Sachem Summer, A novel for young adults (Chapter One)

1.

    It was a Friday in June, 1972, and my night off, well, sort of a night off. I was scheduled for OD, which meant “Officer of the Day” and which, curiously, started at ten p.m., but it was routine for any counselor on OD to be free of any responsibilities after dinner until his shift started. Lacking any money to go to town, and fed up with being around 12 year old boys all day, I had decided to take a little walk out to what looked like a trout stream I had spotted on a big, black and white aerial photo tacked up in the main hall. At its center were the sprawling grounds of Camp Crestwood, but it also included the surrounding country, about a mile or so out.

   As I headed past the mess hall, Lindsay, the head cook’s daughter, was just coming out of the swinging screen doors.
   “Where are you headed?” Lindsay was wearing a tight, white t-shirt, jeans and tennies, having shed the plastic apron and baseball cap I usually saw her in. We had spoken a few times, actually it seemed like she had a made a point of talking to me when we met at the serving line or something. She was 16 or 17 and a “townie,” meaning she didn’t come from Chicago’s north side and wasn’t Jewish, like mostly all the boys and counselors here.
   “Just going for a walk. I’ve got OD tonight, so I’m free for a few hours. I want to check out a trout stream.”
   “Jared, right?” I nodded. “Don’t you need a fishing pole and stuff?” Being a fly fisherman, I winced at the term “pole.” Trout fishermen use a rod, a “fishing pole’ is something your dad gives you when you’re fishing for bullheads with worms, but I let it go.
  “I’m just going to see it, uh, you know, scouting, see if there’s anything in it.”
   “Lindsay squinted at me for a minute as if processing whether I was being honest or just making up an excuse to go smoke some weed or something. The sun was taking on that kind of reddish cast that brought out her tan. I should mention that by a unanimous, if unspoken vote of the 180 or so men and boys, Lindsay was the cutest thing in camp.
   “Want some company? Mom’s got another hour or so, and I’ve got to wait for her to finish.” Apparently either she believed my story or didn’t care.
    “It looks like about two miles, there and back, are you sure?”
    “I could use the exercise, and, God, it’s so nice out.” She spread her arms as if embracing the vista of the camp playing fields, the woods in the distance, all bathed in the fading light. She was pretty, maybe more than pretty, and you had the feeling she knew it. Standing there on the front steps of the mess hall, created a stage-like effect, with Lindsay, the stunning heroine in the leading role, and  me, the lowly groundling. It occurred to me she had been working since before lunch, so probably she had gotten plenty of exercise, clearing tables, washing trays, taking care of the garbage, and all the other chores she probably had to do as kitchen help, but I had to agree, it was warm for June, and there was just enough of a breeze to keep it from being hot and sticky.  
    I was anxious to get started and out of the public camp eye, so I said, “Okay, be my guest.” I guess I should make one thing clear here: I’ve never been exactly a lady-killer. I’m about 5’9” and, in those days, a little on the gangly side, wire rim glasses, longish brown hair, prone to unbuttoned flannel shirts and faded jeans, maybe moccasins. Having someone with Lindsay’s looks actually flirting with me (if that’s what she was doing), would be a new experience. She appeared to be the kind of perky knockout that would be at the top of any popularity heap, one I would have considered out of my league. Don’t get me wrong, I guess I’d done okay with girls, done my share of fooling around in back seats and on assorted couches, but most of my relationships with girls hadn’t lasted too long, and I’d have to say the breakups had gone pretty crappy, whether it had been my idea or theirs.
   There was a sandy lane that started on the other side of the main road which marked the east boundary of Camp Crestwood. It was probably an old logging road or fire lane, mainly just used by hunters and kids with dirt bikes now, but the camp used it for one of the many “nature hikes” with the kids, and Elliot, one of the older counselors had mentioned to me that it would cut the stream.
   Once we got onto the logging road and the woods closed in on both sides, I felt less self-conscious. It was a little cooler here, but more humid.  I’m generally kind of a fast walker, but Lindsay didn’t seem to mind. I glanced over to her and she smiled back. She was cute, there was no doubt about it. Her bra was clearly defined under her shirt and though she was petite, she wasn’t skinny or bony-looking, just filled out, athletic-looking, nice and curvy. She had sandy blonde hair, at the moment done up in a bouncy pony tail, probably to keep it out of her face in the kitchen. I reminded myself that I was 21 and she was probably going into her senior year in high school. She drew a lot leering in the mess hall from both counselors and campers alike, but never seemed to pay it any attention.
   “So, how’re you liking being a Sachem?” For some reason, all kinds of supposedly Indian-sounding words were used at Camp Crestwood, counselors were “Sachems,” the campers were “Braves.” Though townies were never campers, after working summers here for a few years, Lindsay apparently had the lingo down.
   “It’s a job, but I’m still feeling a little out of place I guess.”
   “Really, why’s that?” She gave me a raised eyebrow, wide-eyed look. “Weren’t you ever a Brave?” She gave the word “Brave” just enough emphasis to imply a skeptical regard for the privileged boys she served at Crestwood every summer.
   “Hardly, I grew up about 40 miles from here, not in the suburbs of Chicago, and, um, I’m not Jewish, either.”
   “You are out of place. Why’d you apply here?” She was having no trouble keeping up, and seemed to have none of the nervous apprehension my campers had whenever they stepped foot into what they regarded as “the wilderness.” Most of the campers and counselors at Camp Crestwood had grown up in wealthy enclaves like North Brook, Skokie, and Highland Park, and their woodsy experience was probably limited to the local, carefully manicured park, but of course, Lindsay was a townie, and probably had had all kinds of adventures out here in the sticks of northern Wisconsin.
   “I saw the ad for archery instructor, and I know something about that, plus I’m thinking of getting a teaching degree, and I thought this might be a good thing to have on my resume, you know, working with kids and everything…oh, and of course the huge salary and the opportunity to spend eight weeks in an unheated cabin with 10 kids who expect Sasquatch to appear any minute…” She laughed. So, I could make her laugh…
