Friday, May 29, 2009

Just Another Friday

Think about this….. “What will I do when I retire?”

Some of us have lived old enough to contemplate this situation. Some of us have not considered the future in reality.

Many of the boomers have put money aside, like a 401k or bonds or insurance or stock options, the list goes on and on.

But what are we going to do?

Don’t get up every morning and go to the office or classroom or hospital or museum or place where we spend a good portion of our waking hours.

We answer questions, go to meetings, mentor others, write reports, attend more meetings, plan projects, help and overall feel productive. Even annual reviews show we are fine employees doing what the companies or organizations ask of us.

A sense of pride fulfills our being, and a paycheck becomes an accustomed reward.

But what do we really want to do, when that is not there?

I talked to a guy at the bike shop today while Big Blue was getting a new front tube and he said a friend had just taken a disability retirement. He told me the guy loved to tinker with things but due to the disability, he could’t live out his dream, so he reads.

Now that’s not bad. I’m reading more now and enjoying it though it makes my wife nuts because I savior the words instead of rushing though a book to catch the new edition. I did enough speed-reading while working.

So back to the original question, “What do you want to do when you retire?”

Travel? Play with the family? Work on the house? Plant a garden? Write a book?

All those projects you said you were going to do?

What happens if you wind up like my friend John who’s health failed him and he died the first year out?

Some of you have children and that will take a lot of the time. Some of you don’t and may fall into the television pastime.

Look around at the retirement homes. Walkers, televisions, fake exercises and parties where they rush to the liquor tables.

I thought about this after a fun lunch with a buddy at Joe’s Inn, burgers and fries and a lot of writing talk. No outstanding ideas appeared, but a good time had by all.

But my buddy was talking about applying for a minimum wage job, and it made me think how lucky I was to be at the end of a working career, ready to make the big decision.

“What do I want to do now?”

Some friends got me into writing a couple of years ago and though it is not award winning verbiage, it did get out some stress and expanded my mind to thoughts I did not know I had.

And of course, the computer with all the software has given me the opportunity to continue my photo and graphics exploration and discovery.

Then there is the new and re-do music. Taking old songs and recording them or taking old cassettes or tapes to digitize them with a new freshness of ideas and a reminder of the time it was written.

The latest project is to ride the morning route and take photos of trees in the neighborhood. There are some magnificent wood beings still alive in this area and I want to capture them before they are gone.

And sketching in a small notebook of newsprint puts ideas on paper and expands to other projects.

Now think about it.

“What do you want to do when you grow up…… er….. I mean when you RETIRE?”

Monday, May 25, 2009

Another Holiday




But every day is a holiday now. And this one means the rest of the neighborhood goes to the beach or to family reunions or cookouts.

But why call it a holiday? The grocery store is open. Retail shops are open. Restaurants are open. Only the government is closed down.

But think about that. The government. Imagine the guy’s who print the money, fight the wars, write and pass the laws, and tax your money… is SHUT DOWN.

Not really shut down. Suppose they really did. No police. No military. No firemen. I don’t mind not getting a snail mail bill, but no police? It won’t take long for crooks and terrorist to get the idea, May 25 is a holiday.

Think about all that money in the banks and no one there to protect it. Wars would be lost due to the soldiers taking a day off.

But this is a holiday to remember the soldiers who are fighting in pink boxers and flip-flops. 97 faces of the fallen from Virginia embattled against an elusive enemy.
Those boys and girls who volunteered to go into “harms way”. What is that “harms way”? They are exploding bombs under your ride and you are running down the dusty streets in body armor kicking in doors. At least that is what the public sees, since the early days when the media stopped showing dead bodies.

Remember these bullies come from dry countries that have centuries of conflict battled each other for crazy causes. Remember the crusades? That didn’t solve problems in the area either.

So respect the fallen and look at these kid’s faces. Are they from the neighborhood? I don’t see many flags. A few that have been there forever dirty and limp and a few crisp new ones still wrinkled presented for the holiday.

Time to go burn some encased meat sandwiches. Salute to the troops from all those who oppose war.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Take The Challenge




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Last week I challenged myself to try another Sunday route, but opted to go the usual path. So this week, I met the challenge.

