BIG WEEK Coming Up

The passage of time is an awesome event. I was getting ready this morning when I stepped back and looked, really looked, at our bathroom. I had employed several special craft men, 3 1/2 years ago, to make the room more invalid-accessible. At the time, we believed that Mike would need those adjustments, sooner than later.

One man, a master carpenter, helped me sketch the floor plan and purchase fixtures, flooring, and so forth. Another man, a master painter, had finished the walls and then painted perfectly. At the time, they both believed that this was their gift to their dying friend.

The painter, a young man, passed away this summer in a drowning accident. The carpenter just stepped into eternity this week.

"You never know." Trite but true.

We just returned home from Oakbrook Church where Mike played acoustic and electric guitars with the worship band. We're learning about becoming fully committed followers of Christ. Our church's small groups are meeting weekly to continue the study.Tomorrow, while I return to my classroom and more of the travails of Hester and Dimmsdale, Mike will be out at the oncology center for a CT scan and some blood work. He meets later this week to discuss the results.

Wednesday, Mike will be speaking, once again, at The Kokomo Huddle, which meets every Wednesday noon at the YMCA. Our friend, Dick Vega, will have his life celebrated after that, with a Memorial Mass.

Thursday, Mike will meet with Dr. Moore to discuss the progress of his disease, the effectiveness of his pain medications, and other treatment options.

Friday, we hope to find our way to The Brick, a monthly get together at our friends' home. Then, Saturday, instead of driving to the cottage, we will celebrate the wedding of two very special people, Erin Shultz and Drew Larison.

Within the joy of weddings, we also tread on sad ground. And, as Mike's pain needs sometimes exceed his current medications, we expect to hear some news about his disease.

We know that you pray for us. And, unless we give you specifics, you ask God to meet our needs. And He does.

For this week, we list some specifics for your prayers.  Thank you, our friends.

What's important: My FAVORITE Soup

 It is not widely known, but I am the world’s foremost authority on French onion soup.  I am a connoisseur of this soup, which I consider to be the food of the gods.  Put me in a new restaurant and I will scan the menu instantly and hopefully for French onion, which I will invariably order.  Put a steaming bowl of French onion soup in front of me and my day has been made, no matter what has gone wrong.  For me, tasting French onion soup is a lot like having sex: it is always good, it is just better sometimes than at other times.

I have kept track of my French onion soup obsession for at least thirty years.  I have had this soup in South America, North America (U.S. and Canada), Europe (England and France), the Caribbean, on ships at sea, including an aircraft carrier (U.S. S. Stennis),  and on an airplane traversing the Atlantic.  I have had it prepared by my mom, my wife, countless chefs (including several fancy cooking school graduates), and made it myself (not bad, but not great).  I have had it out of a can (yuck) and had it scratch made in front of me.  I have watched Julia Child prepare it on her TV cooking program, as well as virtually every TV chef you can think of.  Everyone who cooks seems to have their own recipe, which they claim is the best.  Certainly some are very good, but the best?  Only I can be the judge of the best.

The best French onion soup I have ever had was in Bayeaux, France.  I had employed a professor of history who had written his PhD dissertation of the D-Day invasion to give me a personal guided tour of the invasion beaches.  One evening he asked if I was hungry for any particular food.  I, of course, said that I would like French onion soup.  He made us a reservation at a tiny restaurant that had only six tables.  The restaurant had been in the family for five generations.  It had a floor of solid stone that had grooves in it from the scraping of the table legs.   

At one end of the dining area was a large stone fireplace where the chef cooked in plain view of the patrons.  I was mesmerized watching him make several different meals for the customers all at the same time.  Of course, the ambiance of the restaurant was not hurt by the waitresses.  They were both very slender and tall.  Each wore a very short black skirt with an almost translucent white blouse with a bra matching the skirt.  They also wore a small white apron and three inch black heels.  A living fantasy!

