogRytu2CbiRPHGxzr5lniX/s1600/DSCN0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3ez-FgxV6-VcEHCkJYSz5b6jr0spCR4lXH9jjPBsi1AwQjrcIzQrcFTNyY-qc0hfyPR6t2RNNiWsQhxbKZs4I-F-8-t0ZGsHLGNuVoESoN2PUZuK0Dl0WPogRytu2CbiRPHGxzr5lniX/s320/DSCN0011.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the bike fared better than the biker </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>epilogue ~</b> in my words<span class="text_exposed_show"> </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"> Many thanks to my daughter for covering the farm for me, for the man who
peeled the broken bike from my bikerman's leg, to the Samaritan who let my guy use his
cell phone to call me, to the Berlin Rescue squad for doing an excellent
job getting him to the ER, to the Central Vermont Medical Center staff for doing a first rate job
from beginning to end, for the friends and family who brought food and
good humor to him day and night, and for the Good Lord for protecting
him from the worst case senerio.... He low sided on his precious bike to
save himself from an errant pickup truck driver who turned left without
seeing my bikerman 60' away. (driving that road, seeing the skid mark, the clear viewing...if the truck driver's eyes were where they belonged, he would have to have seen him coming, he would have yielded the right of way) In the end, a broken ankle, some road rash (Wear
Leathers when you Ride), a terrific story to tell and the wellness to
tell it. <br /> 3 days later, he was home on his porch, surrounded by family and friends and alive</span><span class="text_exposed_show"> to enjoy it...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">post script: </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">he did make it to GA, and decorated his only son with the blue chord of an infantry soldier. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">PLEASE WATCH OUT FOR BIKERS!</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"> </span><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span><br />
luv - peace - love, resaresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-13380040184237187232012-06-08T11:39:00.002-07:002012-06-13T19:16:28.707-07:00Taking the Flag for a Ride, Memorial Day Weekend 3<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhiW76RUNhbUY_xa0OXORgXYX7jmlNgzdUsutJugddqmSrH93sV5FRve1VLfGxw9IOmUVt21sJpldsRjjMmRjsyDQBRRfVFK2zjryUFZbRikIpGyj-Kb5k7X2fD4ybf0GZIyGmkHcIld5/s1600/IMGP0275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhiW76RUNhbUY_xa0OXORgXYX7jmlNgzdUsutJugddqmSrH93sV5FRve1VLfGxw9IOmUVt21sJpldsRjjMmRjsyDQBRRfVFK2zjryUFZbRikIpGyj-Kb5k7X2fD4ybf0GZIyGmkHcIld5/s320/IMGP0275.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the nearest neighbors (from last November)</td></tr>
</tbody></table> day 3<br />
Waking up at 'man-land' in Brookfield is like emerging from a time-travel haze. Along a sparsely traveled dirt lane, on a hillside that is largely untouched, it is a small, simple, antique farm house with an un-complicated feel to it. The air is cool, clear and un-cluttered. The view sprawls across a sloping meadow and an opposing gulf framing the ancient town road that once traced along the creek at the bottom.The song birds will perch and linger, wild things will stroll through the fallow pastures and sometimes onto the small porch. Any sounds are seldom man-made, and distant if they are. There is no haste here. There was also no food in the cupboards to make breakfast with. Not even a cup of coffee. A quick call to his folks on the other side of the mountain, and it was decided to breakfast at the renowned EATON'S SUGAR HOUSE. The morning air was crisp in this back-country of Vermont, so leathers, gloves and scarves for the 20 minute sprint to the eatery. Our parade of one would be threading roads that run high and low and narrow along the Green Mountain range. The views are like postcards from a time gone by with an occasional resident tending a garden. Always, they would look up at the flag, some would wave and one youngster flashed a peace sign making it a prelude to the parades to come that day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYGAensj_osxSKJU6OoKy0yRXqoKmO-5a-AU62V1qNNu3TjioSwOnUNro2zHaJNCLedhjI8C4sj2JywZfNx1L6f-PaLO-f-5PlLUFkxbVrB53tWiYBXoLMbKEKOTqvMA2FItK2TtO9Z7H/s1600/fast+on+ferris+road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYGAensj_osxSKJU6OoKy0yRXqoKmO-5a-AU62V1qNNu3TjioSwOnUNro2zHaJNCLedhjI8C4sj2JywZfNx1L6f-PaLO-f-5PlLUFkxbVrB53tWiYBXoLMbKEKOTqvMA2FItK2TtO9Z7H/s200/fast+on+ferris+road.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">fast on Ferris road to rte 14</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Arriving ahead of our dinning companions, we parked the bike and began peeling off leather as they invited us to stow helmets in their truck. His dad opened the door taking my lid and put it up front,"...not because you're a lady or anything, just because I needed something from up front..." with a wink and smile (and returning with nothing in his hand). He being from a different era when chivalry was the norm, I'm sure it's gamble in etiquette in our times now for any thinking man or perhaps I look that formidable in my vintage Harley jacket. Still, it is always appreciated by me when anyone is kind. We four talked of Mustangs, the new models, the old models and their good and bad features as they owned some classics. It was an engaging, almost artsy, conversation about things that are realistically valued by this family of motor enthusiasts. Good company, hearty breakfast of all the right stuff, and plenty of it, got us fired up for the day. Again, as so often, my biker chauffeur would ask me, "where do you wanna go?"<br />
I've been following a friend on fb, his blog posts are informative and inspiring, his wife and family are part of the autism community in VT and it is such a beautiful day...."Let's go to the Vermont Flower Farm!" was my enthusiastic reply. He reminded me quick enough, that I could not "possibly bring anything home on the bike..." Smiling, I promised no purchases and that he would enjoy these folks, the place and the ride to find it would be a fun way to roll northerly to my home and my curfew. I'm kidless this weekend but the next several weeks will be filled with parental duties as the school year ends. He was convinced so we saddled-up ready to begin the last stretch of roads with the flag. Rolling onto the town class 2 lane for a quick side trip to grab gear for the day's ride north. Spotting his neighbors at home, we popped in for a moment to say hi and show off the flag. Reaffirming his nickname 'outlaw', he left the driveway to run up the short hill onto their front lawn, flag waving in full glory. We couldn't leave without coffee and apple pie; a treat that was eaten with delicious vigor.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28gDJBHV2Ry3YDN6P_CdDd5CbFMPZMVzVGiN3AnANUfN-M-RZM33PistO3_d5mFxupb3gfkk5eD5YLf3dkpcUtQ3BkQb6SvrRZ_M2fgqPDoMt_t3rYs6iwneEdMorIEarej4tWNabC0rm/s1600/IMGP1271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28gDJBHV2Ry3YDN6P_CdDd5CbFMPZMVzVGiN3AnANUfN-M-RZM33PistO3_d5mFxupb3gfkk5eD5YLf3dkpcUtQ3BkQb6SvrRZ_M2fgqPDoMt_t3rYs6iwneEdMorIEarej4tWNabC0rm/s320/IMGP1271.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">disappointed that the view was over-grown</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Beginning on the way back roads that lead into the eastern fringe of Barre, we slipped by the famed quarries where heaping piles of 'grout' or rejected granite retained the hillsides and steep banks of Graniteville. It was another crossroad in VT that was barely touched by modern times with house styles and town buildings looking much the same as the day they were built. At least early enough on this holiday, the narrow lanes free of traffic. Divining our way a little bit east and little bit north through Websterville; we started spotting signs for state roads and town line markers: rte 110 to 302. I sort of, barely knew where we were; the scenery was fresh and the landscape popping with the rituals of spring. In Groton, we cornered northerly onto 232 gliding over the smooth road top with not a soul insight. The sweepers on this forested lane are made for motorcycles, it seems. Spotting a scenic look-out, we stopped for a shade break and long view of Lake Groton, only to read a faded sign and view the trees obstructing the touted scene. Time to put the youth conservation corps to work in this state park.