Think about it for a while. The fork. Where would our tables manners (if anyone still practices them) be without it. Try eating spaghetti without it. Battle your vegies with a spoon? Savor your T-bone? Thank a fork.

          According to the world’s foremost electronic dissemination of questionable knowledge and correct answers, the Eastern Roman Empire bestowed us with the fork sometime during the fourth century.

          There are different types of forks for different types of jobs, and I will take an uneducated guess that the table fork descended from a weapon. If it’ll stick an opponent, it’ll stick a steak! There are forks for pitching hay and cleaning out the stall. There are forks for tuning your favorite out-of-tune piano.

          I retired from SinterFire Inc. in December of 2020 and there we would sometimes struggle with dirty and sticking machine tooling after a long run. We used, what we affectionately called, a “pickle fork” to aid in the removal of said tooling. It was a long handled, two-pronged gizmo with a taper on one side of the prongs for prying.

          (SinterFire is the world leader in the manufacturing of leadfree frangible ammunition and bullets. www.sinterfire.com)

          The types of forks and their use would fill a book and I don’t have the time nor ambition or incentive for such a task.

          The fork I refer to is a common table fork that came into our home by unknown means and was discovered by accident some time ago while cleaning up the evening meal.

          I had found the wayward utensil some time ago while unloading the dishwasher. I commented to my wife that said fork looked very familiar and I thought it to be out of the set I had grown up with. Judy said that couldn’t possibly be since my dad’s passing was in 1993 and thereafter mom had moved into an assisted living community and passed away in 2003. Judy and I are unsure as to the fate of mom’s silverware so the only possibility that could be was that it belonged to a neighbor. But verification by my sister proved that the phantom fork was indeed a family heirloom.

          There is nothing outstanding about it. The design is simple enough. Two spiral pillars on top of four serrations pressed into the handle. There are no manufactures mark on it anywhere and its brilliance is now dulled from the many decades of use and washings.

          But boy if that fork could talk. How many family meals did it witness? Whose hunger did it quell?  How many discussions did it overhear? The turbulence and the tenderness. The celebrations and the solemn. Reunions and break-ups. Joyful or tragic, this fork was there. From the time I can remember and into my teens. And finally, to the day I left home.

There is significance to that insignificant everyday tool we take for granted. We throw it in the dishwasher when we’re done eating and after it dries it goes into the drawer until it’s use is needed again. Over and over again, day after day, meal after meal, all these years gone by.

I have claimed rights and property over this fork. It has been with me all of my life.

            It was thirty-eight years ago this past October 8^th that Judy and I exchanged vows. On October 8^th, 1983, we promised to love, honor, cherish, and obey and, so far, we have managed to keep those vows as best we could.

            Since that time, thirty-eight years ago, Judy and I have banned the use and mention of the “A” word for the day of our marriage and also the use and celebration of “V” day every February 14^th.

            It was the first V Day after our marriage day. I had made reservations at a rustic, but romantic, spot some twenty miles or so, from our small, rented house on a farm, just outside of Sykesville Pa. I had reserved a time slot and a prime rib dinner for two. There was to be a band there also and a night of dinner and dancing along with a drink or two sounded like the thing to do.

            We had little extra money to spend on such extravagates in those days, but it was our first V Day since our marriage just four months previous and I was determined to make it a nice one for my new bride.

            We arrived at the “lodge” dressed in our best and we were seated immediately. The waitress came promptly and took our drink order and after returning with them, she asked about our dinner. We told her we had reserved the prime rib and she asked how we would like them prepared. She then took the order to the kitchen and returned once more with salads and bread. She then explained that since it was V Day our dinners may take a little more time as they were very busy. I told her that would be fine, and I understood since I had worked in several food service establishments in my teens. That’s when things went downhill.

            One and a half hours later, the owner/manager, dressed in god-awful pink colored sweatpants and matching hoodie accessorized with fur lined and unzipped boots, came around to our table and informed us that they had run out of the prime rib and if we wanted to change our order it would be a longer wait. “But I had reserved the order!” I protested. It was in vain. That was the way it was and so Judy and I paid for what we had consumed and left.

            V day be damned! It was getting late, and we were hungry. We took a different way home and it was getting close to midnight when we ended up in a pizza shop, near closing time, in the nearby town of Brookville Pa.

            There were several other instances of romantic folly over the next several attempts at a V Day celebration. So, it was mutually agreed upon by both Judy and I forgo any further celebrations of V Day.

            Then there is the annual “A” day….

            This annual day too has become a day whose name shall not be spoken. A day that has been tarnished by broken reservations due to, the measles, the dog being sick, a freezing rainstorm and other maladies and misfortunes.

            But perhaps the saddest time, and the straw that broke the camel’s back for this day, was our twentieth time of the A Day.

            We were bound and determined to make this A Day special. I borrowed money and booked a flight to Las Vegas along with a stay at the Excalibur Hotel. My Mom had been in a nursing home and was not doing well. We had consulted with my siblings if it might not be in the best interest to cancel our A Day trip. It was a unanimous decision that we go and enjoy ourselves.

            October 7th, 2003, was our first trip to Vegas and as we landed and disembarked from the plane, we were overwhelmed by all that is Vegas. The lights, the noise, the hotels, and of course, “The Strip”.

            We checked into our hotel and went to our room. Later, we enjoyed a dinner theater at the Excalibur and spent the rest of the evening flushing money down the hotels chiming and twinkling toilets.

            It was about five a.m. the next morning when we were awakened by the phone. I knew what it was about when Judy’s sister asked to talk to Judy. My Mother had passed away during the night.

            After much persuasion, we got an emergency flight home and landed in Cleveland Ohio late in the afternoon on the eighth of October. Shortly before the Pennsylvania border we pulled into a rest stop to fill up the car and get a bite to eat. Now, anyone who’s ever eaten at one of the rest stop restaurants along an interstate highway knows that the food at such places can be of dubious quality and taste and it was there that I said to Judy for the last time “Happy Anniversary” while we chocked down our flame broiled burger.

            But there is one tradition that I started on our first A Day that I continue.