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Back to the soup.  I asked the professor to ask the chef how he 

made his soup stock.  The chef said it was never actually made; he just kept putting left over beef drippings in the pot and would occasionally add some salt.  I would not be surprised if the pot was original and that the beef stock dated back to 1600.  At any rate, the soup was quite thick.  It was not runny at all, but it was not like peanut butter, either.  You could take a spoonful and turn the spoon sideways and the soup would run off, but just barely.  The onions had caramelized perfectly.  The bread was stale from the day before, when it was freshly made by the baker next door.  Consequently, it was a bit crunchy, even when soaked in the beef broth.  The gr Gruyère cheese which had melted into the solid piece of bread floating on top of the soup, hiding the small bits of bread and onions below, had melted all over the outside of the large bowl. The soup was quite salty with a dash of pepper and a scoop of whipped butter on top of the bread. Despite the salt and pepper, the soup tasted sweet with a little tang to it. The soup was presented on a plate covered with a white napkin under the bowl.  On the side was a warm croissant with homemade butter.  I am not sure French onion soup gets better than that.  Even without the waitresses.

Until recently, second place was held by a small restaurant at the Culver Military Academy on Lake Maxintuckee.  While I could not see the soup being prepared, it was very similar to the Bayeaux soup, but differed in that the soup was served with a baked crust completely over the top of the bowl, much like a chicken pot pie.  Gruyère cheese was melted on top of the crust which had been slathered in butter.  The usual cheese was under the crust, also.  Like the soup in Bayeaux, it was thick, just short of being paste-like.  Just the soup makes a meal. 

 Like I said, it was second, until recently.

I took a short get away trip to New York City two weeks ago.  I spent all of the trip in Manhattan, watching people, while I ate at several of the many sidewalk cafes.  At the corner of Broadway and 47^th is a restaurant called Le Maisson.  It is never closed and has French onion soup.  It is not cheap.  $8.50 for the soup and $3.00 for a freshly made, warm croissant with whipped butter and apricot jam (my favorite) or a small saucer of honey with part of the honeycomb present.  Your choice.

The New York soup was superbly made.  Like in Bayeaux, it was served on a plate with a white cloth napkin separating the bowl from the plate.   

A separate soup spoon was provided, as well as a butter knife.  The soup was piping hot with the Gruyère cheese melted all over the top of the bowl.  There was enough cheese in the soup that any attempt to get to the onions also netted the cheese, which drug along the thoroughly soaked pieces of bread.  It was very salty, evened out with at least a tablespoon of butter melted into the soup.  The cheese was excellent as it passed my homemade test.  If you take a spoonful of soup, the cheese should stretch out of the bowl at least a foot, while still sticking to the spoon.  This makes eating it fun and challenging.

 I think that French onion soup is good date food for couples.  If you are in Manhattan and the weather is warm, order two bowls of French onion soup at Le Maisson.  Watch the Manhattanites from a sidewalk table for two.  It isn’t cheap, but the best rarely is.

For those of you readers who live in Kokomo and share my obsession for French onion soup, I am afraid I have only bad news for you.  Soup, which masquerades as French onion soup, can be had at Whiskey Creek and Panera.  Don’t bother with either.  It is poorly made in both places with inferior ingredients.  The inadequacies are many.  Both managements insult the consumer by offering such swill.

So there you have it.  A complete description of where the best French onion soup is.  Go get it.

Mike out.

Rambling Thoughts

We're getting the first promises of autumn days with cool nights. After a long, hot, tree-through-roof summer, I'm ready for the change of seasons.

Fall is my favorite. Of course, there are all the colors and that crisp, fresh air. Neighbors greet each other throughout the rituals of leaf raking, landscape chopping, and that final mow. Kiddies are settling into school; parents are trying to keep up with them. And here, at the cottage (both locations) the Bolingers continue to live life.

I'm back, once again, surrounded by 17-year-olds, leading them through the wonders of our American culture through literature. Here at the beginning, some of my brighter kids are figuring out that they must DO something like, oh, homework, if they are to earn the grades they want. Sometimes, I'd swear that before my class, they earned their high grades on their abilities to be charming. They ARE charming. Some are downright flirty..."I like your shoes, Mrs. B."...I take it in stride, grimace and say, "Well, fine. Now do your homework."