    “I knew you were different the first time I saw you in the mess. Most of the counselors were campers here once, so I know a lot of them pretty well, plus you’re the only Sachem that hasn’t hit on me, at least not yet anyway.” She glanced my way and grinned, and I felt for a moment, speechless. At this point I should probably mention Lindsay’s eyes. They were a kind of a brilliant blue, like the blue on a beach ball. They were, in a word, stunning.
   “Hey, is this a race or something?”
   “Oh, sorry, I guess I walk kind of fast.” I searched for a way to go with the conversation, still turning over the thing about getting ‘hit on.’ “Um, it must be weird, being like the only girl in a camp full of boys, most them with raging hormones.” Lindsay, and her pert little body, were often hot topics for the boys in my cabin after lights out and had probably launched many a Camp Crestwood fantasy.
   “I don’t really think about it anymore, Mom keeps me pretty busy. God, it’s only the fifth week of camp, and I’m sooo sick of washing those oatmeal pots.”
   I had no response, but stepping over a deadfall in the road we sort of jostled shoulders together. Lindsay flashed me a smile, not a bit self-conscious.
   On our right, the woods gave way to an open potato field. There was an irrigation pivot shooting streams of water, making little rainbows of mist. Lindsay seemed completely at ease, like she did this every night. She had kind of an intent walk, bent slightly forward, chin out, with her arms swinging wide. For some reason, I got the feeling Lindsay brought the kind of determination shown in her stride to everything she did.
   “I don’t think the creek is too much farther now, you sure your mom’s okay on this?”
   Lindsay turned to face me and rolled her eyes, probably taking this as the kind of thing I would say to a kid, and I instantly regretted it, but then again, she was an attractive little thing, stranded in the middle of maybe 160 over-sexed boys and about 20 mostly rich college guys who probably saw the local talent as fair game. If I was her mother, I’d be concerned. I wondered if her mom had laid down some rules about hanging out with the sachems.
   “Don’t worry about me, I’m a big girl,” she said.
   The woods closed in again on both sides and, with the sandy road starting to pitch down. I figured we were getting close to the creek.
   “So, what are you gonna teach?”
   “What?” I had slipped into kind of a fog, jumping back and forth between thinking about the curious case of Lindsay’s interest in me and my usual stream approach mode, keeping an eye out for hatches or trails that would indicate the stream was being pounded by local fishermen.
   “What kind of teacher are you going to be?”
   “English, I guess, high school, I don’t know, maybe go on to grad school and try teaching college. When I got out of high school, basically it was either college or the draft, but then I started thinking eventually I’d have to get a real job, and teaching seems like something I could probably handle without doing too much harm.” Actually, I had a lot of doubts about that. Was I just taking the path of least resistance?
   “I had a great English teacher last year, Mr. Tolofson. He was cool.”
   “Oh, yeah?” The image of Lindsay sitting in a high school classroom adoringly looking up at a Mr. Tolofson reminded me of how much younger she was. Just a kid, really, but still, I immediately felt a twinge of something like jealousy.
   Before we could explore the topic of Mr. Tolofson and his apparent coolness; however, the road, now more of two parallel paths, took a sharp left and the stream came into view. There was an old bridge of weathered, rough cut planks fording it. We took a little trail down to the right of the bridge that led to an open, sandy area, salted with raccoon tracks, some beer bottles, and Styrofoam worm cartons.
   “Looks like somebody’s been fishing here,” said Lindsay. She found a clean patch of sand and sat, wrapping her arms about her knees. I, on the other hand, inspected the stream, what I could see of it anyway, affecting the appearance of Jared Mathison, Ace Trout Detective, looking for clues. The water was plenty cool and quite clear (it hadn’t rained in a week), and the current was strong enough to scour the bottom down to gravel, especially where the bridge embankments narrowed it. It was about 20 feet across above and below the bridge. Just down from where Lindsay now sat gazing off into the sunset, it swept in a dogleg to the east and under a mess of overhanging tag alders. That’s where the big browns would be, I thought, if the locals hadn’t cleaned them out with gobs of nightcrawlers and, in all probability, cane poles. It looked to be fairly “fishy” but a real challenge with a fly rod. The brush on the banks and overhanging trees, coupled with the narrowness of the creek would demand some circus casts. Inspection complete, I returned to Lindsay and squatted beside her. She released her knees and lay back, her hands behind her head. She closed her eyes. For some reason her casualness with this whole situation made me feel even more awkward, out of place, like I was the younger one here or something.
   “This is the best time of the year,” she said. Her eyes still closed, I was free to give her the same kind of treatment I had just given the creek. Her hair was cut at her collar with soft, blondish streaks, and she had long, full eyelashes. Her t-shirt had ridden up, revealing a strip of her midsection, firm, tan, and smooth, and I wondered if she was a cheerleader in school. She must have sensed my gawking and opened her eyes, but made no effort to pull her shirt down.
   “I like it here,” she said. “It’s peaceful and if you close your eyes and listen, you can hear the creek.” I looked back to the creek, instinctively checking for any sign of feeding fish.
   “Try it.” I turned back to her and closed my eyes.
   “No, silly, lie down like this, and just relax.” I leaned back and spread my hands under the back of my head, imitating her. “Right, now close your eyes… there, now just listen.”
   It was hard to concentrate; I knew exactly what she was talking about. You can hear a creek, the gurgle of the current, sometimes rocks tumbling on the bottom, but I was starting to worry about where this was going.  I often have like a debate going on in my head, one whiny voice raising all kinds of worries, the other telling me to just relax a little, go with the flow.
   We lay there, silent for a few minutes.
    I said, “You know, I think I can hear the fish talking,” 
    Lindsay smirked. “Really? What are they talking about?”
    “I don’t know, it’s something about a pretty girl and a guy in a flannel shirt—I can’t be sure—I I only speak bluegill, they’re speaking trouteese.”
    I opened my eyes as Lindsay turned on her side toward me, propping her arm under her head.
   “I think you should probably kiss me now.”