            The first A Day I sent Judy one rose. The next year two roses. The next year three. And so on and so on and so on. It’s a tradition I really didn’t think through.

          “You may load and make ready.” That was the range masters command to me to load my weapon, come to the ready position and prepare to wait for the buzzer. Then begin to fire on the array of targets down range.

          Standing on the firing line I noticed what a beautiful day it was. Temperature was in the low seventies with low humidity and only a few fluffy clouds overhead. It was a carbon copy of this day twenty years ago.

          In my time on this earth, I have witnessed more catastrophes that have changed the way we live or left an indelible imprint in our minds, than I care to. Each one of them has left us asking ourselves and our friends and neighbors not only “Why?” but “Where were you on this day?”

          I was only five, but I remember vividly my grandmother screaming from her front porch to my mom, who was standing on our front porch, that President Kennedy had been shot. Mom began weeping loudly and uncontrollably, scaring me badly because I did not understand her agony.

          I remember the day four students were killed at Kent State, the Watts riots, watching the war in Viet Nam and the fall of Saigon, Watergate and the resignation of President Nixon, the Challenger explosion, and even now Covid-19, and the list could go on. But none would have the impact quite like September 11^th, 2001.

          I was working a “split shift” and had just awakened. I had gone to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee and make a small breakfast. I had finished my breakfast and took my remaining coffee into the living room to catch the latest news.

When I turned on the TV, I was shocked by what I saw. One of the twin towers was burning. I remember seeing the thick plume of black smoke billowing from it and hearing that a plane had flown into it.

          Thinking it was a horrendous accident, I watched for a few more minutes and was about to flip the channel when I witnessed the second plane fly into the opposite tower. I remember saying out loud to no one “Holy s***, we’re under attack!” And there I stood until it was time to go to work. I was glued to the television. I couldn’t sit and I couldn’t put down my coffee cup. I just stood there. Fixated on every word and image.

          Once I managed to process the whole event unfolding before my eyes, I got ready and headed out the door for my job.

          When I got there, the four people who made up the day shift crew were standing at the end of the only heat-treating oven that was there at that time. I could see them talking and laughing so I assumed they had not heard the news yet.

          When I got to their position I unapologetically broke in and ask if any of them had heard the news. My assumption was correct. “We’re under attack!” I exclaimed, only to be retaliated by odd looks and laughter. “No! I’m serious! We’re under attack and two planes just hit the twin towers in New York city!”

          Ed, Mark, and Tom grew somber and asked for more information. Dave said he had a sister that worked in one of the towers and ran to his office to try to get ahold of her. (He finally did, and she was fine. She worked on the fifth floor of one of the towers and managed to get out quickly.)

          The next day I remember walking out on the porch just before leaving for work and looking up to the sky. Not a single plane to be seen or heard. The sky and general atmosphere seemed surreal.

About a minute later a giant of an aircraft flew low and slow overhead. It was O.D. green with four giant propellers powered by four huge and loud engines and I remember saying to the terrorists who hijacked the planes. “You bastards just changed our world. “(Screw) you!”

“Beeep” the timer signaled, and I engaged my targets. Not quite as smoothly or orderly as I wanted.

I and my wife were once pretty fair shooting competitors some forty years ago and now that I’m retired, I decided that a return to the competitive shooting bays might just be something that I’d enjoy again. Only now it would be more for fun than any shooting I had done some forty to thirty years previous.

Just like any other sport, shooting sports are the domain of the young. Sharp eyes, quick reflexes and steady hands are the winning combinations. Oh, there are some exceptions. But they also include a constant devotion to practice and most always a sponsor or two… or three.

No, my hard competitive days are fond memories now. Now I shoot for fun and shoot the bull with the guys and girls afterwards. But if occasionally I can hear a remark to the effect that “Hey! That old guy can shoot pretty good.” That’s reward enough for me now. But even that was not going to happen today.

I’m bound and determined to find or invent a game where the slow, near-sighted, and arthritic people have the advantage.

Thank you to all the heroic first responders who answered your call that day some twenty years ago. And a special thanks to the passengers of Flight 93 who gave their lives to prevent others from dying and all the passengers and crew of all the flights that went down that day.

A Cowardly (and freaky) New World

          It’s been a while since my last story. I’ve been busy and Judy and I have traveled on the motorcycle to many places if interest. But this is not what I write about today. Today I write about a stark reality that has hit me like a rock to the face while on top of two wheels and I’m scared.

          First, let me start off by admitting to a bit of hypocrisy on my part. I got “THE shot”. I had always stood firm on my personal convictions about getting “the shot”. I have never been against those who choose to get it and I still stand beside those who do not. To me, it was, and still is, a personal matter based on my beliefs much like those who choose to not wear a helmet while riding a motorcycle and the facts based upon the CDC’s own numbers that those who lost their lives to Covid-19 amount to about two percent of all those infected. And so too I wonder just how accurate those numbers really are.

          After much encouragement from my wife, I finally caved in. Judy has seen the effects of the pandemic firsthand in her profession as a heart/ lung nurse. In her last plea to me I could see the sincerity in her eyes and her love for myself and family. I challenge anyone to try to admit never doing something for the love of a loved one.

          I am not proud I did it. I am not happy I did it. But neither am I regretful about it either. I did what I did for the reason I stated. So be it. But I do regret going against my personal convictions. Convictions I had held strong to during this whole Covid-19 fiasco. (Please, DO NOT extend thanks for getting the shot. I don’t want it!!)

          So now that I have confessed to my hypocrisy, I hope you can better understand the following reality I have witnessed.

Today started out normally. I had some errands to run as well as a dentist appointment. I was sitting in front of the television enjoying my breakfast while watching the news and the latest propaganda spewing from one of the major networks.

          There was a discussion panel talking about, you guessed it, Covid-19 and the latest variant of the bug, the “Delta” variant. After hearing about the pandemic for well over a year now, I spewed a few choice words at the panel of “experts” and was about to turn the TV to something more my politic flavor when one of the experts stated that even though you have been vaccinated you can still get Covid-19 and still be a carrier but that the risks are lower. And so too, that people should still wear masks.