Mike is teaching a new class, TORTS, to paralegal hopefuls. He came home the first day and said, "I wouldn't hire any of them." I asked him why. "Because of how they dress."

Ah yes.  I reminded him that this is college; also many kids have not been told how to dress. By anyone. "But, they might come in for an interview and never know why they didn't get the job," he said.

So, we joined forces...I created a POWERPOINT on how to dress for an office. What was I thinking? That the hub would plug in a flash drive and show this on a screen? The man who will not, WILL NOT, learn to use Blackboard.....I had to promise his boss that I would post on the platform.  No, the only way these students would benefit from my work was to make hard copies and pass them out.
So that's what happened.

We just keep moving on, working, playing, 'staying vertical' as Mike likes to say. The cancer thing is present, like an unwelcome guest. We can't ignore it but we can try to shove it into the shadows. Out and about, people ask me how my husband is doing. I tell them he's vertical. I hope that works.

But I must confess that this chronic disease is wearing on both of us. When we are tired or discouraged by something else, that guest in the corner steps forward to show its ugly face. And even as this is a beautiful time of the year, cancer won't be ignored.

How many times has some well wisher passed judgment? "Mike's got such a great positive attitude. I'm sure that's why he's still around."

They mean well. Actually, anyone who knows Mike knows that he comes from a long line of pessimists, folks who by practice, prepare for the worst. So he does not have a positive attitude. What he has, we have determined, is some work still to do.

And as those opportunities present themselves, we smile and move ahead.

Coming up in September, once again, Mike gets to play with the band at Oakbrook. He's really excited about this. Also, once again, he will be speaking at The Kokomo Huddle, a midweek meeting at the YMCA.

Ah, the Y. For years, the hub had a standing date at noon to swim with buddies. This after years of competitive swimming. When the cancer recurred (2/11), and treatment commenced, Mike decided that he must stop his swimming. And he did. But he missed it.

So, starting this week, he's back swimming laps. It feels so good. He's smiling.

We are so blessed with our many friends, folks praying for our specific needs and whatever general needs we have. We continue to live within this prayer bubble. So, thank you.

I see that it's late, for those of us who get up early. So, for now, I'll sign off.

Ye-HA! HogRoast/Birthdayparty/EndofSummerCelebration

 When we arrived at the cottage on Friday night, picnic tables littered the road in front. Nearby parked a pick-up with a cage attached. THAT had held a real, live, oinking pig only hours before. Now, she had given her all and was butchered, ready to cook. And across the yard, our neighbor had set up the smoker.

We awakened Saturday morning to smoke. Savory smoke.

 The day was sunny. Various neighbors (and look at that cutie without the shirt) lent hands and backs to setting up.

Several friends from Kokomo were coming to the bash. Some arrived early for boating, biking, and general whatever.

Help trickled in. What had begun as a general pitch in was now on track for a really well-organized bash. Our neighbor Lori took the helm. Nice touches like PIG name tags, PIG table clothes, and PIGGY banks started sprouting.

The band arrived at 3 to set up. Time Travelers, a well-known Indiana band was going to be ready at the 7 PM start time.

Time Travelers, as some may know, consists of three great musicians, one being Mike's brother, Matt. And, by the way, Saturday was HIS birthday.

Greeting guests

 This was just before the crowd began to crowd. Lori had sent invitations to everybody on the Island. She had receive some RSVPs but we knew that this was in no way an accurate count. Our goals, mainly, were that we would not run out of food, drinks, and fun until everybody wore down.


Ready, set.....

 There's the hub, entertaining the ladies who came early. He found his shirt.

To the right, that's Eric, one of the Time Travelers. The road was already shut off and several women were standing guard. There were not going to let him in. Good thing they changed their minds.


A few special pictures.

This is Cynthia Evans, long time friend. We met when Natalie (center) was just a baby. Mom was THRILLED to have her little girl and used to doll her up in ruffles and lace.