Strapping on the black Bell helmet with visor, fingerless woven gloves and Foster Grants shades, even though it was overcast, I walked the big blue bike up the bunny less alley.

“Turn right,” my brain kept saying. So I focused and turned toward the stoplight.

But something was wrong. The gears were skipping as I adjusted my mirror. I stopped to let a jogger pass and examined the settings. The major gear, that’s the one, which keeps the hub in three settings, was out of sync. A quick adjustment on the left handlebar and all was right.

Waiting for the traffic to pass at the light I realized this was going to be a different trip. A white SUV coming south made me pause and then turn left.

I noticed the trees on this side of the street grown further out into the path and must be ducked when the mobile machines are close and there is no space to duck in between the immobile ones.

The ride was pretty steady as I got into a rhythm and rolled down to Willow Lawn drive. The intersection has always been bumpy and this morning was no exception.

Newly paved black pavement lay before. The incline up to Libbie was not as bad as usual, perhaps the sun was not blazing or the traffic was not pressing my space. I even went through the red light at “Kiss and Make-Up” which I can not normally due because the traffic from the fish store and post office.

Jumping over the bad repairs to the street in front of the vacant windows overhanging the street where high end women’s clothing used to be sold, but now sits a sign declaring the building was vacant.

A turn up Libbie I passed the “Super Stars” gourmet pizza. “What makes a ‘gourmet pizza’ I asked myself. It’s bread and tomatoes and cheese?”

Turning around at the Westhampton playground where I sang my first rock and roll performance and going away from the hospital I’d frequently too many times, I paused at the stoplight next to the purring hum of the metal monsters. The hardware store being constructed from an old grocery was still vacant.

Rising up Libbie to the Grove was not too bad for me, but it looked bad for the large man in black walking south panting next to what is now a Ukrops’ junior market. I did not have to lower gears. I figured I’d be back here for lunch but it did not happen.

Across Grove and a turn after the Clearwire car passed to right turn onto a down hill slide in front of the impatient white SUV and pass the new metal sign showing a silver telecaster on the roof of “Logos” guitar. It’s nice but very expensive. Just like everything in this area. A box of Cheerios cost a dollar more than at the other grocery stores. Why?

A smooth turn to the right and checking out the outlet to the neighborhoods that buffer the river. They are not the wealthiest houses, but want to appear to be. “That is why they pay a dollar more” I chuckled.

Steady ride pass the little market, which converted, to a high-end and expensive caterer to the seeming rich and not so famous. Even the phone booth is gone.

The “Lock Lane” condos are coming along nicely, even though they have not repaired the entrances and the potholes. This former barrack looking cinder block square buildings with casement windows have been transported to modern high tech living spaces for sale to any up and coming yuppie.

I wonder if this rage to change old apartments into condos is a way to unload bad properties to unsuspecting families who think they are getting great deals with newly polished floors and tin kitchens. What will they look like in three years?

A stop at the elementary school and catch my breath.

Then the slow grind up the hill to Malvern. It’s not a steep path, about a 5 to 6 degree rise, but try to do that on your treadmill. It’s 4 blocks of a climb to the Greek church and the last block rises higher, but Redline is holding her own.

Another stoplight I pause and view the Malvern apartments, which are being changed into condos. Do you see a pattern here? I’m surprised to see that they are building new buildings. Three story buildings with the exact pattern of the former establishments. This is quiet a new plan and seems to be continuing while other ventures in real estate have sputtered to a halt.

Drifting down the hill to the Powhite, I avoided the potholes while keeping an eye on the oncoming traffic. The new challenge is to survive up to where the road tightens from two lanes to one and I make it to the top of the hill without incident.

The ride to Boulevard was uneventful and quiet pleasant.

An entire block of ‘yard sale’ sitting in front of an old synagogue met me as I crossed the four-lane street. Pushing up the hill pass the apartment David and I almost got and the last place John remembered. I hope I don’t have a hospital as my last remembrance.

Past another stoplight and I realized I was on Grove. “This is the wrong street”, I thought.

A turn to the left past a yard full of green and a cool loft about a garage, I found the path.