I couldn’t help but wonder what the next variant will be called and how soon it will suddenly pop up after the Delta starts to die down. “Why did I get vaccinated? I’m sick of this (crap)!”

Now there are businesses that are refusing goods and services to those not vaccinated, forcing those who aren’t to do so. If I must show my “papers” to those businesses, I don’t want their business. Laugh and scoff if you will. But could this be the threshold of the mark of the beast or the door closing on our freedoms?

Why are we still supposed to stay apart? Refuse a handshake and wear a mask? Bull!! If I extend my hand to you, it is out of friendly respect and honesty. Or perhaps it is a symbol of my oath to carry out an agreement or deal. Whatever the reason, to turn away my hand is to turn away from me.

Since the beginning of human existence mankind has always been a carrier of bacteria, viruses, and other microscopic goblins. So why now at a percentage of two percent death rate from the latest boogie man?

I have no qualms with those who choose, of their own free will, to mask up or to get the vaccine or not. Just please, PLEASE, don’t tell me it’s for my own good. I, and I alone, will decide what is best for myself and/or my family. Just as I support those who choose not to wear a helmet while riding a motorcycle, even though I may not agree.

After a shower and my blood pressure returning to its pre news report level, I headed out for the morning’s chores.

I was headed to a rendezvous with a friend at a new and modern business. I had stopped for a red light and started to look around when I noticed the car to my left was waiting to make a left turn. The young(ish) driver was head down and texting. At the same time a young male was crossing in front of me, also head down and texting. The two were completely oblivious to any and all of their surroundings. Do they know or care that there’s a whole world out there? Wake up people!! Know and enjoy your surroundings so you don’t kill someone. Nothing you have to say in a text is so important you can’t wait.

But perhaps the starkest reality of our time, and the very troubling reality of things to come, was meeting my friend. I walked into the main doorway and was alerted by a sign saying everyone entering the building must wear a mask. Reluctantly, and cursing under my breath, I complied for the sake of my friend.

When I walked through the inner door I stopped and just stood there in utter disbelief. Where there was once a smiling and helpful receptionist sitting behind a semi-circle desk, there was now a group of machines. It gave me a sense of coldness. It was bleak, lifeless, and unfeeling. It was an empty electronic void.

I stood as directed by another sign, in front of a monitor that took my temperature and directed me to sign-in at the iPad to my left. Again, I did as directed by the damn machine. After signing in on the iPad I was directed a third time to read and answer the paper questionnaire. It asked about my recent whereabouts and my contacts (If known) with those who may have, or been exposed to, Covid-19. There was no pen or pencil to fill out the survey, so I skipped the only semi-human piece of equipment there and took a cold and lonely seat in the empty environment and waited for my buddy.  

After what seemed like an eternity, a man in a mask and hairnet on his head and chin told me that my friend was unable to see me today due to an unexpected meeting.

I ask the man about all the electronic equipment and was told that that’s the way they do things now and he sees no end to it in the future and that everything is done electronically and even the hiring and interviewing are all done via email or Web. He honestly seemed proud of it! Stunned and in disbelief I told the man that I would not want to work in that kind of environment and left.

I am human! When I want answers, I want to talk to other humans. I want human responses to my questions. The thought of such a world, or even work environment, sickens me.

Seeing all that and hearing all the “news” on the TV an hour previous left me disheartened and thinking that all those electronics replaced a human worker.

My next stop for the day left me even more sorry for our species. I had to stop at the local “super center” to get my phone recharged with the purchase of a card. Walking into the store I noticed more than a few of our kind who had no thought or care of how they presented themselves to the public. Dirty and unkept clothing hung loosely as if they spent the night on the couch in a drunken or drugged state of unconsciousness. In all of my observations of these humans I noticed one thing in common. They all had their heads glued to a smart phone who’s worth would put my old and meager flip phone in the bargain bin at a secondhand store.

(I was always taught to take pride in the way you look and observed my dad following his own rule. He would always look presentable in pubic. If even to go to the hardware store for a quick purchase.)

I found my refill phone card and waited behind a “gentleman” whose face and neck ink would fill a small ink well. He was trying to act… I guess you could say “cool”, as he was making his purchase. I shook my head and went to the front of the store.

Here once more I will admit to a small bit of hypocrisy to the fact that I went through the self-checkout.

I have always been a severe and stanch critic of the self-checkout. Each one of those has replaced a human and in turn saved the company, not only the wages, but the insurance premiums. All without a discount to the customer of even so much as one percent.

But I was in a hurry to get home to the sanity and sanctuary of my world and so I checked myself out and left.

I found my truck and got inside to drive home but remembered I have no cell service where I live and decided to refill my time on my phone right there in the parking lot. It was after refilling my account that I realized I had bought my card and checked it out and then added the amount to my account. All without exchanging any form of hard currency with just a few clicks of a couple of buttons.

I will leave with one final observation.

I stopped on my way home at the local stop-n-rob for a quick coffee and snack for lunch. I had parked next to a handicap spot and got out to get my lunch. I returned with my lunch and decided to enjoy it outside on the provided tables.

I was facing my truck and watched in bitter disappointment as three different patrons, at three different times, parked in the handicap spot and placed their handicap placard on the rear-view mirror and got out of their vehicles and walked, as good as I, into the store.

The accounts of the day remind me of two things. The 1971 sci-fi movie “THX 1138” and the song from 1969 by Zager & Evans “In the Year 2525”. Each of them tells of things that may come to be. They’re not too far off.

April 22^nd and for the second day in a row I have awakened to the sight of snow on the ground. I despise the sight.

          It’s a cruel twist of fate. Now that I have entered the realm of retirement, I must continue to submit to the whims of nature. Living in the North East, as well as other points in the continental U.S., one must plan life’s events around the weather. Six months of winters cruelty followed by six months of summers fickle blessings.

          The road calls to me, teasing me, tempting me with her freedom. She is my Sirens song, and I am her Odysseus. Although, unlike Odysseus, I am more often than not, submitting to her call. She is my calm and my escape. She is my mistress in whose arms I feel secure. She calls me in many ways, and I remember a time when her call was too strong to resist.