 And here is Mike's Aunt DeDe (married to Homer) and my mother-in-law, Mary Ann. What you can't see behind them is the sea of future revelers, making their way toward the end of the street.

Friends from Oakbrook made the drive.

 And so it began. Lori and my sister-in-law Stephanie had hand-shredded the pork. It filled two large pans. Many people brought food to add to the feast: the BEANS food group, the SALADS food group, POTATO food group, and the CHIPS food groups were well-represented. And, of course, the SUGAR food group got its own several tables. You could not turn around without finding a cooler or tub with soda or beer or water.

 What was really fun: although the 'start time' was 7, quite a few arrived early and were ready. And as the evening wore on, more and more arrived. Some came, assessed, and tweeted their friends to 'get down here.' And some, inspired, walked back home and returned with more stuff. Munchies, yes. But also sidewalk chalk, uncut melon, helium balloons; one guy came back with his 'train,' a kid-friendly ride with an engine and 4 attached cars.

 The Time Travelers performed for 30 minutes and then we sang Happy Birthday to Mike and he blew out his candles. Then, he took the mic and gave a little speech, this time about how important friends and neighbors are. Especially THESE neighbors.

Of course, our great neighbor from Kokomo, Mike, was here along with his wife. Plus several other fans of the hub. His angel oncology nurse, Cathy P made the trip. Made his night.

 I realize as I look at these pictures, besides the back of your body shots, I haven't captured the crowd. Lori told me that they had 200 name tags and ran out early.

Matt said he was not good as estimating. I say we had about 400 on our little corner of Winona Lake.

 AND, they stayed. The sun went down, the street got dark. Several late additions fired up portable back yard pits.

Dancing, singing, eating, more eating.

And for me, what I loved about last night: this is the 4th time we've celebrated a birthday for my guy. It gets bigger every year and people around him just grow more pleased.

And as I sat with my friend Cynthia and watched the action, I could not miss Mike working the crowd. This man who for most of our marriage was a bit of a social recluse: strolling among his friends, laughing, entertaining them with stories.  In the past, he might have attended if I nagged him; he would have stayed a few minutes and disappeared. Last night, he outlasted me. Joyous.

Of Updates and BIRTHDAY Parties!!!

We've celebrated 3 birthdays for Mike since 2009. Prior to this, I don't remember ever noticing so much.

2009, in the midst of diagnosis, we smiled and met thinking, really, this would be his final party. He was frail. I gave him what he asked for -- an electronic frame filled with photos so 'when I become bed fast, I can look at them."

2010, in remission, we celebrated with many friends who crowded into our non air conditioned cottage on a scorching hot day and pretended that it was no so hot.

2011, Mike's health had become a series of palliative measures as the cancer had reoccurred. Again, amidst much celebration, we felt THIS would be his last birthday.

So here it is, 2012, 2 weeks away from #61. What to do, what to do?

My idea was to skip it. I mean, we've soaked this for almost 4 years; also his birthday falls squarely in the middle of the week when I'll be back to school. Several friends up here voiced their disappointment. I put it on a back burner.

On ANOTHER burner was an idea floated by neighbors. Our little island has been through the meteorological wringer this summer, what with storms, trees uprooted, roofs smashed, and so forth. Amidst the clean up, we chatted about how we ought to have a street party to celebrate when all the work is done.

And on a side burner, our neighbor, Mike's old friend since before high school, has been experimenting with roasting meat in a pit that he dug. He announced that he's ready for a hog roast.

In addition, besides the hub, his sister, her husband, his brother and HIS wife, plus a few non relations have birthdays that fall at the end of August/beginning of September.

THIS has gelled into the First Annual Island Hog Roast, Birthday Bash, End of Summer, Recovery Celebration: we got permission to close the end of the island to traffic, and the party is ON!

Saturday, August 25, 2012, any and all of the above will be cheered and celebrated from about 7 until midnight. Besides a hog, there will be lots of pitch ins, beverages, a live band, and who knows what else? Every time someone brings it up, new additions surface.

Island will be closed from the left end to the first side street.