"River of Wonder" (For Wisconsin Public Radio)

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"Nothing Slimy or Cruddy About the Slimy Crud Run" (Wisconsin Public Radio)

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We Are What We Speak

A Very Brief Guide To Motorcycling Terminology

   I broke my leg when I was 24. Actually, I should say Boscoe, my best friend’s dog, broke my leg. He had a habit of launching himself at full speed and piling into unsuspecting bystanders like a furry, 70 pound cannon ball. He licked my face as I writhed around on the ground, and it slowly occurred to me I would not be starting my new job in two days (trimming Christmas trees) or moving my stuff to my new place that weekend. Boscoe, in a matter of seconds, had reduced me to 155 pounds of dead weight which, luckily, my older sister would feed and shelter for the next two months.

   After the R & R and on two reasonably sturdy legs again, I was desperate for an income and took the first job I could find: piling lumber on the night shift at a local sawmill. Looking back thirty years, I’m amazed at my resilience. To go from languishing on a couch to throwing fresh-cut, red oak railroad ties around in the dark on 10 degree January nights makes me wonder who I was then. I lasted there three or four months and would be hard-pressed to remember many of the details of that job (though, come to think of it, there weren’t all that many), but I do remember one morning. I had gotten home at the usual 4 a.m., and too exhausted to go to sleep, I began writing a note to my girlfriend about my job. Somehow the letter evolved into simply a list of the words that had become part of my new sawmill vocabulary. Twenty minutes and one can of Grain Belt beer later I had 147 words.  

   Some of those terms anybody could probably define, like “chipper” (a deafening machine that, I had been warned, could reduce you to a basket of quarter-sized chips in roughly two seconds if you happened to slip on the slush and fall into the conveyor) or “Debarker” (a massive, toothed cylinder which tore the bark off logs and whose logo was a muzzled Great Dane). But others were more esoteric, like “picaroon” (a deft little ax-like tool for grabbing slabs of wood, at least until it was torn from my hands and run through the chipper), “green chain” (where I worked, but not because, as I first thought, I was green), “peavey,” “cant,” “dog,” and “flitch.” I’ve lost that list along with the memory of most of the more obscure words, but last night (more insomnia, but a bottle of Boulevard Pale Ale this time) I was reminded how each facet of my life has had its own language, its own jargon, and the words I choose at any particular time may show more about me than how I put them together. Enter motorcycling.

   So here goes, a few entries from my current motorcycle usage lexicon, woefully incomplete, quite possibly inaccurate and absolutely arbitrary (in no special order):

Tank Slapper: Describes a phenomena where your handlebars begin to wobble back and forth, more and more violently until you regain control or suddenly, they stop. This often does not end well.