          It was the dawn of my two-wheeled awaking, a time some forty-seven years past. A movie had debut about the joys of two wheeled adventure. A movie called “On Any Sunday”.

          That movie was a documentary of sorts. Though it mostly told of the racing aspect of motorcycles, it portrayed the joys and excitement of ridding. It showed the natural progression from peddle power to two-wheeled horsepower. That movie, and the theaters that showed it, were the Mecca of all young biker wanna’ be’s. If you were to be any type of biker, this movie was mandatory.

          As I recall, I had just got my driver’s license some time previous and had graduated from my “Cinderella” license (so called because the licensee had to be off the road by midnight) to my adult status of driving.

          I was sitting at home looking for any excuse to borrow the family car when I came across the showings at the local movie theaters in the newspaper. There it was! The movie all young bikers must see. The Sermon on the Mount. “On Any Sunday” was playing at the drive-in that Saturday evening! I must go. I was called to go.

          I was hyperventilating as I tried to explain to my Dad the importance of my attendance to this sermon and the need to borrow the car to attend the holy event.

          After promising to put the amount of gas used back into the car and to come home right after the movie was over, I got a hesitant “OK, But I don’t want a bunch of kids in the car!” I told Dad it would be just myself and my buddy Wizard.

          I was having a hard time breathing and heart palpitations as I dialed Wiz’s number. After he answered my call, I told him of the holy event about to take place that night.

          “All right!” he exclaimed as he blew out my ear drum on the other end of the line. “But how are we going to get there?” I told him I had the car, and I would be down to pick him up. “Bring some money for gas “‘cause we gott’a put back in the car what we use.”

          (At the time, Dad had a 1973 Oldsmobile Cutlass S with a 350 cubic inch engine and a four-barrel carburetor that would make an appetizer out of a gallon of gas. The car was a two door with each of the doors about half the length of the car itself and each weighing at least 500 pounds. The car was also equipped with the government mandated five mile an hour bumpers the protruded from the front and back a good six inches or more. It was a boat on four wheels, and it was Dad’s baby. But oh, that boat would go. (Please don’t ask me how I know.) I have a feeling Dad was a latent motorhead and this car would be his last hurrah as he was the same age as I am now, and would I give a car like that to a sixteen-year-old kid?)

          I arrived at Wiz’s house about fifteen minutes later and parked at the Post Office parking lot across the street and got out to roust him about lest we be late.

Together we scraped up about five or six bucks or so. It was just enough to get us into the drive-in and a couple of gallons of gas at fifty cents per gallon. There was no money left for snacks, but who could eat anything at a spiritual gathering such as this?

I told Wiz to wait at the sidewalk while I back the car out of the parking lot, and I would pick him up.

In my excited state of mind, I failed to look long enough both ways as I was backing out of the Post Office parking lot. The lot was full, and my visibility was obscured. I felt a hard “thud” and I heard metal screeching. I had backed into an on-coming car. But it was just not any car. It was another Oldsmobile. A Vista Cruiser! It was the clash of the titans! If Dad’s car was a boat, this car was a yacht. A Vista Cruiser was a station wagon and probably the largest production car on the road to that date and I took that car on the biggest part of that giant, the rear quarter panel.

(For those too young to know what a station wagon was, think of it as the SUV of the day except without the high ground clearance.)

I was sick, scared, and shaking as I got out of Dad’s car to examine the damages and exchange information.

The jousting match between the two behemoths resulted in the smaller competitor suffering the least damage to which I was, at least somewhat, relieved. A broken taillight and some minor paint damage to the rear protruding bumper was all Dad’s car suffered. The colossal competitor of my opponent however was the looser of the joust. The entire rear quarter panel was caved in and the woodgrain and chrome trim laid on the road in silent surrender. I was done. I had wrecked Dad’s car.

The other driver turned out to be a friend of my Dad’s and was understanding and kind enough to follow me home and helped to explain to Dad that the parking lot was full at the time and my visibility was blocked.

It was some time before I could drive Dad’s car again and another thirty some years before I ever saw the movie “On Any Sunday”. It was on late one night on TV.

I now have that movie on DVD and I watch it from time to time and remember that day, the crash, and my departed friend. Though now far outdated in the types and style of motorcycles, it still holds true to the joy and excitement two wheeled adventure can bring.

          The days gone by. Where did they go? Each memory as precious as a diamond. Those are the memories of my boyhood before the magical adventures of two wheeled freedom.

          There were days when a friend or two would gather and we would live out those days, running through the woods, pretending to be soldiers fighting an imaginary foe as ruthless as any. Or we would follow the creek up and down pretending to be treasure hunters seeking out a fortune buried somewhere along the creek bed. It had never occurred to us that the treasure we seek was in the day itself. Those magic adventures that lay in our memories are a pleasant retreat in times of quiet reflection.

          It has been a ritual for Judy and I to take one weekend day in the middle of winter, and retrace one of our motorcycle routes commonly taken in the summer months. This weekend was the one we picked. We call our yearly winter journey our “Pretend Motorcycle Trip”. It gets us out of the house at a time when winter is at its worse and the time till spring seems furthest away.

          During each of our yearly trips it is an unspoken goal to look for new roads to travel or eateries to dine at once the weather has broken and we are, once again, on two wheels.

          As per our usual summertime motorcycle departure, a time was set for 10 AM sharp. And so, we left exactly at our usual time of 10:30 AM.

          I picked a route that we both enjoy on our summertime excursions. A route that has some history as well as scenery.

          We headed north to our first stop at the Kinzua Viaduct, or the more common moniker the “Kinzua Bridge”. Built in 1881 to better move lumber and oil by train, the viaduct, or bridge, was in service until 1959. From then on it sat unused until 2003 when a F-1 tornado toppled the steel wonder.

          In 2011it was turned into a historic attraction and the remaining standing structure was reinforced and became a skywalk for tourists to venture out on and take in the breath-taking view.

          Judy and I have ventured out on the skywalk many times. But never in the middle of winter with an outside temperature of just nineteen degrees, not counting the windchill factor at 300 plus feet high.

          The trip out to the point of the skywalk was a comic icy folly and the entire length was traveled by shuffling along holding on to the handrail.