So, from 501 Administration, Winona Lake, Indiana, we are sending out a general invitation to anyone and everyone who would like to come. Fine with us, come earlier and enjoy the village (closes at 6) and the lake (never closes.)

You purists will want to RSVP but really, it's not necessary. Our head count is somewhere between 50 and 500. And my neighbors and I can handle it.

Yes, Mike will mark another birthday. Amazing. And praise our God. What more does He have for the hub to do?

The rest of the update: Mike has been on chemo vacation all summer. He will meet with his doctor on Tuesday and discuss his course of action. I would ask you to pray for him (and me) on Tuesday. We are surrounded by angels and your prayers, AND we are so well cared for by his medical team.

School starts for me on August 7. YES. THIS Tuesday. Oh my.

Mike...you may remember that he is PROFESSOR of the Year!!.. has signed up to teach TWO courses at Ivy Tech. They are so excited to get him. The ONLY part of this that is in anyway troubling: IVY Tech requires that all professors use Blackboard this year, for attendance and grades. Mike does not know how to use Blackboard nor does he want to learn.

I signed up to learn what he needs to do and then help him. This is on my agenda for Monday.

So, much is good here.

Bikers, Liars, Tires and Twits

In my past life as a lawyer, I used to privately say that I never cared much about what my client told me about his or her case.  At least that was true during the initial conference.  What I was more interested in was “how” they told me what they thought was important.  I learned more useful information about the client just observing them than they could ever tell me.  Since I never knew much law, it was good that I early learned that it was rare that the outcome of a case turned on what the law was. I figured out that most cases were decided on who was lying, or was lying the least, or who was the better liar.  Cynical?  Sure.  But true, none the less. Studying my client’s body language, their mannerisms, tells, and listening to their speech often yielded significant information about them, particularly as to their truthfulness.

Motorcyclists are similar to the clients.  What they tell you they are going to do and what they actually do are often far apart.  Most people who buy a motorcycle do not buy it for what they are actually going to do with it.  They buy it because of what they dream of doing with it on some distant date. Sadly, there is a serious disconnect between reality and fantasy.

suited up for action!

 Many motorcyclists I am convinced are dissatisfied with their lives and decide they can change their personas or self-image by buying a particular bike and what they envision are the articles of clothing that will buttress their delusion that they can change their character or self-image.  Buy the right bike and the mandatory clothing and any Caspar Milquetoast can change into whatever he wants to change into for at least a couple of hours…and just as easily shed that same image by putting the bike in the garage and changing clothes.  Pitiful, really.

There is no better proof of the correctness of my observation than checking out any Harley-Davidson clothing store.  You will notice that I did not say Harley-Davidson motorcycle shop.  This is because HD is not so much interested in selling bikes as it is interested in selling the clothing that management wants the biker to think that he or she must have to complete the Harley-Davidson “look.”  There are a limited number of people who willingly spring for a $25,000 Harley-Davidson.  However, there untold millions who will pay $25 for a Chinese t-shirt with the Harley logo on it.  Corporate profit is the name of the game.

He's got the look!

Another example is my neighbor down the street who has a really beautiful Harley-Davidson that is loaded with chrome.  The other day I saw him polishing it.  I commented that I had never seen it dirty.  He said that he had just returned from a bike trip to Daytona for Bike Week.  I commented that the bike looked pretty clean for a 2000 mile trip.  That was when he told me that he and his buddy trailered both of their bikes all the way.  They never rode them a single inch until the trailer rolled into Daytona.

 I commented that it would be easier and less expensive to throw their “biker duds” into a suitcase and book a flight to Daytona where they could rent a Harley-Davidson and ride around on it.  If you think about it, he and his friend do not even really need to own their bikes to “make the scene” at Daytona.  Just show up on a rental.  I am thinking that if Harley-Davidson wanted to make even more money on these posers, they should open a rental biker clothing store.  Then you could rent the clothing, rent the bike, and, if it was Las Vegas, rent the babe to ride on the back.  It is logical, if you think about it.