High Side: Often confused with a “lay down” or a “get off” (which are really variants of the “low side”), a “high side” is probably the worst possible consequence of a “tank slapper”, with you leaving the bike over it’s high side, and coming down, well, where are those big piles of leaves when you need them?

Stoppie: The opposite of a “Wheelie.” Driving down a four lane through a commercial district, a biker on a YZ1 in the lane alongside us was doing “stoppies” at each red light, grabbing his front brake at the last second to raise his rear wheel a foot or two off the ground. He eventually got a little carried away, and, with his bike reaching a dangerous angle, let up on the brake and lurched awkwardly into the intersection, narrowly missing getting “T-Boned” (self-explanatory). My wife said, “That looks dangerous, is there something wrong with his bike?” “No,” I answered, “there’s nothing wrong with the bike…”

Squid: I first heard this one used by a buddy as two kids on sportbikes howled by. “Squids?” I said. “Squids,” he answered, “Stupid, Quick, dead.”

Softtail/Hardtail/Knucklehead/Panhead/Shovelhead: They all mean “Harley” to me, but, come to think of it, that last one might be a fish.

Boxer: The term supposedly comes from the connecting rods in an opposed twin cylinder engine which seem to be boxing with one another, but I always get an image of the “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot” game the neighbor kid would never let me play.

Splines: I used to have a boxer, a mint R65 in fact, and it had splines (At least that’s what the manual said). Splines, as I took it, were to be lubricated religiously or things could happen that would be very bad. When I took my airhead in for annual maintenance, I would ask the mechanic, “Did you grease the splines?” to which he would reply (with a roll of the eyes and a note of impatience), “They’re fine.” I never got far enough into the internals workings on that bike to know if he was just guessing.

Pillion: I was thinking French, but it turns out this term is a Gaelic derivative and was first used to describe a little rug or cushion placed behind a saddle on a horse so a second person could ride. (Think “pillow.”)

Panniers: Obviously, the equivalent of saddle bags, but this one really is from the French and comes from a kind of hoop system designed to make a woman’s hips look bigger. Do these Givis make me look fat?

Countersteering: Some motorcyclists go through their entire life without reading Hough’s Proficient Motorcycling or realizing that as they round a sweeping left curve, they’re actually turning their handlebars to the right.

Rake/Trail/Caster: Heeding the sage counsel of Mrs. Gross, my sophomore Geometry teacher, I’m going to leave these three alone.

Harvest Season: What surgeons started calling spring after Wisconsin dropped its helmet law.

Twisties: What motorcycling, for many, is all about. Opposite: “super-slab.” Watch for that far-away look in a motorcylcist’s eyes whenever “The Tail of the Dragon” is mentioned (318 curves in 11 miles!).

Cagers: Drivers who will probably never understand the allure of twisties. I think it was Pirsig who once wrote something to the effect that people in cars (cagers) are watching a movie; motorcyclists are starring in one.

Thumper: A one cylinder bike, so-named for its distinctive sound. If you buy one, be prepared for looks of frank bemusement from the uppity, multi-cylinder boys. My riding buddy refers to my F650 as “the sewing machine,” and it pains me to admit I can hear the resemblance.

Road Gator: One of the many banes of two-wheelers everywhere, in addition to potholes, windblown tarps, mattresses, plastic bags, shovels, horse manure, cardboard boxes, plastic water bottles, diapers, bags of garbage, and all the other crap people can’t seem to keep from falling onto the road. “Road Gators” are slabs of tire that have peeled off usually semi trailer wheels, only to lie in wait for the next unassuming biker to come along (see “high side”/”low side”). Many riders don’t realize that gators have a secondary threat: the wires from cast-off radial belts often are the culprits in flat tires, though they are usually misidentified as staples or nails.

Hard Parts: Anything that drags on the pavement when you get a little too leaned over, such as sidestands, rear foot pegs, or mufflers. Let’s face it, your sidestand foot was already too small before you started grinding it down on your favorite twisty.

Basket Case: The best definition I can think of is the mass of parts in my basement that was once a ’75 Honda 360. Judging from the way its been cannibalized, the number of acorns still in the mufflers, and the amount of rust in the gas tank, its wheels will probably never know the pavement again, leaving my wife wondering why I keep it at all and easily finding yet another meaning for this term.

As I said, this is an incomplete list. I’m sure with another bout of insomnia and little help I can come up with 129 more of my favorite motorcycling words. What are yours?

How To Read A Motorcycle Magazine

Read at your own peril.