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4VIINbRbJSDo92IRSVxLcO6vwbHyp7AnekTbK_4Bn7sXYQ3r-_U9juaTcQS-sZE_VnAvY2AE9MxBfenUzi9LJsEaQaRQu6F3pVSukmZFxgrG5eB6pE7oFLfA554fgasTCgRKEvii4d4l/s1600/IMGP1273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4VIINbRbJSDo92IRSVxLcO6vwbHyp7AnekTbK_4Bn7sXYQ3r-_U9juaTcQS-sZE_VnAvY2AE9MxBfenUzi9LJsEaQaRQu6F3pVSukmZFxgrG5eB6pE7oFLfA554fgasTCgRKEvii4d4l/s200/IMGP1273.JPG" width="200" /></a></div> Recharged with water and trail mix, we mounted up and probed for the road that would take us to Marshfield and the place of our destination. After some miles of emerald clad lanes, we rolled onto it and enjoyed tracing the 'little Winooski river' on rte 2. Being on the bike, in my open face helmet I could saturate my senses with the green of it all. Not the new-age save the planet green, but the sights and smells of newly minted leaves, grass, flowers and un-festered sunshine that is only possible in the VT springtime. Anddd there were hardly any bugs yet. Our travels brought us out of another great, green forest of VT and into the more cultivated valley of this persistent waterway. Today it was a tame riverbed with gurgling water over polished stones, serene in its travels. But let there be too much rain and it becomes a torrent, blowing its banks and destroying anything in its way. But for us it was a landmark. We were getting closer to our target destination, the Vermont Flower Farm.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gVxMsTlLBChI0CbaKnVqu5yxmF9pVEC-ED_Dy09SJOoIg2Z8pljOalrLF-EOd5i8i5nSyBhqZU9TuJcxqwGg44R83XzjM7qyY67LZeo-yrJo8YD4zBQZzhy_u4tH68lZBDjJ7vsyUsuV/s1600/IMGP1280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gVxMsTlLBChI0CbaKnVqu5yxmF9pVEC-ED_Dy09SJOoIg2Z8pljOalrLF-EOd5i8i5nSyBhqZU9TuJcxqwGg44R83XzjM7qyY67LZeo-yrJo8YD4zBQZzhy_u4tH68lZBDjJ7vsyUsuV/s320/IMGP1280.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">famous for Hostas, containers and a garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdO7E_1wmPhLjYKdX-rp21K1jssUqVmCVlN1v1q36Mv0SjVASM2tBgG9yu4m9cSp3_8jK7mnjWUjHk5MyxIGqrC2_r-KRc_KperND2JqSu2dC6XMZoF-ooG6VD3QMy3IxE-TmGU2rnk65n/s1600/IMGP1276.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdO7E_1wmPhLjYKdX-rp21K1jssUqVmCVlN1v1q36Mv0SjVASM2tBgG9yu4m9cSp3_8jK7mnjWUjHk5MyxIGqrC2_r-KRc_KperND2JqSu2dC6XMZoF-ooG6VD3QMy3IxE-TmGU2rnk65n/s200/IMGP1276.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">found the VT Flower Farm</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxIBz35KlkHfC-QN9wBvZ9tjWQTY7jyPyGKIuzrgGstCJIw6ZQQ1BQWI6Qky3vZMwZrpRPXrJQlNOlSTGCmvoZAZSd_y079m1324rukX9qZcqobqL2u2ZGQLBfvI_KSGVR8Upgq0D4YXhJ/s1600/IMGP1279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxIBz35KlkHfC-QN9wBvZ9tjWQTY7jyPyGKIuzrgGstCJIw6ZQQ1BQWI6Qky3vZMwZrpRPXrJQlNOlSTGCmvoZAZSd_y079m1324rukX9qZcqobqL2u2ZGQLBfvI_KSGVR8Upgq0D4YXhJ/s200/IMGP1279.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">oddly, no other Harleys here</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAglgqKf_dc8doZiA0SQtAyG5gUoH-CcYo-kswG7AblatTs-5tnGR6wrR0zgzmjgpLReaF6pXK8XysqIv2GP0t51b4jdrvPtcrCoyPzOGybWuzzgUGEy0iaYLei5WFlmuKA4eryi52pVhp/s1600/IMGP1286.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAglgqKf_dc8doZiA0SQtAyG5gUoH-CcYo-kswG7AblatTs-5tnGR6wrR0zgzmjgpLReaF6pXK8XysqIv2GP0t51b4jdrvPtcrCoyPzOGybWuzzgUGEy0iaYLei5WFlmuKA4eryi52pVhp/s320/IMGP1286.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">astillbees, daylillies and more</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPbJs6-GEABXjAQRYr2AXMrqoYMsoxM0Eyw2ADGXheqaz7mmXjy22VbvCEx8x7gFKc8-9Hewl7bczsF5rX0Fqp3FDWnuunEMWnxInUeBUn_AIBhRJdRsgG0uv1X6aAnzg6eRIMCs179kD/s1600/IMGP1288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPbJs6-GEABXjAQRYr2AXMrqoYMsoxM0Eyw2ADGXheqaz7mmXjy22VbvCEx8x7gFKc8-9Hewl7bczsF5rX0Fqp3FDWnuunEMWnxInUeBUn_AIBhRJdRsgG0uv1X6aAnzg6eRIMCs179kD/s200/IMGP1288.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the westerly bedding fields</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WjKCVPDj6MeEHsmkc3cHnJ2b87pq0vYtMVsLdef6FSW4IEP_bVS9SvVWeF4taecNUyJluAE1zz0ghhTULZtqsrcAFwDZZ-4nTxJy2f1v5Bm0-nqh1FxMg412kCIPfhpDYy2pnCPLOLyl/s1600/IMGP1290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WjKCVPDj6MeEHsmkc3cHnJ2b87pq0vYtMVsLdef6FSW4IEP_bVS9SvVWeF4taecNUyJluAE1zz0ghhTULZtqsrcAFwDZZ-4nTxJy2f1v5Bm0-nqh1FxMg412kCIPfhpDYy2pnCPLOLyl/s320/IMGP1290.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a golf cart tour by the gracious Gail</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7xhRmEig-E2SQ4AcGXsjKM9mpxuyKhQ1d1MV2Bb0zVjZzVfyuODAgv4YPFJ2pRpj-eC0HNHY3yzIvylinr0_JuzigtA-wmsT101ZLfF3k075_4oeMXtXhuotmBqnWZBvR_2bgNCgKpYW/s1600/IMGP1282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7xhRmEig-E2SQ4AcGXsjKM9mpxuyKhQ1d1MV2Bb0zVjZzVfyuODAgv4YPFJ2pRpj-eC0HNHY3yzIvylinr0_JuzigtA-wmsT101ZLfF3k075_4oeMXtXhuotmBqnWZBvR_2bgNCgKpYW/s200/IMGP1282.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">spoted by the native</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLotrXy9E0rYmzfbU0II4jUR2ixFJF8Qgw1e8_O1DrSpXoPZDAA4PrPXHue8Xt8bltoF9g_3iAeqClq7xVgCYRBEEMbVFx7pQ3GrRLkI7Iikqdfy8NZgo0_l0YKWDLvB7lquG9Mk-ZIU_X/s1600/IMGP1284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLotrXy9E0rYmzfbU0II4jUR2ixFJF8Qgw1e8_O1DrSpXoPZDAA4PrPXHue8Xt8bltoF9g_3iAeqClq7xVgCYRBEEMbVFx7pQ3GrRLkI7Iikqdfy8NZgo0_l0YKWDLvB7lquG9Mk-ZIU_X/s200/IMGP1284.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">VT hospitality at its best</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7xhRmEig-E2SQ4AcGXsjKM9mpxuyKhQ1d1MV2Bb0zVjZzVfyuODAgv4YPFJ2pRpj-eC0HNHY3yzIvylinr0_JuzigtA-wmsT101ZLfF3k075_4oeMXtXhuotmBqnWZBvR_2bgNCgKpYW/s1600/IMGP1282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUG6YVL7Bzc5ho39xca1772ftOSvzuvDHCOhNY4nxE9fIfX9H2tNfNpgw6LC0BHoXg5JoCTotn5oFZNPHQIVrSdCynsuSmNVlZI7UE0SGq1VDz3TqjSi4aioZq080gpUd9O0ymzJmt7Fr/s1600/IMGP1283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUG6YVL7Bzc5ho39xca1772ftOSvzuvDHCOhNY4nxE9fIfX9H2tNfNpgw6LC0BHoXg5JoCTotn5oFZNPHQIVrSdCynsuSmNVlZI7UE0SGq1VDz3TqjSi4aioZq080gpUd9O0ymzJmt7Fr/s200/IMGP1283.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hens and chicks</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmSg0_bt8VnN6Wt-IANdlYo8o6qdFaDLMCAaetCLr8E-PfrJ0imXi_x48gqbiAC40gtUtFTWq7lfn_lG_t2LTtq-LGaKqB19jKjGVP0JWvWyRQOiec-RV8j8y47BICmqgZTiDLh8UosB0/s1600/IMGP1295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmSg0_bt8VnN6Wt-IANdlYo8o6qdFaDLMCAaetCLr8E-PfrJ0imXi_x48gqbiAC40gtUtFTWq7lfn_lG_t2LTtq-LGaKqB19jKjGVP0JWvWyRQOiec-RV8j8y47BICmqgZTiDLh8UosB0/s320/IMGP1295.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the iron horse from the chrome pony</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Spending a thin hour, we toured the nursery and conversed with the owners, soaking up the hard earned wisdom they shared. I want to install a 4 acre soft fruit plantation on my farm and they were eager to point out the tricks that work and the follies that fail in such agronomic ventures. I enjoyed the all of it and staggered back to the waiting chrome pony to resume our ride. I needed to cool down, and the wind therapy on the bike was ideal. The roads we ride in VT seldom have delays or intersections to slow us down. On a stopped bike, the engine heat radiating off the tarmac will wilt me and melt my enthusiasm for the ride, today was warm enough for such a dilemma so we sought out the low volume roads. From the flower farm, we were looking for country lanes, cool, shady and groovy; it was time to prospect for a creemee stand. A quick poll of the patrons at the farm and we headed north and easterly for Danville. Shortly along rte 2, we spotted another friend's place of business: Water Tower Farm, home of Rhythm of the Rein therapeutic riding center. Not wishing to stop in today, we would pause to photo the amazing steel sculpture at their entrance. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuGGrjoc-4i0OLMas-fIpvOcnSGoxtFHliRC4uIPc2O95hpe5Ugrq2mDCDoGrxSKWq8Cp4Mdm0toYa11WN-JTF0lxO8a6Iny3UVwPlMOHb6xYvVOZWKRjoGPDRsO3HhdIsTnjxSxFDZg7/s1600/IMGP1300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuGGrjoc-4i0OLMas-fIpvOcnSGoxtFHliRC4uIPc2O95hpe5Ugrq2mDCDoGrxSKWq8Cp4Mdm0toYa11WN-JTF0lxO8a6Iny3UVwPlMOHb6xYvVOZWKRjoGPDRsO3HhdIsTnjxSxFDZg7/s320/IMGP1300.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe's Pond the more southern shore</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFrSQbPpHtfr7tfkTrvu5TfD8ZvCHkziQ2x7K29vV6ezNyxMtcUuksNwXcXomKzFvfXsGcQ8UbjcRlyvoNKu3JXIpEd_wq_ALpLDm1aAglYZS2xIuDNk5dsoyIm4Pu_EWuRPvEwISQ_TDV/s1600/IMGP1303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFrSQbPpHtfr7tfkTrvu5TfD8ZvCHkziQ2x7K29vV6ezNyxMtcUuksNwXcXomKzFvfXsGcQ8UbjcRlyvoNKu3JXIpEd_wq_ALpLDm1aAglYZS2xIuDNk5dsoyIm4Pu_EWuRPvEwISQ_TDV/s200/IMGP1303.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">somewhere in Peachum or West Danville</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<br />