Bella, Sophia

Lest you think I am down on Harley-Davidson owners, let me tell you about an equally ridiculous bunch.  Ducati owners.  ( I am one.)  For those of you not familiar with this brand of motorcycle, let me say it is often described as the Ferrari of the motorcycle world.  True enough.  Like Sophia Loren, Ducks are very expensive, very fast, and have at least as many curves as Sophia’s got. (Or had, anyway.)  They are almost always flaming, Italian red or screaming yellow.  And most of them never see the road.  It is said the half of the Ducks made in the last ten years reside in the living rooms of their owners. (mine spends all winter beside my bed in my bedroom.)  This is similar to most Porsche owners who simply bought the car because they are a status symbol, and which rarely escape into the sunlight from their garage-tombs. 

We call such cars and motorcycles “garage queens.”  I am positive that most Ducati and Porsche owners are scared to death of their machines and secretly recognize they can only ride or drive them in a straight line.  God help them if a curve should appear!

GEAR

Ducati babe

The riding attire of Ducatisti is as ridiculous as Harley-Davidson owners. (Note that I did not say Harley-Davidson riders; if there be any, they are few.) Ducati owners have custom made, tailored, roadracing leathers, particularly if they have a svelte babe who will ride on the back or, better yet, has her own Duck.  The leathers always have all of the advertising sewn on, just like the current factory Ducati rider or Valentino Rossi used to wear.  Of course their leathers are spotless, display no rips or tears, and have never slid down the track and slammed into the fence or guardrail.  Their helmets are carbon fiber and color matched to their leathers, as are their boots and gloves.  The rubber pucks or nylon sliders in the knees are unscarred.  They don’t drink beer, either.  Only white wine, which they sniff a lot. Like they can tell the difference in what they are drinking and Thunderbird.  Give me a break.

Ma and Pa on the road

No dust on ME

 I could go on about the Gold Wing riders (accurately described as Winnebagos on two wheels and always ridden by fat owners and their equally round wives, connected by intercoms and pulling a stupid trailer containing God only knows what, often on a Wing converted to three wheels) or Triumph owners (lost in the Fifties and Sixties and dreaming of epic road wars between the Mods and the Rockers,

Started it all

 Or Steve McQueen jumping the fence in The Great Escape; sorry to tell you this but Steve did not do the jump, Bud Elkins did, or Marlon Brando on his Triumph)  or Honda, Suzuki or Kawasaki sport bike riders (riding 175 mph bikes, wearing shorts, sandals and no shirts or helmet, with a short shorts and halter clad, nubile young thing hanging on for dear life on the bike)  I could go on, but what is the point.  I have insulted about everybody worth insulting, haven’t I?


I won’t even start about Harley-Davidson and Ducati dealerships.  Both are housed in Lexus dealership-like buildings.  The floors are polished and the showrooms are brightly lit to show off the bikes.  The service areas are strictly off limits to the customer.  The mechanic’s tool boxes are meticulously organized and outlines of specialized tools are painted on the walls.  Frankly, the work areas have more in common with a hospital operating room, than a real bike shop.  And make no mistake about it, these are not real bike shops.  Not by a long shot.

Every moderately sized town has a bike shop.  It is usually hard to find, as it will be in an out-of the-way location.  It will not be in the high rent district, either.  It will probably be located next to a railroad track in the industrial part of the town.  The building will be the survivor of many different businesses, until it finally houses the bike shop, which has probably been around for thirty years, having survived the slow deaths of several different motorcycle manufacturers.

 The main entrance door will be fortified with iron bars on the inside, with wire mesh over the windows.  An industrial strength garage door provides for direct access to the shop area.  The floor will be slick with engine oil and brake fluid.  Here and there will be a pile of sand soaking up an oil spill.  The tire balancer will not have been cleaned since it was installed twenty years ago.  The roll around mechanic’s tool boxes will be covered with decals, a girlie picture or two, and filled with clean tools which show signs of years of use.