   Okay, I know this is a motorcycle magazine. I know you are reading it. Obviously, you know how to read a motorcycle magazine. But, if you are one of those who (like me) is truly obsessed with reading everything and anything connected with motorcycles (especially in the winter months), you have probably begun to suspect that there may be certain hazards, certain pitfalls, associated with your habit. So with apologies to the publishers of all those magazines to which I’m hopelessly addicted, let my scribblings be a warning of what you, the pitiful slave of all things bike, can expect:  

1. The Blank look. You’ve seen it. At parties. Around the watercooler, the bar, or just about anywhere you talk to people not of our persuasion. Their eyes narrow, possibly dart back and forth as if looking for an escape route. Hard as it may be to believe, some people just aren’t interested in a comparison between the dyno ratings for the 2003 vs. 2008 Hayabusa. In fact, you may have to explain what a “Hayabusa” is, and unless you mention the connection to Ben Roethlisberger, their sudden need to call the babysitter might lead you to suspect they don’t really care what it is. Who can begin to explain the lack of enthusiasm for a spirited debate on the true origin of BMW’s roundel or the initial shear rate of Castrol vs. Mobil 1? Being unable to resist injecting motorcycling analogies into conversations isn’t going to help: “Oh yeah, the adjustment to the prime rate, well, that’s just like the time I tried to remap my Multistrada after hanging on that Akropovic, kept getting that surge around 2,000 rpm’s…” (Listeners begin giving each other knowing glances of desperation.) And of course there’s no better way to wind up talking to the tropical fish at a party than to fall into one of your tirades about road hazards: “The driver never even looked, except at his cell phone!” (Listeners offer a quick prayer that their cell doesn’t choose this moment to ring.)

2. Over/understatement. I don’t want to say that magazines aren’t always truthful, but any seasoned reader would probably agree that just about any article should be approached covering the front brake lever of skepticism. For instance, when reading a review of a new bike in a mag that accepts advertising, it might be wise to remember who’s paying to keep the lights on, the word processors booted up, and that article in your hands. Also, when a writer is testing a bike (already feeling generous for having the whole day to tool up and down Highway 1) his opinions may be, let’s say, shaded. A line like “the ergos weren’t quite right for my height” may be translated as “The first of my 12 chiropractor appointments began shortly after my run to San Simeon.” Or: “Some riders may have an issue with the heat issues emanating from the left manifold.” Translation: “Aerostich voided my warranty, stating their suits should not be worn while welding.” Also, In a bike review, cliches like  “a rocket on steroids” sound much better to readers (and marquees) than lines like “capable of getting you a speeding ticket in any state in the union.” (Incidentally, any prospective writer for moto-magazines should know “on steroids” can be attached to just about any noun for an always startling effect. For instance, “A tankbag—On Steroids!” or “a keychain—ON STEROIDS!”)

3. Ads.Those girls and guys in the ads for leathers, helmets, and pipes? No, sadly, they aren’t included in the purchase price, and, no, you won’t even see them at the dealership, nor will you begin to even faintly resemble them if you buy the product they’re hawking. Which of course raises the question of the need for the mysterious, oft-advertised pheromones, and, is there any relationship between them and pervasive ads for radar detectors and that stuff that makes your license plate hard to photograph? I have to admit I’m a gadget junkie of the highest order, but do I really need chartreuse flames for my fuel tank? Well, probably. A multi-tool/flashlight that translates my voice into morse code? Why not? Color-coordinated reservoir caps? Of course! Can I possibly continue to make my seven mile commute to work on County Trunk B without hearing a bluetooth update on my tire pressures every seven seconds? No, obviously I can’t.

4. Becoming a one percent-er. Be aware that, of all the information you absorb from reading bike magazines, ninety-nine percent may turn out to be totally useless. Forever. So, let’s say after all these years, you finally discovered the definitive last word on the bore/stroke ratio of that 1975 Honda CB200 you used to own? Not only that, but you breathessly read how both plugs fired on every upstroke. How could you have not known that before? The fact that possibly none of this information may come up in Trivia Pursuit or even Jeopardy may leave you asking, “Who’s writing those questions, anyway?”

5. Lest we forget. And, of all the countless bits of useless information you absorb, rest assured 98% has a respectable chance of being forgotten. And of that remaining two percent, let’s face it, if memory retention studies are any indication, at least 75 percent will be remembered incorrectly. Ever pick up a two year old copy of your favorite bike mag? (Don’t stop to wonder why you’re saving them.) Did you read that travel piece about Nova Scotia before? The pages are crinkled, the type’s a little smudged, hmmm, didn’t you resolve to ride to Halifax once? How could you forget first reading about the switch from female-slider front ends to male-sliders and the subsequent rise in the natural flexural frequency of clavicle wear?

6. The Wishing/Buying Continuum. Not only will you spend much of your time reading information you’ll never use, probably forget, or remember incorrectly, but many of the bikes you intently read about have about as much chance of sitting on a cycle stand in your garage as Tiger Woods practicing chipping on your front lawn. Don’t get me wrong, I never miss a story about any stunning one-off museum piece meticulously-hand built by little old men in Milan or a fire-breathing board tracker from the deep south hand-hammered out of an International Harvester combine, but in my heart I know I’ll have to be satisfied with a bike that starts every time, runs as long as I ask it too, and leaves me just enough in my checkbook to make the house payment and take my wife to dinner.

