The first car I remember driving was my neighbor Matt's Ford Courier pickup. It was a little truck that was often left parked in their horse paddock, to move hay and manure and anything else around. They had a small barn with a couple of horses. They also had little to no supervision after school until after five o'clock when their dad got home from work and started drinking his bottles of Miller High Life.
The paddock was roughly the size of half a football field and included a large rock pile towards the rear of the property that Matt claimed was an ancient Indian burial mound. In retrospect, I suspect whoever cleared the land for the paddock just piled all the rocks there instead of making a stone wall, which was more traditional in those parts. Regardless, I chose to treat the rock pile with a degree of reverence, just in case.
The Courier was easy to drive. I believe it was a manual, but I rarely had it out of first gear. I only drove it for short stints at a time, and made sure to park it more or less where I had found it.
The next few cars I drove with adult supervision, after receiving my learner's permit at the age of sixteen or so. There was my dad's Prelude, which was a great car and very easy to shift. Then there was a Jeep CJ-7, which belonged to the Explorer Post in town, of which I was a member. The Explorer Post was an auxiliary fire and rescue department, run by a handful of knowledgeable and devoted adults, with the aim of teaching high school aged kids how to work as a team and assist the town's fire department in any way we could. While we weren't allowed to enter burning buildings, we received training to do so, as well as all types of rescue techniques, advanced First Aid and CPR, etc.
The Jeep was a much more finicky vehicle to drive, probably because the synchros in the transmission were worn out from all the kids who had been taught how to drive manual on it. Synchros are cone-shaped friction devices within a transmission that help match the speed of the two gears you're trying to connect when you let out the clutch. If they're worn out, you can still shift, but you have to match the engine and gear speed on your own.
Once I was somewhat proficient behind the wheel, I more or less stopped driving and just rode my bike everywhere. I bought my first car (a 1980-something Subaru wagon of indeterminate color - kind of a dirty gold) at the age of 27, in order to move to New Jersey to take a job in a bike shop.
Buying the Subaru was my introduction to automotive maintenance. I learned how to change axles and "repair" exhaust lines, basically whatever broke I tried my best to fix. Once, with the help of a friend, I changed the timing belt, which proved to be quite a challenge.
While I still love bikes, I can't deny my passion for all things car-related. When I moved to New Jersey, I met a lot of guys who were really into cars (and bikes!), so that probably had a lot to do with it. There was Ferrari Bill, who worked for Ferrari and currently owns a very successful British roadster restoration business; Ken, who sold automotive supplies and always drove something cool; Buck, who was my roommate for several years - he had a new and interesting car every year or so; Damon, my friend, neighbor, and eventually my boss, who had a Porsche 944 Cabriolet that was a lot of fun... and many more.
Perhaps it was the local roads that drew all these car enthusiasts to the area. Driving along the Delaware River on River Road (on the Pennsylvania side) was an existential experience. Dark red cliffs rise a few hundred feet above you on one side, a couple feet from your side-view mirror, while the Delaware comes and goes from view, often only a foot or two below the road surface. Twists, turns and one-lane bridges were the norm, with a few straight shots where one might be tempted to open it up a bit. The entire road seemed to have these perfect undulations, which made the car bounce around to a rhythm that matched the thrill of the drive.
With autonomous vehicles coming on strong, I wonder if our kids will get to experience the thrill of driving like I did. I certainly hope so. One way or another, I am confident they'll know how to change a flat tire, check the fluids, and generally not be helpless on the road. On the flip side, I would love it if one or more of them chose to ride their bike across the country at some point, something I never got around to. No amount of technology should prevent them from such an accomplishment.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
My own little Eden
I spent the first eleven years of my life in Westborough, Massachusetts, a relatively small town in the middle of the state, between Worcester and Boston. I'll insert a satellite view here at some point, but I'd prefer to focus on the story for the moment.
A few years before I was born, my dad had a brand-new modern house, called a deck house, constructed on the lot next door to the very old farmhouse my family lived in at the time. The main motivation for this was to provide our allergy-ridden family with a nice, clean, allergen-free home. I'm not sure how effective it was but it seems like quite a heartfelt gesture to me.