 The work benches will be filled with used, discarded parts and engines in various states of being repaired or rebuilt.  Newspapers will be duct taped over open cylinders waiting for the installation of a head, which is getting its valves reground and the guides replaced.  Tubes of Loctite and gasket sealer will be leaking onto the bench.

 The bike lifts, the motorcycle equivalent of an operating table, will be scarred and bent, and covered in road grime.  The lighting will be dim in most of the shop, except over the repair areas, which are brightly lit with fixed and movable xenon or LED lights.  This is a real motorcycle shop for real lovers of motorcycles.  Posers, and they know who they are, do not fit in here.

My favorite bike shop has an added bonus.  It has permanently installed amplifiers and a couple of old guitars.  If you just want to hang out and play a little, so be it.  Want to play while you wait for your bike to be fixed?  Fine.  Want to show off and teach the latest blues lick you learned?  All work will cease while you astound with your gritty fretboard work.  Don’t like their guitars?  Bring your own.  It doesn’t get cooler than that, does it?  I think not.

The bike shop owner is always a radical individualist.  The straights would say they can’t handle a “real” job.  The bike shop owner would respond by saying, “Why would I want to?”  The owner will always be dressed in stained jeans, which are not necessarily dirty, just well worn.  A folding knife in a belt sheath is always ready, as is a rag for wiping off a part.  Frequently the owner will have a .32 pistol on a clip inside his belt.  (For unruly customers or a statement against Obama, the Annointed One?)  He will be wearing oiled soaked leather work boots, not Italian loafers or Harley boots (see previously described dealerships.) Foam hearing protectors will hang around his neck to protect his hearing during test run ups.

 A micrometer is always close, as is a tire pressure gauge. The owner’s hands are testimony to hundreds of tire changes, innumerable engine and transmission rebuilds, rewiring jobs, and the tweaking of carburetor jets.  Those tasks will have left his hands wrinkled, scarred and burned.  But those hands and ears are like just like  those of a good physician.  He can diagnose a problem just by listening to the internal workings of a sick motor. You can tell when you ride your ailing machine into the work bay of a real bike shop that your bike gives a sigh of relief, knowing that it will soon be well and back on the road healthy as ever.

When you find a bike shop like this, know that you are on hallowed ground.  There are not many left.  Never argue over the bill.  That is insulting to everyone.  A tip is not out of order, either.  After all, who else is going to come and get you 50 miles away when your steed goes on the fritz?  Who else is going to diagnose your problem by cell phone when you are 450 miles away and be right?

Let me tell you a true story. 

My friend from college, Dale Mitchell, and I were running Deal’s Gap in North Carolina on a Sunday.  Dale was riding his Buell (a Harley performance model) and I was on a BMW R100RS.  All of a sudden, the Buell just quit.  Deader than a doornail.  Dale and I fiddled with it for a while with no success.  Then I got the idea to call my friend, Dave Moody, who runs Moody Cycle Sales in Kokomo, with his brother, Jay.  They did not sell Buells, but I knew they knew about Harley motors and carburetors.

 I called Dave on my cell phone and described what had happened.  Dave responded by saying he was pretty sure we could fix it there on the side of the road.  He asked if I was riding my BMW.  I told him I was.  He told me to get the tool kit out and assemble the flat blade screwdriver.  (BMWs used to come with wonderful tool kits which would allow the rider to fix almost anything right where it broke down, which was rare.)

 Then he told me to find a medium sized rock.  We found one.  He told me to place the screwdriver blade on the middle of the four-sided float bowl and gently tap all four sides, using the rock.  We did.  "Now try to start it," he ordered.  Unbelievably, it fired right up.  We thanked and thanked him for saving our trip and asked what was wrong with the bike.  He informed us that the Harley carb was crap, that Dale needed to put on a Jap Mikuni, and that a piece of dirt had blocked the main jet.  Tapping the float bowl had knocked it out of the jet.  What’s that worth to you, sport?  Note that this was on a Sunday, done free of charge, and would never have worked if Dave had not known I was riding my BMW.  That's what I mean by a real bike shop.