“Hi!” said the man standing between cars awaiting traffic to pass. “Hi” I replied with a smile. You get that sort of conversation from the street when you ride face-to-face.

Fox school has a huge hole in the west side. A tractor sites in a dirty hole up to the side of the brick. A wooden shelf has been built over the former entrance way. “It was a busy week here” I thought. The rest of the facade was as expected.

Up ahead was a man turning toward me on a bike and a car on my left. I stopped at Strawberry Street to watch the vehicle turn toward the salad tub and the man dismount and place his bike in the back of a pickup truck.

Giving full range to the biker and a jogger, weaving between oncoming traffic I stopped at Lombardy. Looking at the old Bogart’s I noticed it had a new door and had been stripped of paint. “Maybe there will be a new restaurant there”, I wondered.

Around the triangle park to the cheers of gleeful children, I paused for the stoplight. A bearded man who looked one of the Fugs stood across the street with a satchel over his shoulder waiting for something. Maybe he was waiting for a bus? Several couples waited for tables outside of “Kuba Kuba”. As two cyclists passed and the bearded man walked toward me to stand a foot away in the crosswalk, I decided to move on avoiding an awkward conversation.

Where are the boys? I see girls walking their dogs and babies, but no men, except for the few entering the coffee shop.

Stopping at the church, I feel the bumps in old fan roads cracked at every 3-tire rotation, but it is better than the cobblestones underneath. After waiting for the traffic to spread in various directions, I start to climb the bumpy Park Avenue thin street.

Finally, several male types are awake and walking up and down the street in shorts and baggy t-shirts. As if an alarm had gone out, the other species had arrived to the sunshine.

Up to the Boulevard church and into the near west end. This section of town has it’s own road signs…. Blue! Not like the brown Fan street signs (except for one, but that’s another story). The “museum district” it is called now.

Pass the former funeral parlor and gas stations turned into new life, pass the 7-11 and the “Café Diem” which used to be the first delivery pizza.

A turn left and then right at the laundry mat, and up the familiar path. This street has always been flat and easy to peddle though the horizon was at my eyesight so I knew it had a height of a sloping 4 feet in 5 blocks.

Passing a train car size container of leftovers from a house, I thought I could use one of those, but it won’t happen.

Two couples quietly passed the day-glow balls over the net at the tennis courts across the street from the newly planted Ellwood Thompson gardens. I used to be good at tennis, and golf, but that was another time. I could have followed the corporate path, but gave it up.

Straight up the road and another view from what I normally see. A reverse view as it was. The other side of trees, lawns, houses and a close up view of scenes that are usually across the street.

Keep pushing though the feeling in the seat is telling me it’s been enough of a ride.

A turn to the right to the store and some relaxing and an afternoon of driving fast and turning left for the holiday.

Hope everyone enjoys the holiday as I do every day now.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Terrible Tuesday

And so the cool crisp May Day full of sunshine and promises started with scratches and blood. Breaking at dawn with furry creatures roaming and trying to find a spot of warm and comfort, I pull up my jeans and collect the paper over screams. The cold light of the morning shows little of intelligence or new wisdom in the newsprint. A breakfast of rye toast, soft-boiled eggs, soy bacon, and an orange washed down by water and coffee. They presented a silly group without the red underwear dancer. This is store day so I must get an early start before the buses start delivering the elderly.

Start at Broad and work backwards. It’s early so the TJ students won’t be hanging out looking for rap and finding police cars. Back and forth as with every morning’s ride. Construction on the infrastructure continues up and down the streets with men in bright yellow vest and parked trucks. Young people putting their travel coffee cups on the roofs of the metal vehicle before starting off to work, but I’m the one who is yawning.

Downhill then up hill, then back again.

Early cut to the left due to the markers showing men standing around and looking at marks on the ground and cross the avenue of monuments. I notice the light is flashing, yellow one way and red the other way. A wreck magnate with possible trouble, but I’ll see it many more times today.
Up the hill by the church and notice a gathering of people. Must be something happening today or a group getting ready to do some good religious cause. They seem jovial enough so I drift down the hill and around to the next hill. No construction there, but the speed changes from 5mph to 3mph. The top of the hill brings relief and a chance to adjust my gloves and stretch my fingers. Drifting down the next hill and onto another neighborhood.