So the "new" house was what I came home from the hospital to and where I remained living until my parents divorced and I started to spend time with my mom in Boston on weekends and during the summer. At that point (1982?), my three sisters, Melanie, Jenny and Sarah, and my brother Pete were all out of the house and at college and beyond. So unfortunately, I was stuck with my dad, who had changed from how we all remembered him in the past, and his new wife, Jocelyn, who was quite mentally unstable and basically blamed me for everything from her parrot not talking to her to my father's unhappiness. Not the healthiest home environment!
Here's a rare picture of both the old and new houses:
We owned about eleven acres of land behind our house, but that number was irrelevant to me as a child because other than lots of stone walls, there was nothing stopping me an my friends from exploring further.
One of our favorite places to go was the "ghost town," which in reality was a long ago abandoned chicken farm, I think (siblings feel free to chime in within the comments section). It was sufficiently creepy, though. Eventually, a pleasant hippy couple purchased the property and built an underground house next to the ghost town. The front, southern-exposed side of the house was all glass, everything else was truly underground. The owners were nice enough to us but clearly preferred their privacy, so we did our best to bypass the area from then on.
Perhaps my favorite section was definitely within our property lines. Cross Hill was a beautiful grassy hill with trees along the edge and a long stone wall bordering the property line. It was called cross hill because my sister Jenny used to hold religious services there and had erected a simple cross using leftover stockade fence from the property. The was a row of pine trees close together which served as a wall around a huge bed of soft green moss; an excellent napping spot. One curious feature about this area is that it was pockmarked with rather large holes, maybe ten feet around and five feet deep. These turned out to be spots where my dad had taken a tractor and transplanted some trees to our front yard at the "new" house. Due to our family connection with Frederick Law Olmsted, I think my dad considered himself an amateur landscape architect.
Heading further from our homes, we would arrive at the railroad tracks, which was kind of our own unofficial border. We rarely went beyond the tracks. Working our way back home inevitably required some muddy walks through Cedar Swamp. Always a good source for interesting plants and the occasional animal carcass. One day in the swamp I found a completely sun-bleached carcass of an animal with huge sharp teeth built around a small body. I still have no idea what that was.
Venturing into another section of the swamp that still had living trees in it, we often found small fur traps, which were extremely dangerous. So naturally, we would un-spring the traps with a solid stick, rinse them off and bring them home to play with (sorry mom).
Another favorite pastime was stalking hunters who were not allowed on our property and then scaring them off. Those and high schoolers in four wheelers who were under the false impression that they could come on our land and mess it up. One day, we saw a group in a Bronco leave the road and drive over a barbed wire fence, knocking over a fence post in the process. As they sped into the woods, we repaired the fence and post to the best of our ability, but we couldn't get the post to stay straight and it pointed inward at a 45 degree angle. Eventually the Bronco came back. What happened next, no one saw coming. They drove the Bronco right into the same post they had knocked over earlier. Due to the angle we left it at, the post got wedged up in their engine bay and actually lifted the truck off the ground, hopefully rupturing their oil pan or something equally inconvenient.
All we could do was stand there and cheer in celebration of our great achievement. Then I think we ran before they beat us up. That was a good day!
A few years before I was born, my dad had a brand-new modern house, called a deck house, constructed on the lot next door to the very old farmhouse my family lived in at the time. The main motivation for this was to provide our allergy-ridden family with a nice, clean, allergen-free home. I'm not sure how effective it was but it seems like quite a heartfelt gesture to me.
So the "new" house was what I came home from the hospital to and where I remained living until my parents divorced and I started to spend time with my mom in Boston on weekends and during the summer. At that point (1982?), my three sisters, Melanie, Jenny and Sarah, and my brother Pete were all out of the house and at college and beyond. So unfortunately, I was stuck with my dad, who had changed from how we all remembered him in the past, and his new wife, Jocelyn, who was quite mentally unstable and basically blamed me for everything from her parrot not talking to her to my father's unhappiness. Not the healthiest home environment!
Here's a rare picture of both the old and new houses:
We owned about eleven acres of land behind our house, but that number was irrelevant to me as a child because other than lots of stone walls, there was nothing stopping me an my friends from exploring further.