 And what about real bike riders.  They know who they are.  They are all different.  Some are crazy, some are pretty normal, and all have an unbridled obsession about motorcycles in general and theirs, particularly. ( I did 15,000 divorces in my day.  Never once did I have a client willing to give up or sell his bike.  I did hundreds of bankruptcies, many of which had a paid off Harley as an asset.  The bankruptcy judge’s job was to grab any sell able asset, sell it and distribute it to the creditors.  Never once did the judge go after a Harley.  I always thought it was because the judge had a Harley, too.  Not true.  He said he had learned that no biker was ever going to willingly turn over his ride and that it just wasn’t worth it.)

 It is easy to spot real bikers.  Just look at their bikes.  They are not spotless.  This is because they get ridden.  Oftentimes, every day to work.  I used to drive mornings to court 20 miles up US 31.  Almost every time, I would see a woman I know riding the opposite way to work as an electrician at Chrysler on her vintage BMW.  Even in the winter with snow on the ground.  The serious Harley and Gold Wing guys talk about their trips to the Grand Canyon, Zion National Park and to Los Angeles.  Believe it or not, they ride in the rain.  Imagine that!

 One of my friends, who is the most hardcore biker I know, rides a 250 cc Suzuki.  It has 80,000 miles on it and the engine has never been apart.  A little ride for him is to Alabama or Florida…in any season.  What a man!  The bike does not look like much, but it is meticulously maintained by its owner.

  I know Ducati guys who run Deal’s Gap fully expecting to lay it down and prepare for it.  They do not care if the bike gets dinged.  It is repairable and might be made better and faster than before the skid.  No matter what it costs to fix it, they will pay the bill, just so they can throw it away again, all in the quest to go faster.

 I have never seen a stock Triumph.  Those riders always personalize their bikes.  Maybe a new exhaust, maybe an Ace Café sticker, maybe a sticker that reads “more speed vicar”, or maybe clip-ons and rear sets.  Such coolness.  If you don’t know what these things are, then you are not a Trump jockey.

 The BMW guys have stainless steel bags, GPS, and a compass, because they are known for taking the back roads, all the way to New Mexico, or Mexico, wherever.  Every sport bike rider knows where every curving road is within 100 miles of his garage.  And knows just how far the bike can be pushed on all of them.

So what’s the point of this Motorcycle ramble?  There probably isn’t any profound point to be made.  Other than that, at least for me and most other bikers, motorcycles command our attention, which almost borders on obsession, they get under your skin, you study every one you see, and you are always on the lookout for your next one.  After all, you can never have too many motorcycles…or guitars...  There is always the promise of the next one or the endless love for the one you have right now.

Mike out.

Trees: a poem and a reflection

 

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Joyce Kilmer

So, Joyce loved trees and waxed poetic one summer day in 1913. I’m guessing she liked them vertical, as they are intended.

Here, we’ve about had our fill of trees reposing in the horizontal. One hit our cottage. A neighbor’s 10-foot diameter tree uprooted, tearing out her driveway and crashing into the next house. Down the street, one fell right into the porch and roof of another cottage, knocking it off its foundation.

It’s been a busy month. Plus, we’ve been subject to a record-breaking drought. Farmers are plowing their crops under; most grass has baked to a brown, crispy mat.

So when we woke up Tuesday morning to a downpour, we smiled. Long overdue, radar indicated that this would last all day so we packed up and headed to Kokomo. There’s always something to do at the homestead.

Uh oh.

What we didn’t expect…but then our lives are full of the unexpected…was what greeted us as we turned up the driveway. The tree next to the workshop had split in two and that part had snapped off, falling into the yard.

Yes, ANOTHER tree adventure.

This time, however, the crashing trunk did NOT hit the workshop; it missed the wooded fence that neighbor Mike and my Mike had built together.

Snapped off

 It just fell into the yard, a great, green, pile of limbs and leaves.

Ok. We know the drill. Mike started to saw. I started to haul. Neighbor Mike, the man of a thousand tools, arrived home from work and pitched in.

2 hours later, the yard was clear. And we crawled into the house where it was cool.

Among the green, the orange shirt