Quieter than usual is this early morning ride. School children and their mothers wait for the big yellow buses, waving goodbye.

Finally home again unstrapped, sitting, and drinking a bottle of water in the golden sunshine.
Now the routine starts. Without a watch because time does not mater, the journey begins.

Pass the flashing lights and three blocks up for the left turn to the store. Today, I decide to speed up the processing by using the automatic checkout teller machines. Scan your item. Welcome valued customer. An attendant has been notified. Do you have any coupons?

Yea, get me out of here.

Second trip; pass the flashing lights and two blocks up before the left turn.

Get me out of here.
Third trip; pass the flashing lights and one block up before the left turn. See it pays to create variety.
Roll into the yard and another bottle of water. The only item on the “shopping list” is T-paper, but I’m sure I need to get more.

Fourth trip; pass the flashing lights and one block up but zig zag over to another street and then back again. This time the store is full of grey. The allies are full of walkers, couples, mobile carriers, and slow distracted faces. This trip will take longer. The list contained: Bread, hot dogs, soup, coffee, creamer, and Buffy meat.

Home again, to unpack and eat left over crappy chicken and water, and then inside to watch the news and eat the carrots that bunny did not want, but I forgot the t-paper, so another trip was planned.

I by-passed the flashing lights and went another way. By this time my body was getting weary. A replacement battery for the one I dropped through the deck, OJ, blueberries, t-paper, and beer.

Home again, home again, and back in the dark. Breathe deep and go through emails and messages and start projects. It’s 2:30 and I’m just starting what I want to start.

Going through the cases of cassettes, I pull out several cases, blowing and rubbing the dust off. “Paul Simon” reads one, “Bill Joel” is the title of another; one by one I check the titles. Do I want to save these? Have I listened to them in the past years? I had spent time to make labels for them some 20 years ago, but have I listened to them since they were put up on a shelf?

Into the trash went so many.

Then one called “Mandrake Memorial” was put aside. Going through some Stones and Tom Petty (he really does the same song over and over, but its good), I threw out a bunch of cassettes.

Then back to the “Mandrake Memorial”. I even looked them up online. Joel had introduced me to them after he saw the concert.

So I recorded the entire tape as one consistent song. It was nothing revolutionary, but a good sign of the times.

And as the dark drapes the night onto the travels, it’s PBS and silver bullets.


Sunday, May 17, 2009

A Cold Sunday Ride

Just back from a quick trip to Block Buster to deliver 6 videos. Yes, I know you can get them delivered and order on line and download and all that stuff, but it would have removed the dark venture into the night of no traffic and a couple walking their dog.

So let me begin….

The leaves were dripping from the night rain as I separated the bikes on the porch. Resorting the order for the days ride.

Having finished an instant coffee with powdered cream and substitute sugar in the garden in North Carolina. Zip up the sweatshirt and walk to the end of the alley.


Now I have to make the first decision of the day. Should go the regular routine route or turn right and start backwards. A light mist fills the air as I map out the route of Patterson up past the library, then turn up Libbie, both hard climbs.

I turn left and started to get my breathing in tune with the bicycle.

Turn past the peace flag and breathe through my nose, the moisture sparkling on my sunglasses. I tighten up my blue windbreaker and get into the rhythm.

The streets are quiet as I turn onto Grove. A young woman jogs by wired to a listening device. The soundtrack for today is the rustle of spring leaves in the morning breeze. My favorite part of “Blow Up” was the quiet natural soundtrack. You don’t need earphones for that.

And there is a lot of traffic today. I slow then maneuver around a car quickly exiting a side street. She is in a hurry and eager to enter the traffic flow. What are you late for? She was not dress up for church. An almost frantic look peppered her face as her black hair framed the saga. Had she just commented a crime and I was a witness? After the steel silver vehicle sped off I continued my journey.

Another stop at the bottom of the hill to allow traffic to pass as I waited for passenger’s of a freshly parked mobile to be released from its frame. A young school aged girl exited the passenger’s side and stared at me as she swung a knapsack over her shoulder. She looked as she was ready to attend class, but this was Sunday.