So, am I against reading motorcycle magazines? Hardly. In fact, it’s no accident that the end of each month finds me hovering around the mailbox, waiting for the next new issue. But notwithstanding my wife’s puzzling suggestion to, in her words, “get a life,” I must admit it’s a curious and remotely dangerous compulsion. You have been warned.

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Yes, April Can Be Cruel: The Danger in Raking

   “That dead, dried grass,” my dad would say intently. “We’ve to get the old stuff out and give the new a chance.” He was no lawn care fanatic, but appearances (at least in regard to the front lawn) were critically important to him for reasons I still can’t fathom.

   Now, all grown up and a father myself, I lean on a rake on my own lawn (a worn expense of anything that gamely volunteers to come up) and gaze out across the valley of corn stubble and marsh in front our house. An April wind slices through my sweatshirt, and I allow myself a few minutes to reminisce some more, back to a similar morning when I was only 12.

   Twelve seemed to be a watershed age in our house. At 12 you stepped from the brink of kidhood into the shadow of the valley of adulthood. You could no longer cower under the covers if there was a bat in the house at night, but had to grab your own badminton racket and join the fray. Sleeping late on Saturdays was no longer allowed. There were now “chores,” and you weren’t just “helping Dad,” you were out there in the elements by yourself, shoveling snow, mowing the lawn, turning over the garden, raking.

   Spring raking was one of those chores I was always going to do next weekend, but on this particular Saturday morning I was trapped. I had slept in past nine, enough of an excuse to make my mother pour on the guilt.

   “You can do a few things around here, you know.” My mom’s inevitable understatement. Didn’t she realize I was doing just about everything a 12 year old boy could do? Who was going to watch Mighty Mouse save Krakatoa Katie over a bowl of soggy Frosted Flakes? Who was going to crawl back under covers and finish reading Booth Tarkington’s Penrod and Sam or go down to the river and throw rocks at carp?

   “And drink your milk, all of it.” My mom said, noticing my forlorn face. “It’ll help you in the long run.”

   That was hard to swallow. Evidently this “long run” loomed somewhere far ahead in my future. Could this single, rheumy glass of milk really make any kind of difference? I had a vision of my friends’ cleats in my face as I pitched headlong into the cinder track of the long run. They all drank their milk.

   After a suitable, leisurely hour of preparation, I went out into the cold April wind to face the front yard. Rake the dead grass in the spring, cut the live grass all summer long, rake the elm leaves off the grass in the fall, and pile the snow on the grass in the winter. The grass and I were tired.

   No matter how much of the full candle power of my 12-year-old ingenuity I brought to bear, there apparently was only one way to get that damn grass. With a stupid rake. This was an implement Neanderthals probably left leaning in a corner of some French cave. I begn to rake with a vengeance as I fantasized huge, jet engine-powered lawn vacuums, or gleaming metal robot lawn workers, outfitted with rocket packs and gattling guns. Anything would make raking more interesting.

   I wasn’t getting much dead grass that day because as soon as I had a wispy little pile it would start to blow away. What I did get I would put in our old red wagon and haul to the back yard to be burned later. My family actually believed in torturing the grass.

   As I toiled away I wondered, was this really necessary? Or was this just some task my parents had dreamed up to teach me the value of honest labor and responsibility? Possibly they were just aiming for one Saturday I wouldn’t be looking for trouble with my buddies down by the river, where I’m sure my dad figured it was only a matter of time before I fell in and drowned myself. Were they afraid I wouldn’t be ready when it was time to strike out on my own? As far as I was concerned, at the crusty age of 12 I knew pretty much all I needed to know, except for maybe how to drive a stick shift.

   When I finally got a wagon’s worth I started to consider taking my first break. My fingers were pink, my nose was running. It seemed justifiable. I started to pack the grass down on the pile in the wagon when suddenly it happened: the rake broke.

    Now, this could have been great, since we only owned one rake, and I could have rejoined Daffy Duck, Bugs Bunny, and Pepe Le Pew free of parental reproach; however, when the rake handle broke, the force of my push made my body pivot sharply. This would have been okay, too; however, my left foot, planted firm on the frozen turf, did not pivot. My foot stayed exactly where it was, leaving my knee to wrench with a sickening crunch I heard as much as felt.

   In a second I was on the ground, dying, I thought. The pain was incredible, practically paralyzing my leg, and my brain was caught in a tornado of swirling thoughts: “EIGHTEEN MONTHS IN A CAST!”, “STANDING ON THE SIDELINES ON CRUTCHES!”, and, in Doctor Johnson’s solemn voice, “He’ll always have a limp.”