          To say it was cold would be a gross understatement. Judy and I both agreed that any future crossings would be done at a more appropriate time of year.

          After thawing, we headed for our next stopping point. The Kinzua Dam. It’s another point of interest for us to stop at during times of travel on our iron horse in the summer months.    

          Much of the way to the dam from the viaduct is through heavily wooded areas and through sections of the Allegheny National Forest. Which in summer are lush green forest. Beautiful and calming.

          But during the winter months our journey through this part of Pennsylvania is bleak and cold. I do not enjoy the winter though I have tried. Hiking is a struggle when one is bundled up and falling in the cold snow, packing snow in places you tried so hard to keep it out of, is just not fun. So, we were a bit amazed and intrigued when we got to the dam, we saw a pair of ice climbers scaling the frozen waterfalls that formed across from the dam on the high banks and cliffs next to the roadway.

          A two-person team of man and women would send one team member up the frozen rock face and secure the ropes for the other team member to ascend. Once the other member had reached the climbable summit, he or she, would gather the secured equipment while descending. I don’t know how many times this was done but it sort of reminded me of someone digging a hole and filling it back in for no reason. I voiced myself to those around us that also gathered to watch the two climbers that “And people think we’re crazy riding a motorcycle!”

          A conversation was struck up between my wife and I and another onlooking couple. We talked the usual small talk and when it was time to part our ways the gentlemen and myself exchanged a handshake in which we were reminded of the potential for the exchange of a virus. It has even been suggested, by some of those overseeing this whole COVID-19 thing, that the handshake should be a thing of the past as far as greetings go. BULLKAKA!! I will *NEVER* give up the handshake and I will never trust those who do or might do. The handshake is a greeting, it is an instrument of trust, it is a deal maker greater than the pen to me, it is a sign of friendship.

          After watching the second climber descend, it was getting cold and our next destination was to be a restaurant just south of a little town called Tionesta. About thirty miles south of the dam.

          The restaurant we seek has been a planned stop for us on many of our motorcycle sojourn. The reason we never stopped there is unknown. But today it is a focal point, and we are determined to sample the cuisine.

          The culinary oasis we seek is in the middle of nowhere a few miles south of Tionesta on Route 62 and our trip there has us following the Allegheny River for several miles.

          Again, the contrast between the winter and summer river is bleak and stark. In summer times the river is full of canoes or flotilla of some sort and people fishing or attending to their campsites along the riverbank. Now the ice flows down a cold waterway and only a very few hearty ducks attend to it.

          Once we entered the town of Tionesta we stayed on our southern route and followed Route 62 over the river and for a few miles more where we found our objective. “The Hills in the Forest” is a bar/restaurant and upon entering is clean but plain.

          We were not expecting much in the way of culinary delights, but boy, were we wrong. The food was excellent and homemade. We sampled the chile, the wings that were crispy and generously soaked in a sauce whose name escapes me but one that I never heard of before, a fresh cut French fry mixture topped with what they called the “Garbage Can” and a BLT sandwich, which we split, made with what Judy thought to be, pizza dough. By the time Judy and I walked out we were happy that we made the stop and remarked to each other that all we had eaten was wonderful and that we were glad we split everything. We will return on the bike when the weather is warm.

          It was another fifty or so miles before we returned home. The road seemed longer, and time seemed quicker. Our pretend time was nearing an end. Though we made the journey in the comfort of four wheels and a heater and the radio playing all the songs from the past, I will remember this pretend journey above all the other pretend journeys.

After a slow and cold winter, spring has finally come to our part of the country. The Robins have arrived and dispersed to tend to their instinctual duties. The weather has been above normal in temperature and the longing for the road is burning.

            During the past week, several days of beckoning were endured and ignored the best I could. My bike had been in the shop getting some work done before the coming of spring. The work was completed three days ago, and she was brought home that same day. I had some extensive work done to the suspension to lower the seat height and provide both Judy and I with a smoother and more comfortable ride. The yearly inspection was due at this time also and during the inspection process the front brake pads were found to need replacement. These things, and a complete oil change, were performed and payment was in the form of gift cards which were given to me as part of my retirement from my employer.

            After picking up the bike and making a quick and hasty supper, Judy and I took the bike on a short, fifty mile, run around the area to test the new suspension and welcome in the spring. The forecast was calling for the following day to be sunny and bright with temperatures in the mid to high sixties. That day was Saturday and plans were made to make the most of the day and ride. So, without any “first ride of the year” traditions to break, we planed on visiting a little roadside diner Judy and I frequent a couple times per year, about seventy-five miles south, near the town of Alexandria Pa. called “Route 22 Diner”.

            We started or campaign to the diner about 11 AM knowing from past treks that it takes just under two hours to reach. A light breakfast held us in check as we rolled along the cool spring morning. It felt wonderful to be back on two wheels and with the new suspension working as planned, smoothing out the bumps from a hard thud to a softer pulse, and the motor singing to me in a monotone baritone voice, I was in my zone. My Zen, if you will. I could lean back into my wife, breath deep, and become one with the bike and all that surrounded us.

            There was no new foliage on the trees and shrubs as of yet, so the barren and bleakness of the fauna told of the passing brutality of winter as the warmth of the day promised the new spring and winters retreat.

            Mile after mile I soaked in all the freshness of the seasons new day that I could. The air, though slightly chilly, was refreshing with the smells of early springtime permeating my nose and memory banks of days so long ago, yet so fresh in mind that it was just a short time ago. Memories of two skinny kids on Honda SL70’s and dreaming of “someday”.

            The trip to the diner was pleasant and without sour incident of any type and we had made the journey in our predicted time slot of just under two hours.

            The diner started life as a railroad mail car and in 1946 it was trucked to its present location. One only must look at the shape of the inside to be able to tell of its origins. Or just use of the three foot by twelve-foot, restroom for a dead giveaway.

            The staff is always friendly, and the food is homemade. Breakfast is served all day long and I saw a few stack of pancakes drift by our seat at the bar, big enough to quell the hunger of anyone I know.