On every ride out, the only thing to really expect is the un-expected. On this ride we would roll into Peacham and poke around the town center, hoping to spot a roadside eatery. We were both hungry and weren't having any luck spotting such a place, so we startled an elderly woman race-walking along the roadside. She happily leaned into our biker space and directed us to the first left then out to the main road where we would surely see it. Not expecting the first left being in fifty feet, we cruised past our turning point and blasted blissfully on back roads that would roll through corn and hay fields left untended on this dry, holiday weekend. That's when we fell in behind a hay-bine and followed the very wide equipment for some miles. We could sigh and mumble all we wanted, but there were no other left turns and not many areas for safe passing. The loud drone of his equipment meant he didn't know of our pursuit and so we waited... and waited and finally came out along the unfamiliar side of Joe's Pond, not at all where we would find our coveted soft icecream. Our endless road took us 30minutes out of our way. So back to route 2 and still farther east; we went where we recognized St. Johnsbury. Maybe downtown we would find our relief, but the streets were empty and the storefronts closed up for the holiday. Navigating the vintage streets, we plodded back to rte 2 going west now and finally, spotted a biker's salvation. Abby's Ice Cream stop appeared on the right and we all but dove into the drive way. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKSmgsahDF2oMcEqb3XPX6hCL9hQNlPq69gRKb7b8ulP67vZLXngbTK0B0YVTWNy8kUIwBvXBsU4z8zeMno9AeDHnlLge0Pl6ZXbWQHF8CrLdwxWpjmVeYUyAZvYSP6QelE1T8Ant-qTV/s1600/IMGP1317.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKSmgsahDF2oMcEqb3XPX6hCL9hQNlPq69gRKb7b8ulP67vZLXngbTK0B0YVTWNy8kUIwBvXBsU4z8zeMno9AeDHnlLge0Pl6ZXbWQHF8CrLdwxWpjmVeYUyAZvYSP6QelE1T8Ant-qTV/s200/IMGP1317.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">great eats, great service</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpbJfb3evOYvyIm-T6MUQKBuBE0sRQx2Pw-PAXuAmsLNtmncWq-sC1F73bsfXa_EGtt2FfVOD8IlyHKxFHLlEs-fLJpI26awDm5MN7H1nCLEzg9O8b24rvSyoAnmaEdqU_BZrG8Me9wyg/s200/IMGP1314.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my kinda lites</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXq2aGd46yRmzaOWxUk8u9l5F_HXfyFeu_qJVdKCmIni7agUmayOz3DBfo9wMucFnGfkmT5V5nRHwLz_qKm2ysHHM_UJUE_eoEN1HSgMJMtgXOJUPtUqhJw1p3eOkXa42fGkMwZCfjyPY2/s1600/IMGP1318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXq2aGd46yRmzaOWxUk8u9l5F_HXfyFeu_qJVdKCmIni7agUmayOz3DBfo9wMucFnGfkmT5V5nRHwLz_qKm2ysHHM_UJUE_eoEN1HSgMJMtgXOJUPtUqhJw1p3eOkXa42fGkMwZCfjyPY2/s200/IMGP1318.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">whiskey, tango, foxtrot</td></tr>
</tbody></table> We stopped the bike and parked it a short walk from the window and an empty table to relax with our frozen libations. A maple creemee for him and a rhubarb sundae for me would sooth our dry pallets. It wasn't long before more patrons stopped in choosing their spots in the ample parking lot. With spaces to spare, a mini van parked within 2 feet of our parked Harley as we watched with dismay as a not-at-all-skinny woman gingerly opened the passenger door to get out. It was almost amusing to watch her struggle by our bike and her car door. If she brushed the bike, would it roll on to the grass, or topple with her? My biker man was sure of his sidestand, but still a flailing grasp from a falling person could tip the scales from safe to not. Even at her heft, the bike still out-weighed her at 680 lbs. He was humored, I was annoyed; they had the whole lot yet they had to stop right next to the bike. I wasn't thinking charitable thoughts but it was too hot and we had ice cream to eat. By the time we finished our treats and prepared to remount the bike, the mini van clan had settled into their car to enjoy theirs. Her window was open when he started the bike, it got her full attention as she hastily closed her window. He let the bike choke a little longer than probably it needed and he roiled the throttle just to triple check his steel horse's disposition before he nodded for me to mount up and pull out. I know he was probably thinking she deserved the bike's attention. If she was concerned, she didn't show it, but he was pleased with the loud pipes, hardened by 44K miles, and I smiled at the grit the bike showed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdh-xGKOBRc8HsELiBRQ0mpSZJuWozeHD7Y4hSFebchTZFkFaI-5doGdRZHx3Scd3RMPb5HCCNgfsSs2DGTxneuKItRLbzv7jStD2EGNqaOlwiUCQXZMOo35iLI1r3UUfnN29Razxf2kwv/s1600/IMGP1330.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdh-xGKOBRc8HsELiBRQ0mpSZJuWozeHD7Y4hSFebchTZFkFaI-5doGdRZHx3Scd3RMPb5HCCNgfsSs2DGTxneuKItRLbzv7jStD2EGNqaOlwiUCQXZMOo35iLI1r3UUfnN29Razxf2kwv/s320/IMGP1330.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">almost home on the Hog Back</td></tr>
</tbody></table> We would follow the sunset all the way home, gaining on landmarks and the sameness of the roads leading that way. It was a fantastic long run, 566 miles round trip. The bike was running slick and sweet with no real glitches. For our season opener, it would be hard to beat, the summer was just getting going and all the roads yet to be traveled, just waiting for us... the good Lord willing and the river don't rise.<br />
peace to all, even the bike-dis-ing mini-van patron at the creemee stand...keep the shiny side up ~ ell<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-KD9uYkXE0wNeW8-e9d0TpiIdg-tT_g1fsdAwFMvQNPInSF7oQ71N0htXXf1wa0nSls_3218DujNB3yB9F1WMCY_N1hSGZn97HUHhL-QFQOOgKUaL7ATRI_cCRpKjSQw1K01p1BJzb8r/s1600/IMGP1322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-KD9uYkXE0wNeW8-e9d0TpiIdg-tT_g1fsdAwFMvQNPInSF7oQ71N0htXXf1wa0nSls_3218DujNB3yB9F1WMCY_N1hSGZn97HUHhL-QFQOOgKUaL7ATRI_cCRpKjSQw1K01p1BJzb8r/s400/IMGP1322.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2 states, 3 days, 11 counties, 566 miles, awesome sunburns... what a ride </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>this one's for the bikerman at the dash, who rolls with an easy manner and mastery of his bike so I may ride pillion and wonder at the all of it. . .<br />
<br />
<i> “I've got nothing to do today but smile.” </i><br />
― <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/367673.Simon_and_Garfunkel">Simon and Garfunkel</a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-78617151808649131122012-06-02T05:16:00.001-07:002012-06-13T17:21:18.973-07:00Taking the Flag for a Ride ~ Memorial Day Weekend 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5HSYsjQVv_mhtuDUuXbhNYRFPkr5-W-YcUeK9fqmMRZmjGYOd1g2Cd6FSrvYGl6lLAlNn-xdJWuL5TTo2NOMMRyfJNElfX4PoHwgajtS9OybYLt9kYL1lRTuxmMWcM7beopAFqUFi-lT/s1600/IMGP1174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5HSYsjQVv_mhtuDUuXbhNYRFPkr5-W-YcUeK9fqmMRZmjGYOd1g2Cd6FSrvYGl6lLAlNn-xdJWuL5TTo2NOMMRyfJNElfX4PoHwgajtS9OybYLt9kYL1lRTuxmMWcM7beopAFqUFi-lT/s320/IMGP1174.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Day 2...<br />
I love mornings for so many reasons. The gentle commencement of the day ahead and the positive energy of the possibilities. I feel physically and mentally strong. I have ambition and graceful movement. The air is cool and I feel as if I can do anything, like I can live my dreams...I feel normal, at least normal enough. By 11 am on any given day, things will be different. My walk will get wobbly, my legs will weaken, my mind begins to fatigue. I have learned to plan my days and set my goals accordingly (that's an other story all together). So this morning, I felt especially jazzed; it would be a day dedicated to riding; one of my most normal pastimes still.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJDA57PgirH9ElyGtheoXEK301ZgAfIM-zVb_oEHV3lzOuhyLL2l0zU6xuG-CWsku2iI-BlKKd_wGVQMw5IF8jjNrsBTTvIOm_KIFhYu3KYRWt7b6cHFPyGuum5SsxMdioElM2F9bSssFg/s1600/IMGP1207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJDA57PgirH9ElyGtheoXEK301ZgAfIM-zVb_oEHV3lzOuhyLL2l0zU6xuG-CWsku2iI-BlKKd_wGVQMw5IF8jjNrsBTTvIOm_KIFhYu3KYRWt7b6cHFPyGuum5SsxMdioElM2F9bSssFg/s200/IMGP1207.JPG" width="200" /></a></div> The docks were in, the early air was crisp and clear and breakfast was yet another feast of fresh fruit, chilled lobster and hot coffee. With the dishes cleared, the discussion emerged around the ride-route home. I for one, knew that I didn't want to go home the way we had come. This was an adventure and I wanted to see places I haven't seen. I dreamed large about going up the east side of NH and circling Mt Washington to then make for St Johnsbury. But my patient bikerman knew better. I had struggled to set the bike comfortably on day one. My squirming and wincing was too obvious to my driver. It was an indication of my limits over long miles as days grow warmer and black top more or less unkept in its veneer. Plainly, most of our VT roads suck and they take their toll on my flimsy muscle-tone. So we would target a route that was forgiving. He vowed to take many more shade breaks where I could cool down and stretch my weary legs. With the map out, everyone laid out their preferred route. My mother selected a village-sampler route; too many stops to suit us. I picked a more easterly route; too many junctions in that. He spied the fastest way to the selected Lake Winnipesaukee. There would be a brief sprint on the Daniel Webster Hwy and then off at the Hooksett exit for quieter rte 28N.