One of our favorite places to go was the "ghost town," which in reality was a long ago abandoned chicken farm, I think (siblings feel free to chime in within the comments section). It was sufficiently creepy, though. Eventually, a pleasant hippy couple purchased the property and built an underground house next to the ghost town. The front, southern-exposed side of the house was all glass, everything else was truly underground. The owners were nice enough to us but clearly preferred their privacy, so we did our best to bypass the area from then on.
Perhaps my favorite section was definitely within our property lines. Cross Hill was a beautiful grassy hill with trees along the edge and a long stone wall bordering the property line. It was called cross hill because my sister Jenny used to hold religious services there and had erected a simple cross using leftover stockade fence from the property. The was a row of pine trees close together which served as a wall around a huge bed of soft green moss; an excellent napping spot. One curious feature about this area is that it was pockmarked with rather large holes, maybe ten feet around and five feet deep. These turned out to be spots where my dad had taken a tractor and transplanted some trees to our front yard at the "new" house. Due to our family connection with Frederick Law Olmsted, I think my dad considered himself an amateur landscape architect.
Heading further from our homes, we would arrive at the railroad tracks, which was kind of our own unofficial border. We rarely went beyond the tracks. Working our way back home inevitably required some muddy walks through Cedar Swamp. Always a good source for interesting plants and the occasional animal carcass. One day in the swamp I found a completely sun-bleached carcass of an animal with huge sharp teeth built around a small body. I still have no idea what that was.
Venturing into another section of the swamp that still had living trees in it, we often found small fur traps, which were extremely dangerous. So naturally, we would un-spring the traps with a solid stick, rinse them off and bring them home to play with (sorry mom).
Another favorite pastime was stalking hunters who were not allowed on our property and then scaring them off. Those and high schoolers in four wheelers who were under the false impression that they could come on our land and mess it up. One day, we saw a group in a Bronco leave the road and drive over a barbed wire fence, knocking over a fence post in the process. As they sped into the woods, we repaired the fence and post to the best of our ability, but we couldn't get the post to stay straight and it pointed inward at a 45 degree angle. Eventually the Bronco came back. What happened next, no one saw coming. They drove the Bronco right into the same post they had knocked over earlier. Due to the angle we left it at, the post got wedged up in their engine bay and actually lifted the truck off the ground, hopefully rupturing their oil pan or something equally inconvenient.
All we could do was stand there and cheer in celebration of our great achievement. Then I think we ran before they beat us up. That was a good day!
Monday, February 13, 2017
Nat the skate rat
When I was young, I loved to work on bikes and ride them everywhere. But in addition to bikes, at some point I became a "skate rat."
I don't think I was your typical skate rat because I primarily used my board for transportation. I did very little in the trick world, but I loved sliding around down a hill, similar to riding a snowboard; that was about the extent of my tricks. I had a few good friends who I skated with, and they would often enlist me as a judge for impromptu skate competitions at the nearest half pipe.
I don't think I ever broke a skateboard deck, but I eventually saved enough money for a sweet new one, a Powell Peralta Mike McGill. This was an extra wide board for my extra long feet, so they didn't drag on the ground around turns. The same issue would lead me to a snowboard called "Fat Bob" later in life.
I was very excited to finally have a nice setup to assemble. I put the grip tape (self-adhesive sandpaper for grip) on and trimmed it with a razor blade. Then I got to install the trucks, which are basically pivoting axles that bolt on to the deck in four places. They came with good screws and "nyloc" nuts, which are nuts with a nylon ring in them to prevent them from loosening.
The final step was installing the wheels. I chose wheels that would give me some traction but still allow me to slide around the pavement when I wanted to.
When I went away to Williston (boarding school) in 1986, I would use the board to get around campus. Unfortunately, one day while I was at the dining hall, someone stole the board from the coat rack area. I never bought a new board, but at that point I was spending most of my time and energy on the bike.
I have a nice scar on my right hip from the time when my dad drove me to the top of a hill so I could skate it. Somewhere around 20 mph, the board started shaking beyond control. I jumped off and landed on my feet but quickly wound up on my belly, sliding down the hill head first. Image not sure what my dad was thinking but perhaps he was just trying to give me material for future writing projects.