            Our fare for the day consisted of chile and a BLT sandwich for me and a salad and stuffed pepper soup for Judy. After which, we headed for home on a different and longer route from which we came.

            These type of routes are unique in that they entail all the major types of road one will encounter. We traveled through city, four lane highways, two lane rural roads as well as unmarked roads. It was well into our home ward journey when Judy got a message on her cell phone saying her brother and his girl friend would meet us in a town called Patton at the local stop-n-rob.

            Now, anyone familiar with me knows that I prefer to ride alone. But I make exception for Mick. First, he’s family. But mostly he has the same riding style and ideals as I.

            We caught up with Mick and Tina as they were fueling up. A course was set, and we were back on the road in ten minutes, or so, time.

            The way home took Judy and I on a different route than we had experienced. It too was void of new foliage so I could just sit back and watch the road ahead as my brother-in-law led the way.

 A stop for supplies in Clearfield at the JG Warehouse was needed by Mickey and Tina and there we met a man on a motorized bicycle. He told us his story of not being able to afford a Harley, so he purchased an eighty-cc kit and installed it, with an abundance of zip ties, on his bicycle for under $200 and painted to words “Poorman’s Harley” on the gas tank. He told us he could get up to forty-five miles-per-hour and the company that manufactures them was coming out with a 100-cc version, though the name of the company escapes me. He was an incredibly unique man and his machine to say the least. But I could not help thinking of a time long ago when such a machine started the motorcycle industry.    

After stowing their supplies, we traveled together with Judy’s brother and girlfriend a little further before splitting up and going on our separate way.

            A total of 200 miles was logged on the odometer and unlike past day trips through changing scenarios and back roads, I was not nearly as tired. Judy too confirmed she was not as tired or sore as previous seasons. The suspension had worked.

Ventura Highway. A Warm Kiss Goodbye.

          I have borne witness to sixty-two Octobers during my time. I have enough stored knowledge of the season to realize that it could just as well be cold and snowing. But today, October 11, 2020, the weather is a pleasant seventy degrees and mostly sunny.

          The reality is that this day may be the last ride of 2020. Plans were made the night before and a time for departure was determined to be between 10:30 and 11 AM. This would leave time in the morning to do some daily chores until the air warmed.

Contrary to our usual departure, we were a little early as we pulled out of the driveway at 11:15. Our last-of-the-year trip will be one that is a favorite of mine and Judy’s. One that will take us to sparsely populated areas with lite traffic and little to no cell phone service. Perfect!

          The air was slightly chilly rolling along at fifty-five and I may have been a bit hasty in my decision to leave my signature blue jean jacket in the saddlebag. But it was not unbearable, and I was quickly able to retreat my thoughts to the calming effect of the day and the surroundings. The tranquil peace and calm I find on two wheels is accentuated when I can lean back into my wife, friend and partner of thirty-seven of my sixty-two Octobers, while taking in the baritone rumble of the motor below that propels us to our destination.  

          Our plan is to ride to the nearby town of Clearfield and continue on for about eight miles where we will pick up Route 53 and follow it to Route 144 North into the remote town of Renovo Pa. where we will pick up Route 120 and follow it to Driftwood Pa. There we pick up Route 555 back to Route 255 into DuBois Pa. and then home. A round trip of about 175 miles.

          We were well into Route 144 and the remoteness of the smooth road when it dawned on me that the song I have been singing and humming in my head is an old favorite of mine by the soft rock group America. The melody seemed to fit the day and the road we were on is my “Ventura Highway”.

          (Depending on which version of the song’s meaning you are inclined to believe, it was written by band member Dewey Bunnell while staying in England. The lyric “Alligator lizards in the air”. Was inspired by the clouds overhead when he was a young boy and was waiting for his Dad to change a flat tire they got while traveling on the Ventura Freeway.)

          Mile after peacefully secluded mile rolled beneath us and the colorful fall foliage, presented to us by The Keepers, drew our attention. No, do not get me wrong, I have but the smallest admiration for the bright colors of fall. Though pretty, they signal the coming winter. A season I have no time for but am forced to endure. I receive no invigoration, nor do I give any type of admiration to the frozen death like calm and bleakness they call “Winter”.

          I forced the coming season from my thoughts and settled back into the day and the road ahead while the motor sings to me from below. With only the two of us on the road, I begin to dance the bike back and forth, within our lane, in a bitumen ballet.

          After a quick stop at a scenic overlook to take a few pictures and employ the use of the portable facilities, we were back on the road and coming into one of my favorite parts of the trip.

          The road is a, five-mile, downhill trip, and a sort of slalom run for the mechanized traveler. Switch backs and sharp turns highlight the downhill winding road in the middle of an area of nowhere. The two wheeled rider must be on their best for the challenge but it’s not so tough for the novice rider not to enjoy also.

          At the foot of the downhill road trip, lays the town of Renovo. Once a booming railroad and lumber town, it is now economically challenged.

          Judy had picked out a place to get a cup of coffee in this town while on the back of the bike utilizing an “app” on her phone before entering the areas that have no cell phone service. She is my navigator when the need arises for such and she guided us to the spot with little trouble.

          The outside of the place was what one would expect from an economically dying town. It was in dire need of some upkeep and remodeling, but we dawned our government mandated masks. (Do not even get me started on this highly questionable and unconstitutional injunction.) Inside, all I will say is that we looked around, inhaled a strange and unpleasant odor, and left without coffee.

          Traveling to the other end of town we hit Route 120. The road from Renovo to Driftwood follows the Sinnemahoning branch of the Susquehanna River and some of the most beautiful scenery Pennsylvania has to offer.

          There are places along the route where you are only a few feet from a cliff, from when the road was cut, on one side and a steep drop-off to the river below on the other side.

          This part of our trip not only parallels the river but also runs through deep woods and into the heart of Pennsylvania’s Elk heard grounds. We traveled the rest of our journey always watchful for the large beast.

          In Driftwood we connected with Route 555 and the last of the wooded leg of our trip.

          It’s about thirty miles to Route 255 from Driftwood and as we got closer to Route 255 the traffic began to get heavier and there were spots where the annual Elk gazers had the road almost shut off due to their inconsiderate parking. The combination of the day’s warmth, the fall foliage, and the Elk had brought out people by the droves and yes, I guess you could say we were part of that sojourn also.