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHmNiMZ9cNnwOHBK3S1HWy2oUa9ybaN1u7ipoVxs1Ly1m2C78VYC4hm6I1qnJCW_YqEte1Dm70yChAnIyEnPtQrRRnwmpwPlM-Yt0MQ9sMXXTaOm_YYCbapl4HT8n9KgrGoOgbFokA9XtG/s1600/IMGP1193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHmNiMZ9cNnwOHBK3S1HWy2oUa9ybaN1u7ipoVxs1Ly1m2C78VYC4hm6I1qnJCW_YqEte1Dm70yChAnIyEnPtQrRRnwmpwPlM-Yt0MQ9sMXXTaOm_YYCbapl4HT8n9KgrGoOgbFokA9XtG/s200/IMGP1193.JPG" width="200" /></a> In the dooryard, the bike protested only slightly belching a small bit of darker smoke but my driver was confident the foul fuel was nearly gone and the fresh gas would energize the engine. In 3 miles, he was proven right. I bow down to his mastery over his chrome pony's innards. It seems the "real" bikers know their motorcycles as well as the dude who built it. He never doubted the machine's perseverance, even when the symptoms seemed so grave only one day before.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabJ8hkS4fAu83j-uZUVcvQcOldaap50Bo6tq-kLbM02APtqQDn8PjiVHFDOLSbLbdEGL50kCkRS_p805zHxOnmnzIslPzpTIiVg8k7xBA34mXPJtnE7GaUyK9LP7SQRQBYv_LnLpvion2/s1600/IMGP1192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabJ8hkS4fAu83j-uZUVcvQcOldaap50Bo6tq-kLbM02APtqQDn8PjiVHFDOLSbLbdEGL50kCkRS_p805zHxOnmnzIslPzpTIiVg8k7xBA34mXPJtnE7GaUyK9LP7SQRQBYv_LnLpvion2/s320/IMGP1192.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pandora Mills in Manchester NH</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LOlmNuDPYc0d2Kd2mi-vX4ZumMcbl0vpb9QMMGEKTodatafijNyQeA2YmgPdwsX4pPhaUZB1D-fuXkXWZaWsWJE4FMGy0Kliccec6C_kKXgCck1JtZ7UsHx0GcxfMMvRr4eeNlcqgstI/s1600/lowell+mill+girls.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LOlmNuDPYc0d2Kd2mi-vX4ZumMcbl0vpb9QMMGEKTodatafijNyQeA2YmgPdwsX4pPhaUZB1D-fuXkXWZaWsWJE4FMGy0Kliccec6C_kKXgCck1JtZ7UsHx0GcxfMMvRr4eeNlcqgstI/s200/lowell+mill+girls.gif" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lowell Mill girls from</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwVwQ1MsGwk9IuL2OvE2xw_j7a4ZXSL8ImCLr9fd2oHdpLx6bdXn4JtDjCH34rOcEpJiZGW9LoyMVtcr-RANbuLFUBLBonZKZprudMCmgzypwvA6m2l7hAe7In_QnCMuH8STQ3ud9TFrS/s1600/womenwanted.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwVwQ1MsGwk9IuL2OvE2xw_j7a4ZXSL8ImCLr9fd2oHdpLx6bdXn4JtDjCH34rOcEpJiZGW9LoyMVtcr-RANbuLFUBLBonZKZprudMCmgzypwvA6m2l7hAe7In_QnCMuH8STQ3ud9TFrS/s200/womenwanted.gif" width="153" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from Lowell mills archives</td></tr>
</tbody></table> He challenged the fresh petrol and recent engine up-grades with a bold twist of the throttle and a closed clutch. If any neighbors were sleeping, they were awake now. He lifted his visor and cautioned me to "hang on...we're gonna make up some time here..." The NH roads were velvety smooth with light traffic as we glided past the historic city of Manchester. The behemoth textile mills lined the banks of the Merrimack River with their massive windows gathering the brilliant sun, while random others were boarded shut. I pondered those times for this town, these industrious places, their 'state-of-the-art-at-the-time' yet so completely dependent upon women and children labor. Workers who could not imagine a biker chic like me blasting past them with loud pipes throbbing as I balanced effortlessly in the pillion seat. Would they ever imagine their sacrifices would, in part, lead to <i>my</i> freedoms? We owe so much, I think, to the women who toiled before us. I turned away from the view and wished their ghosts well, throwing in a prayer for all their kin. If ever you want to learn of their story, visit Lowell Mass. and tour the mills and canals.<span style="color: cyan;"> </span><span style="color: blue;">http://faculty.uml.edu/sgallagher/Mill_girls.htm</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVReqvTHTMjCT7nG-CC38HkL66eKhI37ePNPoRxxyhP6ms6fML04-Fr8yEZtUZHIEaWTXn4ZuuUHzdwD2TA-Ck5xH2JIifW_dSP08Gb3-v4t98FeASM0YTJxGiA-Ne9DTomzI2YuoADz5/s1600/IMGP1198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVReqvTHTMjCT7nG-CC38HkL66eKhI37ePNPoRxxyhP6ms6fML04-Fr8yEZtUZHIEaWTXn4ZuuUHzdwD2TA-Ck5xH2JIifW_dSP08Gb3-v4t98FeASM0YTJxGiA-Ne9DTomzI2YuoADz5/s320/IMGP1198.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">won't see this in VT: Billboards</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Not long on the highway, we popped off onto rte 28 and enjoyed a flawless ride to north-central NH. My first time in these parts and I was intrigued by the smooth roads and persistent advertising. A sight you'll not see in VT, was apparent in any place that an entrepreneur could erect one: Billboards were out and about. It was actually startling when ever I'd see one. Accustomed to broad vistas and un-obstructed views along VT roadways, they would appear randomly and often be unrelated to their location in NH. Route 28 was a pleasing route leading us straight to the Lake without incident, a very appreciated experience for sure. In fact, the vintage motorcycle ran like a newly minted ride, never missing a stroke. Coming to the lake-district sooner than we expected, we were suddenly tasked with spotting signs among an over abundance of signs, indicating our departure for rte 11. Even with both of us straining to catch a familiar state route indicator, we managed to miss our turn at Alton Bay. The road continued northeast like carpet, yet the traffic thinned out considerably. Finding a scenic pull off, we took a break and opened the map. While stretching my legs and gazing at the famed lake in the distance, I caught a glimpse of my bikerman in, a rare profile. He works hard and plays hard, but he dedicated this weekend adventure to me, and in this moment I caught him in total repose, when I clicked yet another picture. He makes my moto-dreams come true and this picture is a favorite of mine, so indulge my heart-felt appreciation for him, please.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcHHD-8WTtHsiu8Bipp1rYjXSO2WLsORzofLl5qQLS6j0V5IqMl2kQp64voHEFG_lEguHOQLu4JY_cwU3Db6L4VonT9-gMck817MgKlDZikceIXMZ-SJ0TlkdV2LibzdKSn7fhxIvMfd78/s1600/IMGP1199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcHHD-8WTtHsiu8Bipp1rYjXSO2WLsORzofLl5qQLS6j0V5IqMl2kQp64voHEFG_lEguHOQLu4JY_cwU3Db6L4VonT9-gMck817MgKlDZikceIXMZ-SJ0TlkdV2LibzdKSn7fhxIvMfd78/s320/IMGP1199.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">its so close</td></tr>
</tbody></table> With the lake in view, confirming our re-direction, we made for Alton Bay and the jct for rte 11. We were seeking Weirs Beach and hoping for some of the lore of 'Laconia Bike Week' to be in the air when we found it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgFSUu0epFioj11SxCNB5v5apsgr8w__aaqt2pZx2VRvlXDZ8vz0VSn09s0TGMcGeR-1xLIAERF4v-Uj3ZWPIeVJq8NhehnouC_Tej-yOjG7RlgKSleg0pPhanBBgyjOzjhW8QEFLM_CX/s1600/IMGP1204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgFSUu0epFioj11SxCNB5v5apsgr8w__aaqt2pZx2VRvlXDZ8vz0VSn09s0TGMcGeR-1xLIAERF4v-Uj3ZWPIeVJq8NhehnouC_Tej-yOjG7RlgKSleg0pPhanBBgyjOzjhW8QEFLM_CX/s320/IMGP1204.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the great road to Laconia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Gliding down an un-remarkable lane, we landed on rte 11, the mother road for the infamous Laconia Bike Week. The pavement was pristine, double-wide ample lanes in both directions. Not a blemish anywhere, each line vividly painted, all signs standing straight and tall. In minutes, we caught upto a small group of bikers where we fell in for a short while. After a time, their slower pace bored my driver and he roiled his throttle passing the newish machines with ease. I marveled at their choice to ride without lids and how cavalier it made them look. But then the cowboys of old rode horses without helmets and I imagine today's motorcycle enthusiasts placate that un-caged urge to ride long, ride far, and ride free.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhry25KgoEvuwRwQUfzwQbc_u6oTz1LpPjK_ADirNZlSKOayb8iWdZyIvIlwh4MJM9TfvaZZXtWQMKl55q-0sWhGNbvgrXcA7uV6MsCNEhVEr7s48Ih2HV0-hXa7-zeiBwD-vXwe8xNX7WC/s1600/IMGP1218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhry25KgoEvuwRwQUfzwQbc_u6oTz1LpPjK_ADirNZlSKOayb8iWdZyIvIlwh4MJM9TfvaZZXtWQMKl55q-0sWhGNbvgrXcA7uV6MsCNEhVEr7s48Ih2HV0-hXa7-zeiBwD-vXwe8xNX7WC/s320/IMGP1218.