   But after 20 minutes of solid agony and not a little self-pity, I realized I couldn’t just lie there. Cars were driving by, some possibly containing girls, I looked ridiculous. So, with Spartan courage, I grabbed what was left of the rake handle, and, driving it into the unyielding ground, I started to drag my crippled body toward the house. The scene was heartbreaking, but I soldiered on, the runny nose and tears results of grim determination, not crying.

   Luckily, I had left the door to our screen porch on the back of our house open. I groped up the two stairs and then rested. The pain was still terrible, and for some stupid reason I kept thinking I would never walk again. Destined, I thought, to go through life pulling myself along with a broken rake handle. I tried to call my parents. “Help” at the top my voice seemed appropriate for the situation. It was crazy. By pushing myself up, I could just see my parents through the living room windows, my dad consumed in his daily mound of newspapers, my mom ironing pants I would probably never need again while she listened to the TV blaring The Wide World of Sports. I feebly tossed the rake handle at the windows and missed. Now, without my trusty stick I was helpless, so I started to squirm infantry-style to our kitchen door on my own.

   We had a funny kitchen door. Through some architectural miscalculation, probably on my dad’s part, the porch addition left the kitchen door’s threshold raised about 14 inches from the porch floor. If you ever find yourself with a broken leg at a funny inner door like this, you’ll have to do what I did to be heard. Raising myself up on two hands, I began to beat my forehead against the door. One caution: this cannot be done very long.

   I’m positive a conversation then went on in the living room, something like this:

 Mom: “Is that someone knocking at the kitchen door?”

 Dad: “Who would knock at the kitchen door? ”

Mom: “I don’t know. It sounds to me like someone’s knocking.”

Dad: “No one knocks at the kitchen door, they’d knock at the back door.”

Mom: “It stopped. No, there it is again. Somebody’s knocking. Can you answer the door, Dick?”

Dad: “Where’s Ron?”

Mom: “He’s supposed to be raking the front yard.”

Dad: “I thought he was going to do that last weekend…”

etc., etc.

   For some strange reason, my Mom finally put down her iron and came to investigate. I had just discovered that banging your head against something hard does make you forget any pain coming from somewhere else.

   “What did you do?” my mom asked.

   “IT HURTS!” I cried. I admit wasn’t very articulate at that age.

   “What hurts?” My dad had now joined the scene.

   “MY LEG!”

   “Your leg?” Though either were my parents.

   “MY LEG!” Were we speaking the same language?

   “What were you doing?” What was I doing? What did it matter what I was doing?

   “THE RAKE BROKE!” Okay, that was a mistake, because I knew then the broken rake would immediately become the main issue.

   “You broke the rake?”
   “I FELL DOWN!”

   Finally satisfied, my parents retreated for a consultation. “I’m worried—Should we call Dr. Johnson?—Do you think he broke it?—the rake?”

   I was by then lying half in the house and half out, but actually I was feeling a little better. I knew somehow I would soon be back in the safety of my family. I could relax, Mom and Dad would take it from here. Dr. Johnson would make a house call. I might even be lying on the couch, watching Looney Tunes again shortly. There might even by a new copy of Mad Magazine in it for me.

   Back in the present, my son rouses me from my reverie by scratching away at the sparse grass in front of me with a little tin rake. He pulls intently at the grass for a few moments, then pauses. “Why are we raking now, Dad, there aren’t even any leaves.”

   I look back across the valley and think of my mom and dad. “The dead grass, we’ve got to give the new stuff a chance…but, be careful.”

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Pushing the Envelope

To Ride Or Not To Ride, That Was The Question…

By Ron Davis

   I was torn. I had a four day weekend and an offer from my son to guide me to some of his favorite early season trout streams. He lives in La Crosse, Wisconsin, on the Mississippi; I live on the other side of the state. I could take the pickup and really load up on gear, even throwing in a care package for him, OR take my F650 which would mean barest essentials, great mileage, and well, you know, more fun. So what was the problem? It was Wisconsin. It was March 18. The weather man looked uneasy. The steel gray sky looked like snow.

   I hemmed. I hawed. I piled my gear in the garage. I decided, well, why not load up the bike, just to see if it’s even feasible? Two travel rod tubes, waders and boots, fishing vest, net, rain gear, one change of clothes, camera, three granola bars, a second-hand copy of Gierach’s Trout Bum, toothbrush and deodorant, plastic. Packing looked do-able. I looked at the sky again, old oatmeal gray. The dash-mounted Formotion thermometer was nudging 35 degrees Fahrenheit. It was 1 p.m., not going to get any warmer. I could call and see what my wife thought, but there certainly was no mystery there. Better to call her after I arrived. I threw on the tail bag and opened the Givi’s. I was committed.