Carefully around the dark shiny mass of metal checking the mirror to insure room from oncoming motion, I ascended the hill. Not too bad today. Maybe the cool weather stirred me on.

Then the decent to Patterson, gently breaking realizing I’m a bit wobbly today. Perhaps the late night clouds my balance.

10:53. Turning onto new black smooth payment I coast down the avenue glancing at signs and watching a woman fill her mobile machine at the pumping station. Pass vacant buildings with real estate signs offering space but no takers.

Down to the light, gently breaking again to dodge the manhole covers. The next hill isn’t bad either, though I have to duck under overhanging branches because the intense traffic leaves very little variation of my path. Up to the light at my starting point and stop to catch my breath and notice the misty rain has stopped.

Weaving in and out of park metal to allow the faster moving monster pass I keep pace.

Another stoplight. Another stop.

Down pass the church that opens on Saturday and another stoplight. I am not in the zone today.

Continue on and another stoplight. Since there is no rush I can stop and enjoy the scenery. Pass the new gardens by the fire station.

The ride by the school is flat and easy. The ceramic tiles on the roof remind me that all my schooling was made of tiles. I guess it was easier to clean.

Ride straight then left and right and up to another stoplight. Pause to check the people talking on the corner. They were dressed for the big brick church across the street, which I attended for many years until the politics got in the way. God can play some nasty deals.

Another stop at Robinson, and another chance for me to catch a view. The girl across the street in the little red vehicle waited impatiently as slow traffic impeded her movement. She looked at me in wonder as I spotted the difference of a detail on the face of the Robin Inn. Someone had carved some intricate details into the wood over the windows. But the left window was missing the internal carving probably due to birds. I stood listening to the motor machines putt their mechanics into the sky and looked north for the television tower. It wasn’t there. I had already passed it. Richmond’s own Eiffel tower, like on the morning fear feast of going up to the clouds. No thanks; I’ll stay on the bumpy ground ahead.

The light turns green and I bounce over ribbons of tar covering repairs to an age-old street as the passing confused vehicles give me little room. Bumpity, bumpity, bumpity, bump up to Strawberry Street I bounce. What was it called before the “fan” got so chic with names and brown street signs? Three young men stroll across my path looking they were stepping out of a late night themselves. Knowing the position of each other they did not speak but attended to their parked vehicles.

Another stoplight. To my right a perfect spring view of the “fan”. Row houses with small flower gardens crunched in together to take advantage of every inch of space. Turn the opposite direction and see row houses with real estate signs lining up the yards. A sales opportunity or a sign of the economy?

Up pass the triangle plot and pass the normally singing church.

Next stoplight smelled of early morning cooking and coffee. The small shop had its doors open to release the cooking aromas to the world. Little cross traffic, but I waited for the green.

The children’s park was unoccupied, probably due to the dampness as I turn the corner and head west.

Another stoplight and another chance for me to view the row house described by a little lady as having a lot of painting and sex. It gave me pause.

Allowing traffic to make their decisions I push on.

Up pass the school where the principle had an affair with my first-wife.

And another stoplight breaks my concentration.

A black man in baggy jeans and backwards baseball cap saunters by. He is no particular hurry to go anywhere. Just rambling down Robinson.

The light changes and I slowly watch the dance of these metal monsters move in an awkward pattern as if searching for a direction. Over to the left and I watch a blond girl climb into a car. With the door opened she is searching for something. I recognize her for a previous trip but do not acknowledge her existence.

Another stoplight and I see two men walking by the abortion clinic. There are no protesters there, just two men, one in shorts and one in long trousers. Having a conversation and smiling with broad gestures. What they talking about? Was the conversation the game or race or television show or the river feast from the previous day or a pretty face? The people in the automobile waiting for the light to change take no notice.

I wait the traffic to clear the cross streets until I pass the museum, only to stop again to let more traffic pass.

Enjoying a smooth ride to the next stoplight, passing the young couple waiting on the confederate church porch. Were they waiting for a guided tour or just getting some of the Richmond history? I wonder why these places still exist and why does this town want to celebrate the slave trade next to a proposed baseball stadium with no team?