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZyBYB0K_CSzZHZRoO1wlbdfx_TP385Uabv3iCUAkQSvh4f2pOg-7m3woM2tOV7PQbBC_XnXMjOS0-CJW2OYI9tjlKfYk9iVysbPAzsu3SwOeFwmP4hTfXUOdil_O9QMGYDNM_aGnj0qB/s1600/IMGP1213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZyBYB0K_CSzZHZRoO1wlbdfx_TP385Uabv3iCUAkQSvh4f2pOg-7m3woM2tOV7PQbBC_XnXMjOS0-CJW2OYI9tjlKfYk9iVysbPAzsu3SwOeFwmP4hTfXUOdil_O9QMGYDNM_aGnj0qB/s200/IMGP1213.JPG" width="200" /></a> It wasn't long enough on these expansive lanes before we hooked into Weirs Beach, and the dense holiday crowds of thousands of people and too many bikes to count. In this motorcycle mecca, our parade of one was barely unique. Dodging the clueless pedestrians at every corner or near corner, was frustrating. And devinning our way to a diner was becoming tiresome. One-ways, wrong-ways and trolling patrol cars made finding a place to park and eat a dance of dodge, stop and squint. Finally, we found a quiet lot, with spots to spare and a good looking lunch menu nailed to the fence. Dismounting the bike, my leathers were heavy, hot and more than I wanted to wear in the mid-afternoon sun. I broke out my folding cane, shiny black with Rhine stone ring at the collar, it at least looked 'hard-core' if a walking stick can. We strolled to the door only to find that it closed 20 minutes ago. "Damn" was all I could spit out of my mouth in despair, "I'm stauvvven!" I leaned on the fence rail while biker man strolled down the walk toward a sandwich board. He returned with a smile and a hurry-up lope. "...come on, I found someplace good...you'll love it." In a short distance was the famed George's Diner with plenty of seating and a full serve menu inside the air conditioned cottage. At that moment, we were the only bikers inside and enjoyed ample portions of fish and chips while we swapped stories with the RI couple across the tight isle. Chocolate pie for desert and a map check to head for VT got the waitress's attention. And while my driver looked like George, it did not get us a free lunch or even accurate directions; seems she's never been there. Bill paid, we were off to find our way back to the Green Mtn State and overnight at his home in Brookfield.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAECGv6tyagBEEXwrPLLXdII7MDJYYkI7F3iiAzWI_jPS5MFJxOQ0geVUxaMTKx6oARuuieCx8YJ_LMKrh7j6hJYnPdO7VEbTnrwFfk7-Bx4XzJexm6QLF0g6DAoMUphc3z10-KWwoT9ys/s1600/IMGP1252.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAECGv6tyagBEEXwrPLLXdII7MDJYYkI7F3iiAzWI_jPS5MFJxOQ0geVUxaMTKx6oARuuieCx8YJ_LMKrh7j6hJYnPdO7VEbTnrwFfk7-Bx4XzJexm6QLF0g6DAoMUphc3z10-KWwoT9ys/s200/IMGP1252.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik4ZROaakzFp_tCF8ySFFl1VsdjgPDOnKLBfDMi6fhthh_XzA9PMh8XRLBIVW-xQOyjN2OTSLoph-36zmvPeTRxJ-X_yhBlo7hXlehot4JrXwHtAjuJOULwRvZz8fDC2fb1fV70owdYlhd/s1600/IMGP1249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik4ZROaakzFp_tCF8ySFFl1VsdjgPDOnKLBfDMi6fhthh_XzA9PMh8XRLBIVW-xQOyjN2OTSLoph-36zmvPeTRxJ-X_yhBlo7hXlehot4JrXwHtAjuJOULwRvZz8fDC2fb1fV70owdYlhd/s200/IMGP1249.JPG" width="200" /></a> Finding rte 25c, we enjoyed still more smooth road, almost to the border between these twin states. New Hampshire hospitality may be thin, but their road conditions make up for it. The bike was purring over the miles and the air was feeling a bit heavier. We were riding 'into weather' and the cloudscape was looking menacing to the northwest. It would be a race for creature comforts and I smelled rain. By the time we reached the lattice bridge crossing the CT river, a few random drops of rain would tag our windshield. There was no time to stop for rain suits as we turned south and west from Fairlee VT. He knew we were less than an hour from his house, the sky was dark but not low, so we had a chance at staying dry. Over each mile and past each landmark I smiled and pondered the grand ride of this day. Plenty of breaks, velvety roads, new sites, a flawless bike, and a worthy driver made for a sparkling day. <br />
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Winding homeward, the shadows were long and tunnels of darkness where trees gulfed the road embracing us with the cool and calm of VT. Once parked in the door yard, the the vast scene was wrapped in the soft glow of twilight setting over the distant ridge. Owls could be heard in a challenge of baritones. The air was lighter, no rain had fallen here. Walking to the porch, I reveled in the silence, its weight was soothing as my mind was still feeling the ride. Sitting on the bench, leaning on my partner's shoulder, I believe I drifted off thinking of one more day to ride.... in Vermont and to a special place I've wanted to see... stay tuned for day 3... peace ~ ell<br />
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<dl><dt><i>"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I ~ I took the one less traveled by, <br />
And that has made all the difference."</i></dt>
<dd class="author"> Robert Frost, <i>The Road Not Taken</i></dd></dl>resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-25146243330062784352012-05-31T10:43:00.001-07:002012-06-13T16:30:38.596-07:00Taking the Flag for a Ride... Memorial Day Weekend 1Day 1...<br />
This spring has been spotty when it comes to riding the motorcycle. A exceptionally warm March, muddy April and a rainy May made getting out an act of magic. Bikerman committed to putting a new carburetor on the 84 Low Ride in hopes of upgrading performance in low gears around town and maxed out speed on highways. The delays always seemed to overlap the best riding weather. Finally, after some shorties here and there to test run the bike and to build up some ride-ready tone, we hit a perfect weekend for Memorial Day 2012. I was peaked for this one and bikerman neglected his full schedule of work to indulge me.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tShLEpc67nwMv_fo7lT6KH-YMyd4dZZengCQWJ1oLVfEksEkmNTuqVmZB1I75-JMQIvVZRS1xrkJtLrmdibO9sG9v5RWTaVksKOus_UHXVrXG1mBHuIA6kPZbx6lllQxE6MKJGZMu-Il/s1600/Quilla+marching+md+2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tShLEpc67nwMv_fo7lT6KH-YMyd4dZZengCQWJ1oLVfEksEkmNTuqVmZB1I75-JMQIvVZRS1xrkJtLrmdibO9sG9v5RWTaVksKOus_UHXVrXG1mBHuIA6kPZbx6lllQxE6MKJGZMu-Il/s320/Quilla+marching+md+2012.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> We made our plans a couple weeks ahead, but then all the other pieces and players had to be juggled and re-juggled to allow for three days away. My mind was cyphering like the classic TV sit-com of the good and responsible angel clad in white LL Bean slacks and tee on one shoulder, reminding me of my parental responsibilities while a rebellious, leathered-up angel taunted me on the other. In the end the Daughter helped to move the horses to the summer pasture on Friday night, spent the weekend with Dad and marched in parades on Monday in my absence. <br />
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At 7pm, bikerman showed up to get the bike fitted for a longrun, and he meant a <i>Long Run</i>, at least by our standards. Being the Memorial Day weekend, being that his son is in the Army now, we took the flag for a ride. A brand new 3x5 foot, silk striped with embroidered stars, made-in-America beautiful flag.<br />
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Next morning was brisk and bright, so we loaded the throw-over saddle bags making the lean looking Low Ride give its best impression of a touring bike. Between the unyielding flag pole and the fully stuffed bags stradling the bike, my pillion seat was a hard reach for my gimpy leg and wobbly balance. Several failed attempts later, he opted to let me mount first. Comical it was for me to slip onto his lower saddle and skinny up to my petite pillion seat. The saddle bags shaped my leg in only one precise angle to the pegs, where each foot would be tightly anchored by the heel of my moto boots. It was a snug fit, but comfortable. With a tap on his shoulder and my 'good to go' nod, he craned his head back so I could kiss his cheek. "Watch out for them cagers...", my good luck blessing as we rolled out the drive onto the traveled lane.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvfDqWSXKMnJSs1dCkqG-yTRvdcUP8lbYfrmCJ_oh_PZbgOCF80-qT6kJ0aQAJzfS1BT-D7ks35eGIRI6x7I-Xqarwt5o-XxMawOIEX916EfPyuAwD2-SgNJXISHZ31g3IjMB1DtUveVt/s1600/IMGP1171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvfDqWSXKMnJSs1dCkqG-yTRvdcUP8lbYfrmCJ_oh_PZbgOCF80-qT6kJ0aQAJzfS1BT-D7ks35eGIRI6x7I-Xqarwt5o-XxMawOIEX916EfPyuAwD2-SgNJXISHZ31g3IjMB1DtUveVt/s320/IMGP1171.