I don't think I was your typical skate rat because I primarily used my board for transportation. I did very little in the trick world, but I loved sliding around down a hill, similar to riding a snowboard; that was about the extent of my tricks. I had a few good friends who I skated with, and they would often enlist me as a judge for impromptu skate competitions at the nearest half pipe.
I don't think I ever broke a skateboard deck, but I eventually saved enough money for a sweet new one, a Powell Peralta Mike McGill. This was an extra wide board for my extra long feet, so they didn't drag on the ground around turns. The same issue would lead me to a snowboard called "Fat Bob" later in life.
I was very excited to finally have a nice setup to assemble. I put the grip tape (self-adhesive sandpaper for grip) on and trimmed it with a razor blade. Then I got to install the trucks, which are basically pivoting axles that bolt on to the deck in four places. They came with good screws and "nyloc" nuts, which are nuts with a nylon ring in them to prevent them from loosening.
The final step was installing the wheels. I chose wheels that would give me some traction but still allow me to slide around the pavement when I wanted to.
When I went away to Williston (boarding school) in 1986, I would use the board to get around campus. Unfortunately, one day while I was at the dining hall, someone stole the board from the coat rack area. I never bought a new board, but at that point I was spending most of my time and energy on the bike.
I have a nice scar on my right hip from the time when my dad drove me to the top of a hill so I could skate it. Somewhere around 20 mph, the board started shaking beyond control. I jumped off and landed on my feet but quickly wound up on my belly, sliding down the hill head first. Image not sure what my dad was thinking but perhaps he was just trying to give me material for future writing projects.
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Good morning, good blogging?
Good morning!
This is my first blog post, so I don't really know what I'm doing. Many people have encouraged me to start writing a blog based on what I've written on Facebook.
I do know that my main motivation for this blog will be to record as many stories floating around in my brain as possible for my kids and family to remember me by - no time like the present.
At the tail end of January, 2017, I was hospitalized after I passed out repeatedly one night (I was diagnosed with Stage IV Colon Cancer back in August of 2014). There's a lot to the story but the bottom line is that I should not have survived this experience! There was a great deal of bleeding in my stomach, which lead to a very low blood pressure, which explains why I kept passing out. My hemoglobin level was also very low (3).
The other day, my radiation doctor calmly told me that "A hemoglobin level of three is not compatible with life." This hit me hard, because his statement, combined with the concern of all the doctors and nurses who witnessed me at my worst (I have no memory of this day), was quite serious. They were all very relieved to see me recovering.
Realizing that I could have died, that perhaps I should be dead, wound up filling me with an immense amount of gratitude. I was more grateful than ever to be walking this earth and breathing its air. Grateful for all the amazing people I have met in my life, for all the places I've been able to visit around the world. Grateful for my family.
I think this is enough for my first blog entry. I will try to write something every day, but that doesn't seem realistic... I'll give it my best.
This is my first blog post, so I don't really know what I'm doing. Many people have encouraged me to start writing a blog based on what I've written on Facebook.
I do know that my main motivation for this blog will be to record as many stories floating around in my brain as possible for my kids and family to remember me by - no time like the present.
At the tail end of January, 2017, I was hospitalized after I passed out repeatedly one night (I was diagnosed with Stage IV Colon Cancer back in August of 2014). There's a lot to the story but the bottom line is that I should not have survived this experience! There was a great deal of bleeding in my stomach, which lead to a very low blood pressure, which explains why I kept passing out. My hemoglobin level was also very low (3).
The other day, my radiation doctor calmly told me that "A hemoglobin level of three is not compatible with life." This hit me hard, because his statement, combined with the concern of all the doctors and nurses who witnessed me at my worst (I have no memory of this day), was quite serious. They were all very relieved to see me recovering.
Realizing that I could have died, that perhaps I should be dead, wound up filling me with an immense amount of gratitude. I was more grateful than ever to be walking this earth and breathing its air. Grateful for all the amazing people I have met in my life, for all the places I've been able to visit around the world. Grateful for my family.
I think this is enough for my first blog entry. I will try to write something every day, but that doesn't seem realistic... I'll give it my best.
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