Up another block and whoa! Yet another impatient driver is shooting out from Tilden where I had witnessed a wreck on that night walking a dog. Swerve around and continue down the path to another stoplight.

A woman ran across the intermittent traffic flow as if in Times Square.

Taking another breathe I pushed pass that special romantic street and stopped at another light.

I paused and glanced at the Windsor where my brother said my grandfather died, but I don’t remember him coming to Richmond to die.

Another vehicle jumps out from a side street so I take the message and move inland to continue pass the huge RV and the house of trains. This slope is mild and the traffic has thinned out. Over the ridge and down to the Mercedes parked in the center of the street, its hooded driver facing a house from the sidewalk, hands on her butt. Turn right and pass the divided street.

Another black Mercedes was coming at me, so I turned up my street and avoided a confrontation. I noticed the manufactures of the silver, black, grey and blue metal machines sitting on either side of me. Toyotas, Volkswagens, Hyundai’s, Hondas and other foreign models stood in patient wait for their owners or lenders to come gas them up for another worthless waste of energy. When this neighborhood was constructed it was lined with Fords, Chevys, Oldsmobiles, and Pontiacs.

Then I remember the Quaker church on the corner is in session and these are the wagons of the quiet.

Up the slight hill and check the raised crooked name painted in red on the fence.

There is a truck parked out front. I’ll hear about that. It’s the owner of the abode doing some maintenance or checking for ants or whatever you do when you are paying for a vacant house. Big red sound on the door now says “For Sale by Owner”. Maybe I’ll buy it and put him out of my misery. It could be a home away from home. Ha! Might be better than living in a drafty shed?

So park the bike, eat the pasta salad, go to the grocery store, watch the “Big Blue” several times (man that’s a long movie), then type this stuff up.

See you later….

Sunday, May 10, 2009

I'VE GOT THOSE WAITING TO BE BEAMED UP BLUES (cml &/or jmd, 1974)

I didn't think of myself as a trekkie, but reviewing some of my books, I found this song.

And with the new movie out (which I have not seen yet, but look forward to) I review the Star Trek effect on my life.

I remember the original series in B&W TV but did not catch onto it until the early 70's when it was on late night. I think, but I'm not sure, some of the substance had something to do with the fascination.

So I looked back at the recollection of the phenomenon of Star Trek and found this research material and hope you enjoy the song.

Thanks Gene and hope Scotty enjoyed the McIver scarf.






Well, they've taken you off the air
And, they're only showing repeats
I'm tearing out my hair
Waiting for those great feats

















I've got those waiting to be beamed up blues
Oh Star Trek , when you coming back again?
I’m a stagnated spaceman baby
When you coming back again?



Well, Kirk I never thought
That you were telling those lies
The Only home you ever wanted
Was on the Enterprise



I've got those waiting to be beamed up blues
Oh Star Trek,
I'm trapped on terra firma
Come and get me when you can

Cause I' trapped on terra firma
Oh Spock, what can I say?
You were always such an ace
I know that this ain't logical, but
I'm Craving' in outer space


I’ve got these waiting to be beamed up blues
Oh Star Trek, Spock I need you back again
We ain't got no heroes
Spock I need you back again

Great bird of the galaxy
He ain't around no more
No matter how stoned I get
Can't even fly to the corner store

I've got those waiting to be beamed up blues
Oh Star Trek, I need some space time magic
To take me home again I need some space time magic

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Tuesday Morning Ride

Being true to my NEW schedule, I’m on the bike at 8:30 A.M. for my morning ride.

It’s been raining all night and everything is soaked, but it is not raining now. The sky is grey but clear as I begin. I watch the trucks and SUVs move back and forth across Westmoreland. White James River plumbing trucks carrying tube on their racked tops. Black and burgundy SUVs with sleepy looking drivers already on their cells pass slowly on their way to work.

I turn right and decide I will start at the north side of my journey. Crossing Patterson and past the Westmoreland Lake, the traffic is thick, so I turn off to the right on Franklin. Much better. It is a wide street to avoid the puddles and enough room to swerve the motor vehicles as they awaken to carry the doctors and lawyers and others who still work to their offices and cubicles and meetings and telephone calls and emails and more meeting. I grin.