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMfyshACBGzp-YPoeBx5RzESjTC1gbvoyfSFywE0AxAxbx6z4zX67z1Mb1F3sLActW94cL_UletLJKR8ggcPIRUXBu6ZkJDCsVrrlH0f6_lkEWj8QXyxjIDsaJb0HH_j4_HB7vU-X6Xb9F/s1600/IMGP1172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMfyshACBGzp-YPoeBx5RzESjTC1gbvoyfSFywE0AxAxbx6z4zX67z1Mb1F3sLActW94cL_UletLJKR8ggcPIRUXBu6ZkJDCsVrrlH0f6_lkEWj8QXyxjIDsaJb0HH_j4_HB7vU-X6Xb9F/s320/IMGP1172.JPG" width="320" /></a> Up south we were headed, over the Notch and the quickest way to I 89 south. the mission one was to head for Baboosic Lake NH and help my folks put their long dock and boats in for the summer season. Making good time on the highway, the bike was running tight with his legs stretched to the hiway pegs as the pipes purred that trade mark Harley rhythm. I don't always have my camera ready for the notable scenes and so I missed the shots for our flag's admirers. The SUV filled with family and fun gleefully waving as they passed us on the lane was amusing as the Mom was hanging out the window. We would exit in Bethel VT and cruise down rte14 into N. Hartford observing the recovery of last year's storm Irene in various stages of progress. Some homes were installing new foundations, others finishing with new siding and windows, while still others were wrapped in no trespassing tape. This badly damaged, river side community was making an impressive come back, but still, the evidence lingered in the massive piles of flood ravaged trees and silt. Firewood for some, I suppose but the caked muck was daunting.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi007oRU5e7fj-ecE2A6iNfOAHybYKaMEeWB-pbKho-ZmhhKJ5GfL_laitpJPbPEgCmJ91_Q9_TvWi4dLm98FdytNywTYSYx80svV78QFjDtnsxSzgwpKgSMvlQS4OKL4x3zFJps5uUGdM/s1600/IMGP1178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi007oRU5e7fj-ecE2A6iNfOAHybYKaMEeWB-pbKho-ZmhhKJ5GfL_laitpJPbPEgCmJ91_Q9_TvWi4dLm98FdytNywTYSYx80svV78QFjDtnsxSzgwpKgSMvlQS4OKL4x3zFJps5uUGdM/s200/IMGP1178.JPG" width="200" /></a></div> Spotting an Irving gas station with a good price for fuel, he pulled in and tanked up with the 87 grade octane. I strolled into the tiny store trying to re-load my gum supply. Our Vermont roads are in poor repair and chewing gum keeps my jaws from grinding. Finding the gum rack was laborious enough and then to discover no stick gum, was the minor disappointment at this stop. Only chick-let type gums were displayed and they don't fit into the tidy little pocket on my chaps. Declining the inferior chew-ables, I meandered back to the bike now parked under a glade of the bluest spruce trees and listened as my biker chauffeur spoke to his son taking Basic Training in Ft Benning. He bragged about the flag and how perfect the day was to ride. And then we mounted up and resumed our journey back on I 89. The lane took us past a pick-up truck filled with very young spectators, waving their small hands frantically as they bounced on their seat to catch a better view. It's good to see our flag inspire such happiness.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJePf-LlAXfFS3ACA6WrXE7xTWIQxCPPJcevxpit6Fukickn-T0m83pOG0hLEhKKRl7q9Yo9NmJBCoyWhs_-asrjbgwuqjoSYDPnKMYUyHVfCbVdxImUIZ7O7wlVRsTCzxo_HWzpnWuME/s1600/IMGP1181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJePf-LlAXfFS3ACA6WrXE7xTWIQxCPPJcevxpit6Fukickn-T0m83pOG0hLEhKKRl7q9Yo9NmJBCoyWhs_-asrjbgwuqjoSYDPnKMYUyHVfCbVdxImUIZ7O7wlVRsTCzxo_HWzpnWuME/s320/IMGP1181.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">brite white smoke from a tank of bad fuel</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrRpNlNx2ib2RnxGSA7CeCbmikSACVwomJcm5PETA8uSAfeSUec4xTTl2nSdj3R5EfQu5QggRDctvUxWUrjVMB_D6xSu2UBvwlo4XHSpUFeaCLNPXRX35lc0XRN9F2e3tl7yyHvwMDSLjy/s1600/IMGP1183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrRpNlNx2ib2RnxGSA7CeCbmikSACVwomJcm5PETA8uSAfeSUec4xTTl2nSdj3R5EfQu5QggRDctvUxWUrjVMB_D6xSu2UBvwlo4XHSpUFeaCLNPXRX35lc0XRN9F2e3tl7yyHvwMDSLjy/s200/IMGP1183.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKP70mLa8KpT83aN-Lff-3KgbZ-EUGUQ3L2T4AzQZdvKaHJO7B53rPHledW4oY47sx7BxQvjE35dIoRd8-SVgABLa2Ydq39rUGcXhB1no1_Ti-lu1u6xh73MkPiAXBMGN8rDegwLWbjM1/s1600/IMGP1182.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKP70mLa8KpT83aN-Lff-3KgbZ-EUGUQ3L2T4AzQZdvKaHJO7B53rPHledW4oY47sx7BxQvjE35dIoRd8-SVgABLa2Ydq39rUGcXhB1no1_Ti-lu1u6xh73MkPiAXBMGN8rDegwLWbjM1/s200/IMGP1182.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmsv8lSF-OqjdxiPbNeQJmgOiYMdaCwbZ7jk3EPKHiMdhWxyruY7bBdbGq6c-Lor8Xq6JKtaA5CenaV2TeSfbim9_5ri5yIReXUO_UUDDl2gtObdWlwfWrboDO6PYKT6cuOIi8-3qZ3fQ0/s1600/IMGP1188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmsv8lSF-OqjdxiPbNeQJmgOiYMdaCwbZ7jk3EPKHiMdhWxyruY7bBdbGq6c-Lor8Xq6JKtaA5CenaV2TeSfbim9_5ri5yIReXUO_UUDDl2gtObdWlwfWrboDO6PYKT6cuOIi8-3qZ3fQ0/s200/IMGP1188.JPG" width="200" /></a> Not ten minutes into the ride, the gleaming bike began to cough and sputter a tinney sounding rattle at high revs. He'd back off the throttle and it would purr a ways. With each passing mile marker, the sound would come back, persist longer and get louder. I could hear it all too well with my open-face lid, not so easily for him in his full face helmet. Some 30 minutes later he pulled off of I 89 in NH staggering the steel horse onto a secondary road. The noise would become so piercing, I'd cover my ears as it drowned out the melodic loud pipes of his vintage Harley. When even he could not ignore it, we pulled into a remote general store parking lot. It was hot out, I was hotter. When he tried to shut down the bike, it dieseled, coughed and bellowed thick white smoke. His best guess was that the recent tank of fuel was fouling his bike. Ethanol in our fuels is the norm today; usually there is no real performance issue. But this time it was a very annoying problem, indeed. Ethanol attracts water and if there was any water in the station's underground fuel tank, it would cling to the evil-E; put this diluted petrol in an engine and it would weaken the combustion.We'd have to run it till the tank was ready for a re-fuel. That would take the rest of the day and spoil the beautiful ride through south western NH. While he was nonplussed by the bike's complaining, I was silently frustrated. He had spent a pile of money on his beloved Low Ride this spring; a new larger carburetor, refitting all the seals in the crank case and transmission, all flawlessly engineered by a talented mechanic who restricted his wrenching to vintage Harleys. Until this tank of gas, the bike was running better than ever. Now this lame stretch of miles was cramping our style and giving me a headache. As we finally rolled into my parent's home on Baboosic Lake, he explained why the bike was ailing and he reassured me, new gas at the higher octane would cure the gagging machine and my gloomy spirit. Besides, it was time to park it, visit with family, put in the docs and feast on lobster as we overnighted at this cool and green and shady retreat. All's well that ends well on day one... more to come next post. luv, peace, love ~ ell<br />
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<dl><dt><b>"When I can't handle events, I let them handle themselves."</b> </dt>
<dd>Henry Ford</dd></dl>resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-53830323011771634372011-09-02T13:06:00.000-07:002011-09-04T11:43:31.476-07:00two lakes, one story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQb64oJSI-qaf8fcpKETwFq6X1pEW9aAeknA7Fj7QAKw_-EfcZ8FzzMErQ28ybvOy8OCMZ38R-bv5pQVFCuds7wJqX-nE-R9NZaQxlqqd1x8tYGdylOhE3CZipzYsfvvRESXBydG9YssEB/s1600/img_5809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQb64oJSI-qaf8fcpKETwFq6X1pEW9aAeknA7Fj7QAKw_-EfcZ8FzzMErQ28ybvOy8OCMZ38R-bv5pQVFCuds7wJqX-nE-R9NZaQxlqqd1x8tYGdylOhE3CZipzYsfvvRESXBydG9YssEB/s320/img_5809.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9pNBxOSPmwUkdPiBBaroeyxmWJQ9FbIOoPctrM2ims6lGzcnz0DzE__w5n7seFmOzSv8ty7PJCrCRPJVjlv5LnnU4OQNNZE07RN4rlBulqeKd3qFTH2ZZjbC14OmKpFZEyi2EwH5V-Gb/s1600/img_5932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9pNBxOSPmwUkdPiBBaroeyxmWJQ9FbIOoPctrM2ims6lGzcnz0DzE__w5n7seFmOzSv8ty7PJCrCRPJVjlv5LnnU4OQNNZE07RN4rlBulqeKd3qFTH2ZZjbC14OmKpFZEyi2EwH5V-Gb/s200/img_5932.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">rte 58 N entering the NEK</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDk4Yihv-kdQuKjQQ35fV4Sh8cxsZbajFribclfPCU3gUEB6ttfa0xib82O7w4HwoX6cgSyVjsiS-ipOQPfTvwwSu6FkbeIpHx62_vfluifCP1q0fFdUEOqZ8Eqt5q5FDqzUEwh0eJcIR/s1600/img_5940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDk4Yihv-kdQuKjQQ35fV4Sh8cxsZbajFribclfPCU3gUEB6ttfa0xib82O7w4HwoX6cgSyVjsiS-ipOQPfTvwwSu6FkbeIpHx62_vfluifCP1q0fFdUEOqZ8Eqt5q5FDqzUEwh0eJcIR/s200/img_5940.