   How many times have you started a trip thinking, “Is this really wise?” And “What exactly am I trying to prove?”  It was one of those. I shifted up tentatively. I rolled on the throttle, countering, “What’s the worst that could happen?” I suppressed the persistent image of me and a shiny red motorcycle sliding off a banked turn into some snowy pines.

   I had, after all, done stuff like this before. When I was in college, tired of being wheel-less all winter, I had hitched home to get my Honda 350 out of dry dock one March. I had to set out on the 100 miles back to school by six the next morning to make my 10 o’clock news writing class with Dr. Polk. Everything was covered with a heavy frost. My mother looked doubtful, my dad appeared smug, as if convinced his initial suspicion about me had finally been confirmed: I was, indeed, an idiot.

   Either I was dumber then, or the gear wasn’t as good, because, despite duct tape around my face shield, a winter parka, and sorel boots, I began shivering almost as soon as I got on the highway. I started pulling over every 20 miles or so to pry myself out of the saddle and beat my arms together. Windshields were for sissies then, fairing didn’t even exist. I’m sure I considered hitting the coffee shops or even turning around, but Dr. Polk was legendary for accepting no excuses short of hospitalization, not to mention holding students who cut class up for public ridicule. By the time I coasted stiffly into my apartment’s parking lot, I was shaking violently, but at the same time feeling strangely peaceful, detached, and more than a little confused. (“Hypothermia” hadn’t entered my vocabulary yet.) I stopped, put my feet down and just stood there, straddling the bike as it continued to run, trying to remember complicated things like how one would go about turning off a motorcycle, or how, having turned it off, one would get off the bike without having it fall over on top of oneself. I looked down with wonder to see the inside calves of my rain pants melted to my jeans, the result of hugging my legs in so tightly to the headers.

   As if trying to move through heavy syrup, I remembered the function of the sidestand, silenced the engine by stabbing at the kill switch, and began fumbling for my apartment key. Making a trail of clothing to bathroom, I turned the shower to hot and curled up on the floor of the stall. A half-hour later I was still shaking, but could sort of remember who I was and why I wasn’t going to get an “A” in News Editing 255 anymore.

   But now, something like 300 years later, things seemed positively luxurious compared to that jaunt on the Honda. I was snug in layers of fleece, gore-tex, and Kevlar, and heated grips and grip guards kept the feeling in my fingers. A 17 inch windshield lifted the wind chill up to the crest of my helmet. Had I gotten softer or smarter?

   But there were still those clouds, those clouds. Wispy threads of what I knew were snow squalls were feeling their way down, lower and lower. At the 70 mile mark I felt I had earned a piece of homemade pie and a couple cups of black coffee at Connie’s Country Café in Babcock. I was the only one in the little place, which was fine since my pants, coat, helmet, backpack, gloves and other gear took up two tables. I’d recommend the apple ala mode (they warm it up for you without asking).

   Suited up and outside again, I pressed the starter and simultaneously flurries appeared. “Flurries I can deal with,” I said into my helmet, as I settled in for the 60 mile dead straightaway down 173. I screwed down the Throttlemeister at 62 and settled back. Straightaways like this one foster a certain Zen-like state for me. You’re trapped with your own thoughts, forced to get reacquainted with someone you may have been neglecting for a while. Among other revelations, it occurred to me what a change in roles this weekend presented. My son would be the host, feeding me, shepherding me around, saying things like, “Fish here” and “Do you need to take a nap?” Basically, he would be more like the parent, and I the wayward kid, showing up on his improbable motorcycle.

   At Sparta (a fitting coincidence) things got a bit more, well, spartan.  Big, fifty-cent sized flakes came down in a sheet. My windshield and arms turned white, but I was able to keep my face shield clear as I eased down to 35. At least the flakes were still melting as soon as they hit the road. I soon started getting the “What was he thinking?” look from oncoming drivers. That was a pretty good question, I thought, but then a convoy of Humvees out of Fort McCoy rumbled by, and I had the feeling some of those guys would have gladly traded places.

   What was I thinking? Was this some kind of challenge, some kind of meaningless mid-life charade to stave off early bird specials and senior citizen discounts? Was pushing this envelope going to prove I was as tough and daring as any kid half my age? Maybe I was just desperate for a good ride on a motorcycle. I plodded along to the first convenience store and daintily steered in to re-evaluate. I looked miserable, but realized I felt pretty okay. I munched a Butterfinger, ignored the smirks from other customers, and waited for the squall to pass.

   I must have passed through three or four more snowy sections in the final thirty miles of my trek, but having chosen back roads, I could take it easy or pull over whenever I needed to, and even in these less than ideal conditions I still could enjoy carving into Wisconsin’s “coulee country.” I pulled into my son’s driveway feeling tired and happy. I turned off the engine, swung the sidestand down and leaned back on the tailbag to savor a moment that I think only a rider knows. The old man still has it, I thought. Just then my son pulled in next to me, home from work. He gave me a blank look of resignation and shook his head. Dad would never grow up.

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