Left on Commonwealth and up to Monument. Another cyclist goes across my path. Looks like a student off to school. A man slowly walks his dog.

Across the street on Monument was a giant holly tree. Two and a half stories high and filling the entire yard. It is cut down. Only a stump and a circle of dirt to show its former circumference remain. I will miss that tree. It was an excellent statement. I mentioned it to the former owners many times in passing to Lowes.

Oh well, things change and the house looks completely different. Time to move on.
Up to a block before Broad and left.

Down a little row of houses all together there all neat with cars parked in front. Neatly pressed lawns.

Turn left, one street down before the construction and another left. Another row of houses and cars and pot holes in the newly paved streets.

Stopping or at least slowing at every corner to look both ways. If traffic is approaching, a full stop.

This journey is an inner city travel, one block at a time. Not a long steady ride, but several sprints and hurdles. It also gives breaks to breath and examines the surroundings.

Onward to the high school and turn right then to the next block and back again.

Each yard has it’s own character. A lot of azaleas are blooming their hearts out at this time of year brightening the spring landscape. Some yards are bright green and others are over grown.

I pass several trucks with trailers filled with tree and grass trimming supplies. Black and brown men move back and forth from lawn to truck grabbing gas powered instruments and wiping the sweat from their brow. Their grass cutting machines fill the air with smoke and the sidewalks with green masses of wet cuttings.

Why cut the grass when it is wet? If you don’t cut the grass at the same time every week, it grows too tall. If it grows tall when wet, it holds the moister in and mold is created. When you cut it wet, the mower is clogged up with the moist goo and must be cleaned out every couple of swipes.

And so the conflict goes on. But guys do what guys do and they will continue to fight this battle.
Another turn and another street approaches. Sometimes coasting, sometimes hills. The hills over by Bill’s old house are tough. Up one for a block, then pause for a street, and then continue up, by the church. A drift down toward the gulley, then a sharp left, but don’t think there is a rest.

Slight incline turns into a 60-degree climb for a block. And some people pay for this experience at a health club. The idea is not to shift down and remain seated. The pace is slower but the legs can carry you up the incline. The heart beats harder. The breathing leaves the nose for the open mouth. Keep pumping. You feel the ridge as the pressures eases. It’s only a block, but it is a workout.

Next block and pass an apartment building. In the middle of suburbia there is an obvious apartment building. Now apartments are being turned into condos. Rooms that for years saw many different people paint them, live a brief existence there, and then move out for the next people to do the same. Year after year the paint would change hue but the process never changed. Do you want to make this your 30-year mortgage home? What’s that on the floor?

Up and down the streets under the huge trees and their green umbrellas. The traffic has thinned and the path is clear. One foot then the other then backs again. Not in a hurry, just a steady pace.
I’ve got time.

Back in the neighborhood and up Leonard Parkway. The canopy is thicker her. Up the hill and down the roller coaster ride to the low land.

The sound of water is always underground. Either there is a natural river or everyone flushes at the same time. No matter, it is a mark of the neighborhood.

Down pass the Curley’s house; pass the laundry truck delivering dry cleaning in plastic on doorknockers,

Riding look down at the puddles from the nights rain. As I pass there is a reflection of another world. Are they solid or a portal into another universe? What is solid pavement shows trees in this window.

Do I turn in and avoid the darkening sky or finish my trip? I press on and pump up another hill. Each street has a different feel. Some are friendly, some are more causal, and some are very, very formal. But this is Colonial Place, the neighborhood I grew up in and lived in for over 50 years.

Pass the house with peace flag and a smile. The trip has finished for today and I didn’t get rained on.

Parked the bike, remove the gloves and the windbreaker and have a drink of water. The sky is growing darker so it is time to sit down. Maybe write? Maybe play music? Maybe sit and watch the surroundings? I’ve got time.

But the butt is weary and there are other projects awaiting me.

Though the rain is cold and the damp slows me down, I’ll record some old “Basement Tapes” and travel to the PO to mail some CDs to friends in other states.

The clouds break up my Internet signal so I’ll just go in and make a tuna fish sandwich and watch some “Brigitte Jones Diary” waiting for the rain to stop.

Good night boys and girls.