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">rte 5 Barton and the lake</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZmhm4DAtVSFkZOSbm2STcueD0HK5GdqZON1UBrMLVxttOf22EKYVVM5Rs-I9FcUNpl7mSSr7ZwP2kg9Qos_sBiSaGJS3Kzs0-3lKQ-muGsUzqQ4gikc1kP8eNKevnqKIh5LX4zst7PDM/s1600/img_5945.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZmhm4DAtVSFkZOSbm2STcueD0HK5GdqZON1UBrMLVxttOf22EKYVVM5Rs-I9FcUNpl7mSSr7ZwP2kg9Qos_sBiSaGJS3Kzs0-3lKQ-muGsUzqQ4gikc1kP8eNKevnqKIh5LX4zst7PDM/s200/img_5945.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crystal Lake Barton VT</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjn2dGTN-_oem9sZpKxnMJhTRtMClTSfzzhq6GHWypGHxskv2YOV3FLjlJ-l27KTFv5faFgxjSN9N0cfiO041L0FyX3pKsWTUKCIvze7uy-ZxSoTrsQ8JYU7E6h2F0l0IQ-3tFdqBiLXXD/s1600/img_5833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjn2dGTN-_oem9sZpKxnMJhTRtMClTSfzzhq6GHWypGHxskv2YOV3FLjlJ-l27KTFv5faFgxjSN9N0cfiO041L0FyX3pKsWTUKCIvze7uy-ZxSoTrsQ8JYU7E6h2F0l0IQ-3tFdqBiLXXD/s200/img_5833.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">lake Mansfield in Nebraska Ntc</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJo2_Ak1F2fZFQaOT91Fgvr2KZx-32WSijGUDtcaKzVDrhV5-5OMqZ9XsWyEa9G3EIFVgMuEIwA3lQh3KZ4cBUmQgtO74IYaEIDk70pWSMzH4Ut8tcLDPhX8UMqCWlXjiFK2et9m4TmH7/s1600/img_5836.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJo2_Ak1F2fZFQaOT91Fgvr2KZx-32WSijGUDtcaKzVDrhV5-5OMqZ9XsWyEa9G3EIFVgMuEIwA3lQh3KZ4cBUmQgtO74IYaEIDk70pWSMzH4Ut8tcLDPhX8UMqCWlXjiFK2et9m4TmH7/s320/img_5836.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Mansfield Trout Club, members only</td></tr>
</tbody></table>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.<br />
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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRLqdAkATSwVl98lwh4wzi81KpVWr5FKxxQUnyxZ7LYJH8LcsGSgst13cEGm8S67RuDj1vn-JzxsVZ4VSExCJAh5KZbz8zkQ52crixx1rIjuANUEj2e6atcHtFGF4-TE83Ps12hWWeePZ/s1600/img_5838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRLqdAkATSwVl98lwh4wzi81KpVWr5FKxxQUnyxZ7LYJH8LcsGSgst13cEGm8S67RuDj1vn-JzxsVZ4VSExCJAh5KZbz8zkQ52crixx1rIjuANUEj2e6atcHtFGF4-TE83Ps12hWWeePZ/s200/img_5838.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">posted woodlands on a town road</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMtpqBICS-7h2fWdYAOK-0VSvJlVySiZpOzxSLGDcSeKSKRqul0MBV0Z1w5xeRDzsYTKb-FEbh10k2drb_DgGLvpelFaP_ubMsluQwn9MpkKrrVV7sfcx5AFODJTV530l4j_NY-EVxrSX/s1600/img_5959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMtpqBICS-7h2fWdYAOK-0VSvJlVySiZpOzxSLGDcSeKSKRqul0MBV0Z1w5xeRDzsYTKb-FEbh10k2drb_DgGLvpelFaP_ubMsluQwn9MpkKrrVV7sfcx5AFODJTV530l4j_NY-EVxrSX/s200/img_5959.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">success! Artesemo in Groton</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpEanmk4SRxTcZ7Qk-JbD8sUQTAOI1_wDjTHCn5EBqb09oZv0MDzas8nupk27AGR9oe3EyU76YFekosq4qGx_r3YTvNhtb9REIrDMZFilnMszEM9VW3C_MKlarpQ9fDRu8c-jJpIq1bW0/s1600/img_5962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpEanmk4SRxTcZ7Qk-JbD8sUQTAOI1_wDjTHCn5EBqb09oZv0MDzas8nupk27AGR9oe3EyU76YFekosq4qGx_r3YTvNhtb9REIrDMZFilnMszEM9VW3C_MKlarpQ9fDRu8c-jJpIq1bW0/s200/img_5962.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">exceptional icecream</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
<br />
This one's for them that ensured our public assets and the enjoyment of a greater good; a legacy for all Vermonters. peace ~ ell<br />
<br />
<br />
resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-68328601785858068802011-07-19T18:09:00.001-07:002012-03-08T12:19:44.425-08:00ancient roads on a vintage Harley<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMp07inKqMaTlO6NIPrS8EFQ809-JUAXMGDVHu_rUMvgN3VO8WT4TezLc_x_6roiCGFyHjEMHVKpdE6QuFGrTeSajNRj8MFOgUzlhF7NE5Ns6vGZCU7THirU7NnO39OmzZpy4717KlOoyg/s1600/twoup+50s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMp07inKqMaTlO6NIPrS8EFQ809-JUAXMGDVHu_rUMvgN3VO8WT4TezLc_x_6roiCGFyHjEMHVKpdE6QuFGrTeSajNRj8MFOgUzlhF7NE5Ns6vGZCU7THirU7NnO39OmzZpy4717KlOoyg/s1600/twoup+50s.jpg" /></a></div> 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'.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0pXnBop7Xti0bE6RJF8kL19CRMVHeidsjrWXCgnLjyvK8V8BW7ymtQB-NmCQ5hEuYDes4bRt-2myrKUVN2ham_e33UVtunM3qe8NbV01VuVAJJ518qUtKzFurebgce_nx7-rTIwG1HUK/s1600/vintage+pillion+cold+ride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN0pXnBop7Xti0bE6RJF8kL19CRMVHeidsjrWXCgnLjyvK8V8BW7ymtQB-NmCQ5hEuYDes4bRt-2myrKUVN2ham_e33UVtunM3qe8NbV01VuVAJJ518qUtKzFurebgce_nx7-rTIwG1HUK/s200/vintage+pillion+cold+ride.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me in Retro pillion apparel </td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouRRzetwQTnTLkqtzc-W4CQXHJ1gOvktWQMHC1aRsj2SzXzTPNdNu2Sh_hHm-1zYGXI-cJ2gJePN43GKithZ6ryORYriRhwCO5j0NBeVAiEgh10uM2xOyv7YnjjXqgx7Uryu1oiUF8xlQ/s1600/img_5782.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouRRzetwQTnTLkqtzc-W4CQXHJ1gOvktWQMHC1aRsj2SzXzTPNdNu2Sh_hHm-1zYGXI-cJ2gJePN43GKithZ6ryORYriRhwCO5j0NBeVAiEgh10uM2xOyv7YnjjXqgx7Uryu1oiUF8xlQ/s200/img_5782.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">rte 125(?) along east of Lake Carmi</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2TJoq3e97-dv6OEQW2y8L1nDt-7GCA2J1K_jToRkbWsmFDAoFCpMo7hLicfFWPjED4DXZQjf_gNvNlY7TQ9RBYc4mqsmozMYdpiVHd6gFNkAlsaigqE1ybCUiYC8NMDAh89fFrf50WZk/s1600/img_5778.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2TJoq3e97-dv6OEQW2y8L1nDt-7GCA2J1K_jToRkbWsmFDAoFCpMo7hLicfFWPjED4DXZQjf_gNvNlY7TQ9RBYc4mqsmozMYdpiVHd6gFNkAlsaigqE1ybCUiYC8NMDAh89fFrf50WZk/s200/img_5778.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">lake Carmi with locals on the dock</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZSAJi6M6TBQ4uJXKsK7bjl1H_ALOAn6EAQ1vYNtA2Ms1B6fUFJxPsHamqWIeVA6Sc_010Ye-pTGBwsTTBXD6jdzwH1NQSLtQcCJ9jOAUNP_lBzouNraKchMM5jKqb1Ikt7NYgn1KPOvh/s1600/img_5776.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZSAJi6M6TBQ4uJXKsK7bjl1H_ALOAn6EAQ1vYNtA2Ms1B6fUFJxPsHamqWIeVA6Sc_010Ye-pTGBwsTTBXD6jdzwH1NQSLtQcCJ9jOAUNP_lBzouNraKchMM5jKqb1Ikt7NYgn1KPOvh/s200/img_5776.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Richford today, once a booming RR town</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj07cZZXKF7d3lge0zmWwAoJS4HTnrpUnZLlvFK_k92zz8QVqrPHJevuvP3gVVSzgkhZxLlk3Rsf5DQm_DDWvvmAFtpqYiJWXgr_XlIplBK3-Rac2JwXpturGtRovE88pKS0sMiOiH0XQtw/s1600/img_5754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj07cZZXKF7d3lge0zmWwAoJS4HTnrpUnZLlvFK_k92zz8QVqrPHJevuvP3gVVSzgkhZxLlk3Rsf5DQm_DDWvvmAFtpqYiJWXgr_XlIplBK3-Rac2JwXpturGtRovE88pKS0sMiOiH0XQtw/s200/img_5754.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">climbing to Hazen's Notch</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhLSR0YC2To-hHWEUYqAzxv-XBP4AU5ZzNJkZiPCi23vSNu8US3LrqjGQOpyd65QeFeOm4dyKUZv1lHnlK_yEcQwTABNw-Qbn2Y3wRQ_B0nbJQo0X9sYFfCgGWoKoua0pFApeQR0ZnCRg/s1600/img_5790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhLSR0YC2To-hHWEUYqAzxv-XBP4AU5ZzNJkZiPCi23vSNu8US3LrqjGQOpyd65QeFeOm4dyKUZv1lHnlK_yEcQwTABNw-Qbn2Y3wRQ_B0nbJQo0X9sYFfCgGWoKoua0pFApeQR0ZnCRg/s200/img_5790.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a class 4 road over Bakersfield Mtn</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AVwiB5ndHj6z8QSxKZ4Cavx1MBtcRLe1wDDH9G8-bVBJ8JmIK6GCASla05JyWqxo-c2Xmco0I17pWpf3uQVJ30OT1_WjtSDcQb4pSkjYI5HDsMcKIQRbXuaMeO8RcNvYRSVmg-t0XAMk/s1600/img_5844.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AVwiB5ndHj6z8QSxKZ4Cavx1MBtcRLe1wDDH9G8-bVBJ8JmIK6GCASla05JyWqxo-c2Xmco0I17pWpf3uQVJ30OT1_WjtSDcQb4pSkjYI5HDsMcKIQRbXuaMeO8RcNvYRSVmg-t0XAMk/s200/img_5844.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">this is a county road?!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7BDO3-UeKaRhpbUVvttQ6hKNde-k144OLp0yhSZAFr2k_WiT4ruijGQmXSjuphteN8yTCV5DtA_o-4ZP88eAjvGb5SlS0mJcfSfgkIB7IWg0sBW7zvQN9rL0J0cVHOqXlIY8YX-9p2V7/s1600/img_5791.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7BDO3-UeKaRhpbUVvttQ6hKNde-k144OLp0yhSZAFr2k_WiT4ruijGQmXSjuphteN8yTCV5DtA_o-4ZP88eAjvGb5SlS0mJcfSfgkIB7IWg0sBW7zvQN9rL0J0cVHOqXlIY8YX-9p2V7/s200/img_5791.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">our Ride Angel? lead us out</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhej3JNiLdlazpK1HZNhbjv33526RnaLEk87uz35RoECj99I-3Hhf0Qwy94DRUBbD5JJBvqnFS35EJv1GDpBHTpVGJ87ZmvqxOqT7y-e6zfL0gk2FF3HBDS1fCdMn7lhFCvIJmvGTxlfJxv/s1600/img_5798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhej3JNiLdlazpK1HZNhbjv33526RnaLEk87uz35RoECj99I-3Hhf0Qwy94DRUBbD5JJBvqnFS35EJv1GDpBHTpVGJ87ZmvqxOqT7y-e6zfL0gk2FF3HBDS1fCdMn7lhFCvIJmvGTxlfJxv/s200/img_5798.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">fuel and creemes and startled tourists</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBtGFgBGIYM1VvKcphtRz8GottnoCE8_ZYjzPbpHINTkRwUmDmS-0GhJtBbSd_e48oR15aC94jWCozeSsU1A8jitFd-sU_tiU3SvZDl75wkIMIIkwHSeETB0Rwht_6srYmv7zZIfDiPMA/s1600/img_5794.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBtGFgBGIYM1VvKcphtRz8GottnoCE8_ZYjzPbpHINTkRwUmDmS-0GhJtBbSd_e48oR15aC94jWCozeSsU1A8jitFd-sU_tiU3SvZDl75wkIMIIkwHSeETB0Rwht_6srYmv7zZIfDiPMA/s200/img_5794.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a good place to rest</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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<br />