          We arrived home around four o’clock that afternoon and stored the bike away to get ready for an outdoor cookout and fire. Judy and I hosted the small get together for my Sister, my son, and his girlfriend and their two daughters, our Granddaughters Harlee and Leah.

          After we all had our fill of burgers and dogs, potato salad and taco salad, I began to think about the day. Perhaps the last nice day to ride was today, perhaps this is the last nice weekend of summer. Like a lover or good friend, a kiss or handshake or a hug goodbye is never enough. You want more. I want just one more ride. I want just one more warm sunny day before the freeze.

          This summer too had its own uniqueness with the, highly politicized, Covid-19. Summer was ruined and for some even their businesses and lives are now just memories.

Pools closed and gatherings of all kinds canceled. Even our own hometown Fourth of July celebration, a celebration known throughout the state, was nothing more than a few bottle rockets sent aloft from afar. Disappointing is an understatement and the political parties never missed an opportunity to blame someone for not doing enough or some wanting to implement too much restriction.

          I also thought about that song that stayed with me the entire trip today. It was a song from long ago. A song of little importance then but now a song of deep reflection. That song was popular when I was at an age when the world was one of wonder and exploration on the first of my lifelong obsession with motorcycles. I had the world before me, and all problems would be handled by Mom and Dad.

          Now we are the “Mom and Dad”, and it’s up to us to fix the problems for our children and grandchildren. It’s going to be a long winter.

 

Well, here we are. In a place and time that, until now, was just the stuff science fiction movies and books were made about. It’s been strongly suggested (just short of an official order) by local, state, and federal authorities, that all human mammals stay in their homes and six feet away from other human contact as much as possible and all because of a simple microscopic virus cell. The Corona Virus or Covid-19.
Tens of thousands have contracted the virus worldwide, and so too, thousands have succumbed to it. Scary stuff? Well, when you think of the bouts of the annual flu season and the tens of thousands that “catch” the flu every year along with the thousands that also perish from it, is Corvid-19 truly any worse? I really don’t know at this point. Though I don’t think it is to be taken lightly I believe the hysteria surrounding it may be somewhat out of context.
But there are some bright spots and like everything else on this earth, there is a bit of humor in some dark corners of this pandemic.
The name “Corona” for instance. Whoever gave this moniker to the cell sized demon was not a beer drinker. As for reasons that bare no reasoning, the maker of the unfortunately same named beer, reported a drop of over thirty percent in sales at the start of the virus outbreak. Why?!?! Trust me, it’s not their fault. Honest! The word “corona” is Spanish for crown or wreath. There is nothing regal about this virus.
Then there is the, completely inexplicable, hoarding of toilet paper! Toilet paper!! Does everyone think that contacting Corvid-19 leads to chronic toilet usage? What did mankind do before toilet tissue was invented? Have we become so refined that we have distanced ourselves from the outhouse and the Sears and Roebuck catalog? Most homes, now days, have a shower right next to, at least one, toilet in the house. But my new theory for the high demand is that it just may be that every time someone coughs or sneezes the rest of us crap our pants.
Mankind, or the more politicly correct, humankind, is nothing more than another form of mammal inhabiting this big blue ball. And as such, we are prone to natures control.
Plagues, viruses, and disease have been with us for all of humankind’s days on this earth and will continue to do so for as long as we are here. I and my family are just as prone and susceptible as the rest of humanity. The Spanish influenza outbreak in 1918 victimized my Dad as a young boy. The Hong Kong flu in 1968 singled myself out as a receptor and I remember being sick and bedridden for two weeks and yet, both Dad and I survived. So, stay calm and relax but stay vigilant and wash your hands!
The time of self-quarantine will pass. Even though it my take a while and be testing one’s patience. My wife, for example, is a wonderful cook and the kitchen is her escape. I, on the other hand, like to dabble in the kitchen but I’m very limited in my culinary skills. So, when the two of us get together in the kitchen to preform a bit nutritional wizardry, the resulting stage show ends up in a Pitbull fight. Our time together in the kitchen during this confinement will be severely limited.
TV is a matter of taste. I can hardly call todays programing “entertainment”. We now receive over 100 channels and when I look back on the days of my youth when we got three channels clearly (most of the time) and one or two fuzzy channels. There was no remote except for the youngest member of the family, which was me in the case of my family. But the programing was far better then. Shows were funny. Shows were moral. Shows could be watched by the whole family right up to the time all programing went off the air after the Johnny Carson show. Now days there are only a bleak few Judy and I enjoy together. “My” remote will get a workout in the coming days, desperately searching for mind numbing nutritional support.
Computers, cell phones and the internet? Don’t even get me started. What’s true and what is false is a cloudy grey. Social media is a cauldron of boiling misinformation resulting in a putrid stew of discontent and hate. Their use, by me, is mostly for banking, email, and weather.
So, while it’s still too cold to enjoy the freedom of my two wheeled adventure transport, I may catch up on some writing or some menial odds and ends jobs. Thou I may prepare for the worst; I expect none such to happen. But which ever the outcome, I WILL NOT PANIC! Why should I?…… I have toilet paper.