this one is for the biker man that takes me places I would never venture, expanding my dreamsresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-26086740348090826972011-07-09T10:30:00.000-07:002012-01-15T14:50:08.864-08:00becoming a Real Boy<div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8XMeplQhew7iugxwaM3sVDp4ws99QwhHOmIWMqMDBfOEHrezOfZwT3iYn-1mD750KUKoAQZ6ZqKZCWiRK_87bzVm9lP3SRa_aEjUq5XQidtbnHNzB05bWb7Cns_9_UlaWxAiNmnAvCUp/s1600/img_5689.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8XMeplQhew7iugxwaM3sVDp4ws99QwhHOmIWMqMDBfOEHrezOfZwT3iYn-1mD750KUKoAQZ6ZqKZCWiRK_87bzVm9lP3SRa_aEjUq5XQidtbnHNzB05bWb7Cns_9_UlaWxAiNmnAvCUp/s320/img_5689.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">this is an interesting back yard...</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXIVmu47JU85zB6gdhwI-qodaSwl0oxKzTgLv4tiKVB4eXSYrIWYaUWs4vaftv3GQD_3DbipSAIkOo83H0jQww3tOOfwov8omdVIvTARLLgFLO5SA6Nx1w_0fMvXNNyceGJGE2sijMgdX/s1600/img_5710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXIVmu47JU85zB6gdhwI-qodaSwl0oxKzTgLv4tiKVB4eXSYrIWYaUWs4vaftv3GQD_3DbipSAIkOo83H0jQww3tOOfwov8omdVIvTARLLgFLO5SA6Nx1w_0fMvXNNyceGJGE2sijMgdX/s320/img_5710.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eli and Jaccob ~ Marco Polo</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOw103deQ6yALKpUh3vO16yI01rZteDU5vcU4xUKG57wkd3WrPLkbx102IupVPTazsLtMf4sHEYsBDL_ZvYfVaJrc4wJX9V1CY4vvcARqcWZ5hAJD5v4eNZhLG_ThJDnJI6-8VKewAcIV/s1600/img_5692.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOw103deQ6yALKpUh3vO16yI01rZteDU5vcU4xUKG57wkd3WrPLkbx102IupVPTazsLtMf4sHEYsBDL_ZvYfVaJrc4wJX9V1CY4vvcARqcWZ5hAJD5v4eNZhLG_ThJDnJI6-8VKewAcIV/s200/img_5692.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I can use this raft to get there..."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96ll34fWb4bM9HWt2em02Ke2i5Ypug1igeNVGURIOS0RJjuAemXBmeYO7ZvxstAoQAB1XL5AvMnwv4UAfRqVFe_ZCb9ZwW-ySykXak9iv7LHXG4IbSTt6ArZRd_Y5a8bCjgaX_VER8uoz/s1600/img_5699.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96ll34fWb4bM9HWt2em02Ke2i5Ypug1igeNVGURIOS0RJjuAemXBmeYO7ZvxstAoQAB1XL5AvMnwv4UAfRqVFe_ZCb9ZwW-ySykXak9iv7LHXG4IbSTt6ArZRd_Y5a8bCjgaX_VER8uoz/s200/img_5699.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"first I'll get on it..."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizHC_h8YOqbvPZIfytQPkIBSCZKPRM6lDNkDOh600C-FIGEFIuaQ57R820lEmtFflcgGIYz58jB5KSfezJ43T4EuFh8faROpTigrztT9ynVw7JdrzdZJ8F6OreJPjWO48ujsY9x7_HtyIq/s1600/img_5697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizHC_h8YOqbvPZIfytQPkIBSCZKPRM6lDNkDOh600C-FIGEFIuaQ57R820lEmtFflcgGIYz58jB5KSfezJ43T4EuFh8faROpTigrztT9ynVw7JdrzdZJ8F6OreJPjWO48ujsY9x7_HtyIq/s200/img_5697.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"...then I'll get off it..."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9Hrp0IE613lvcFCPQVatj3Qnp6cnG1IqfbMLpw0hvPPQfiSB7AQ4_m4zs9RgbgUcaMPbmsMfzftvsPesxTh4hvEuhawpWtt2WAg8SdEG0PTspTo8Fkf_spB7T6BCS67ezc2mP4GHtlr0/s1600/img_5696.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9Hrp0IE613lvcFCPQVatj3Qnp6cnG1IqfbMLpw0hvPPQfiSB7AQ4_m4zs9RgbgUcaMPbmsMfzftvsPesxTh4hvEuhawpWtt2WAg8SdEG0PTspTo8Fkf_spB7T6BCS67ezc2mP4GHtlr0/s200/img_5696.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'll use the ladder to get out of the pool.."</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEu_t856YUL-YplnnrvxDUh9JNOlMF0pKlplXsojqEkDepqZzc4Bu6xJvcpRd3nyy_ioIHqlEELvF_Zgw7DcdoKV62cfvwqw5YzAzpcIgejyB5DqM8W8V53_zhya4CFCtgtKvJGKC9kse/s1600/img_5707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEu_t856YUL-YplnnrvxDUh9JNOlMF0pKlplXsojqEkDepqZzc4Bu6xJvcpRd3nyy_ioIHqlEELvF_Zgw7DcdoKV62cfvwqw5YzAzpcIgejyB5DqM8W8V53_zhya4CFCtgtKvJGKC9kse/s320/img_5707.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"...humm, now where's the frog..."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEeFYT6MGI13tWfSyF8fepZ6MJ3tEI1RMeo9StmHIVLPLMjyFXp-5r-wnaoneHlRXXwZYMlVGWXxD6TVlFAWOOMjsk_Lz_sKchMMgqeAyo3huDOh5avC92B0HcJJxTsyTkY9Q3TnBwyk6V/s1600/img_5703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEeFYT6MGI13tWfSyF8fepZ6MJ3tEI1RMeo9StmHIVLPLMjyFXp-5r-wnaoneHlRXXwZYMlVGWXxD6TVlFAWOOMjsk_Lz_sKchMMgqeAyo3huDOh5avC92B0HcJJxTsyTkY9Q3TnBwyk6V/s200/img_5703.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"... come on Ms Aiosa.."</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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.<br />
luv and peace ~ ellresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-51775129658297525122011-06-26T13:33:00.000-07:002011-06-26T13:34:24.748-07:00Horses 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.<br />
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...'<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
"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.<br />
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.<br />
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... <br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
peace ~ ell<br />
this one is for the awesome brown horses who teach me in every wayresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-21341386434432061652011-06-23T06:56:00.000-07:002011-06-23T06:56:54.143-07:00dream to live<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAQ0fi0h04JeNl-E5AD_kIOBiABQGqgtJfoz5GV98X8sr_YAJn78cYSkQYD1wbsLXxfRZc_irzgegZXLSSUWbXJeKLF080Rp29iZKog-FYkHe-Szg0-nX5R2g5En44dsaWy8zOCkas_El/s1600/trick+rider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAQ0fi0h04JeNl-E5AD_kIOBiABQGqgtJfoz5GV98X8sr_YAJn78cYSkQYD1wbsLXxfRZc_irzgegZXLSSUWbXJeKLF080Rp29iZKog-FYkHe-Szg0-nX5R2g5En44dsaWy8zOCkas_El/s320/trick+rider.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
love and peace ~ ell <br />
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resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-20629429520024436802011-06-01T13:10:00.000-07:002011-06-01T13:10:45.379-07:00memorial 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.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">walking the great flag to Memorial Rock</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eli with serious thoughts </td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a shade break in Eden Mills</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHgdJe9nuijZhwopxiDKB6oic9KjE0YmcD86p3PFX_UtaJfJ_NE3P5JLrUaepABHJY843UTU_gZB_hCSe8TRdkN56y5qRd6CCcABVPv4TtelQhIgPuB6izZdHueI6EZYJCg7ZLsuSJbgQ/s1600/img_5430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHgdJe9nuijZhwopxiDKB6oic9KjE0YmcD86p3PFX_UtaJfJ_NE3P5JLrUaepABHJY843UTU_gZB_hCSe8TRdkN56y5qRd6CCcABVPv4TtelQhIgPuB6izZdHueI6EZYJCg7ZLsuSJbgQ/s320/img_5430.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2up in the Green Mountains</td></tr>
</tbody></table>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.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sunburnt for the East Side Grill</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6p2bRdqYZFG-9y5lesh71YoTh512m6qzkOetMfnGvcC6juTyP1vz75d3jGjNJi7qceOVMEhbfY32W2Q0ZJP20CAKZULGuYSlYzCfbq8MLDZLPRiSmjvM9vde9womVt_OP_jW6KjMqH11/s1600/img_5447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6p2bRdqYZFG-9y5lesh71YoTh512m6qzkOetMfnGvcC6juTyP1vz75d3jGjNJi7qceOVMEhbfY32W2Q0ZJP20CAKZULGuYSlYzCfbq8MLDZLPRiSmjvM9vde9womVt_OP_jW6KjMqH11/s200/img_5447.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jay Peak summit house</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
ell<br />
this is for them that take the road less traveledresahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7800788417926382704.post-43308254375299343842011-05-20T10:06:00.000-07:002011-06-02T10:38:49.204-07:00I just wanna ride...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">three pieces to my heart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>"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.<br />
if only it would stop raining." <br />
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. <br />
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. <br />
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<br />
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Read more: <a href="http://www.bikerspost.com/profiles/blogs/i-want-to-ride#ixzz1Mu6dOJ2i" style="color: #003399;">http://www.bikerspost.com/profiles/blogs/i-want-to-ride#ixzz1Mu6dOJ2i</a></div>resahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04455446030439038749noreply@blogger.com0