In the fall of 1975, I was seventeen and went to a vocational technical high school where I studied auto mechanics and girls. I had shoulder length hair usually covered by a blue Navy watch cap (as a tribute to my hero of years earlier.) Being five foot eight inches in height and about 130 pounds I needed some type of female attraction.
The 1968 VW Beetle that I drove wasn’t really “chick magnet”. So, I found a 1965 Pontiac GTO, or “Goat”, sans entire drive train. (Just as the term “Pony Car” describes the Ford Mustang, the term “Goat” was moniker for the Pontiac GTO) I bought a 400 c.i. at the local auto reclamation center. It had been in a demolished 1972 Lemans and had low mileage but had been sitting for about a year. I found a 4.11 rear end gearing from a fellow motor head but ran out of funding before I could secure a decent 4 speed transmission. Through an extensive word-of-mouth search, I found a 3 speed that bolted up (don’t remember the model or what it came out of) and was told by the owner that I could use it until I found a 4 speed. The interior of the car was all original and in fairly good shape. So, after enlisting the help of a friend who could weld and braze, the floor was rebuilt, and other minor body work done. (I should mention at this point that this car was used at the local drag strip and was plastered with stickers on the outside.)
After about two weeks of work and scrounging for parts, at times not always legally, I was ready to put the pieces together. I didn’t even have enough money left to tear down the motor to see what needed replaced or was broken or bent. I got the motor and the rest of the drive train installed, drained all the old motor oil and flushed the old coolants as best I could and replaced both. The time came for the motor to return to life.
My heart was beating like a virgin in a brothel on two for one night. I remember testing the clutch about a dozen times, making sure the transmission was in neutral about a dozen more. I remember thinking…”I was going to burn up the road and have several girls on each arm.” Pretty high expectations for a scrawny long-haired kid.
My mouth was dry, and I spit out my chew of Skol as my shaking hand reached the key on the dash. The hood was up, and I could see the top of the Holly 650 carburetor from between the hood and the cowl.
My buddy was standing by watching for the mammoth cast iron beast to, once again, return to life in a thundering roar that could only be matched by the mighty hammer of Thor. This was it. Every cent I had was in this car.
A quick tap on the key told me the motor was free. Ok, now this time it’s go or no. Slowly the beast turned over at first, as if the first few revolutions were just an awakening. Then faster and faster the crankshaft moved each piston in their respective cylinders. Wider and wider my eyes grew as anticipation made way for what was about to awaken all Hell and its demons. Then suddenly “barroom pufft”. “Did someone fart?” Oh no!! It was a backfire and the big four-barreled carburetor is spewing flames! I removed my foot from the pedal and cranked the motor until all flame was inhaled by my metal monster just as the battery had given its last amperage and died.
Rick (my buddy) ask me if I had the gas pedal floored while I was “turning the thing over”. “Ummm.. probably” came my sheepish answer. “Well don’t!!” came his strongly worded reply. “You wan’a burn down my parents’ house AND your car?” With that thought we determined to charge up the battery enough to try it again. This time with no throttle.
After about an hour or so we returned to our designated positions and try one more time before it got too late. Rick was standing watch and I was at the wheel. Clutch is still working. (Don’t know why I did this it just seemed the thing to do.) Transmission in neutral.
Growl, growl, growl the motor reported its willingness to try. “Give it just a LITTLE gas. Just a little!!” Rick commanded. Growl, growl, growllllll….. BAROOM, BAROOM, BAROOM. She lives!!! It runs!! “Holy crap it works!” I shouted to Rick who was now in a seizure of some sort and pointing at the back of the car. Blue smoke was billowing out of the exhaust as my eyes were burning out of my head and I was choking to the point of losing my supper. We had forgotten to open the garage door enough to run an extended exhaust hose outside.
About the time we managed to find the garage door through the thick blue fog, Ricks dad burst in the garage through the connecting doorway. With tears streaming down his face and a cough like a miner’s black lung he wanted to know if he was about to lose his home and if we had ANY idea just what the hell we were doing. While I was trying to help Rick look for a fan to repel the blinding and noxious fog from his parents garage through my stinging and burning eyes I heard his Dad order that it might be a good idea to “Get that piece of crap out of the garage and shut it the hell off!”
After a few more days of tinkering with the timing and adjusting the carburetor, I had my Frankenstein running fairly good and the climate changing exhaust gasses even died down and all smog warnings were lifted.
All paperwork was up to date and insurance was secured. Now, for her maiden voyage into the world.
My first trip into town with my GTO was on a Saturday night. Up and down Main Street I cruised, and I could see the onlookers gawking at me. I was cool.
Then I began to realize that they weren’t gawking at me. They were laughing. Laughing! At MY GTO and me? Those damn stickers. I looked like a circus wagon and indeed I quickly began to wear the title of “Circus Wagon” everywhere I drove. So, it was for the next few weeks. Smirks and laughter and taunts of “Hey, Circus Wagon!” One day I had heard all the “Circus Wagon” jeers I could stand and ask a taunting driver in a Chevelle SS if he wanted to “run it” “title for title?” He just roared and said he be ashamed to win “that piece of s**t”.
A day or so later I was waiting at a stop light on the boulevard of the nearby town of DuBois. At the time the boulevard had only two stop lights. One at each end of the quarter mile four lane strip which made for some exciting and illegal street drags. But I was in no mood to race and was minding my own business when a punk just as young and scrawny as I pulled up next to me in a rat car Camaro and “gave me the pipes.” Now I knew with the three-speed transmission I could not beat him out of the hole. But I had had enough and besides, when someone gives you the pipes there is only one honorable thing to do. Waiting for the light to go green I revved up the big block motor to the red line and held it there. I could hear the motor rebel just as the light turned green. I side stepped the clutch and was propelled back into the seat. But the Camaro was ahead by about three quarters of a length. I held the pedal hard to the floor never giving any sympathy to my car or her heart. I was well into the red zone once more when I had to shift or scatter the motor over the boulevard. I threw the car into second hard and simply side stepped the clutch pedal once more. Only this time a loud bang came from the rear of my GTO and I lost all control of it. The car whipped broadside and began to travel down the four-lane street that way. White knuckled on the steering wheel I could only hope my car would not catch traction and start rolling down the road. I slid sideways for what seemed like forever, and then it was over. I sat up right in the middle of the road unable to think or move. My car had given me everything it had and broke the rear cross member in the process. The frame had shifted but the rear-end remained attached to the frame, but not by much, and the drive shaft stayed in place somehow also. I had stopped right in front of a grocery store and managed to limp it into their parking lot before the cops found me.
Tempting fate once more and pushing my spent luck, I drove the car ten miles home sideways and steering hard. The next day I told my parents I had had too much trouble with the GTO and was going to sell it. Much to their relief the car was gone forever a few days later and I had the price of a broken-down Circus Wagon in my pocket.
What little hard earned and scrounged money I had put into that car wasn’t even returned by half and my next car was a 1971 Ford Pinto.