Scooter in the Sticks

Exploring life on a Vespa Scooter and Royal Enfield Himalayan motorcycle.

Women in My Life

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hands forming a heart on a treeValentine’s Day 2016

Youngest daughter Aleta formed a heart with her hands, and appropriate picture to lead a brief nod to the women I love on Valentine’s Day.

Kim Dionis on Ogunquit BeachKim

Photographing on Ogunquit Beach in Maine.  We’ve spent a lot of time there detaching from the noise of the world.  She’s shown me how to slow down, watch and listen.  Had she not been a patient teacher there would be no Scooter in the Sticks. I probably wouldn’t have a Vespa scooter.  I know I wouldn’t be as good a photographer.

I still hope to someday see her riding her own scooter.

Aleta De veauAleta

The only other person in the immediate family with a motorcycle license.  When the warm weather returns perhaps we can go for a ride.  Until then our adventures will be at the grocery store or cafe.

Hannah and Emma at Pump Station in BoalsburgHannah and Emma

Daughter and granddaughter.  I’ve given up on getting Hannah on two motorized wheels.  But I’ll start planting the idea early with Emma.  That and don’t trust boys.

Lily the Hammer, Belgian SheepdogLily the Hammer

The only female canine in the house, our one year old Belgian Sheepdog of the Groenendael persuasion.  She comes by the name Hammer honestly.  She pounds her Uncle Junior relentlessly even though he’s almost 30 pounds heavier.  She’s a little battering ram.

And I love her. (And you too Junior) And Kim, Aleta, Hannah and Emma.

And not just on Valentine’s Day.

Focus on the Journey

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Vespa GTS scooter and Mt. Nittany in PennsylvaniaDestination or Journey?

During my ride to work I was thinking about destinations, places I might like to visit on the Vespa.  Aside from coffee shops and quiet places to write in my journal, I was coming up empty.  There are no dreams of riding to the top of Pike’s Peak, Daytona Beach, the Tail of the Dragon or any of the other places that riders like to visit.

Perhaps it’s because I like to ride but hate arriving.

This morning was chilly with the temperature at 38F when I departed.  The remaining snow and ice was almost gone leaving anything not paved or heavily graveled a soft, muddy mess.  Strolling around for a few minutes while photographing the Vespa scooter with Mount Nittany I sensed a little of why I am not destination focused.  I love the experience of travel and the exploration of the space I’m in, the continual revelation of things to look at.  I don’t want to rush to get somewhere and not take time to investigate everything on the way.  A destination focus hampers getting to know a place by demanding schedules and expectations.

I want to wander as a child.

family photo on livingroom couch in 1956Christmas 1956

I ache when I look at this picture of myself with my mother and father.  They’re just kids.  And now they’re gone.  All chances to know them better have disappeared. The further I travel away from them, the more I realize how much they have given me — she a curiosity with the world, and he the even temperament to accept whatever I discover.

I’m a long way from home.

Vespa GTS scooter on gravel roadSudden Golden Silence

Sunlight on a winter day warms the spirit. And the ground.  An attempt to cross a pasture was thwarted by the scooter instantly bogging down in the mud that lurked beneath the grass.  Without knobby tires the scooter was going nowhere in that mess. Still, it’s a quiet time on the way to work.  A few minutes to appreciate the air I’m breathing, the world I’m beholding.

One of the things I love about a ride are the little discoveries — mud I can’t traverse, the sound of boots squishing through soggy turf, the dramatic sky framing a photo.  There’s no destination or place (save getting to work) that is driving me.

Mother and son on the living room couchLessons on Travel

I learned from my mother how to travel.  I learned from my wife how to savor the trip.

About a year after this photograph was taken I made my first trip to Germany — a vague recollection of a long flight on a Pan Am Clipper followed by mountains.  My mother loved the Alps.  She was an explorer and I learned to appreciate everything from reading a map to how to navigate strange places.  Always on the go, it seemed we never were sure how a day trip would unfold.  It’s much the same on the Vespa — in motion and few plans on where to be and when.

From Kim, I’ve learned to be somewhere, stop, and absorb the place without agenda or itinerary.  Our stays in Ogunquit, Maine at the Beachmere Inn, weeks in one place, with nothing to do but walk out the door and see what the world was doing.  It’s like that with the Vespa too — get on the scooter and absorb what the road reveals.  It’s out there, just waiting.

Who cares where they’re going.

mud on the rear wheel of a Vespa GTS scooterRough Roads

The Vespa has taken a beating and has the earthly patina usually associated with BMW adventure bikes.  It’s an indication of the road less traveled — at least for most scooters.  If I was focused on destinations instead of “wonder where this trail lead…” I’d miss the opportunity to dirty up the scooter and a chance to explore what’s right in front of me.

father and son on living room couchDreams of My Father

Dad and his boy.  I don’t recall him ever referring to me by any name other than “Boy”.  He’s been gone now for 10 years and I can still hear his voice.

I have to confess a there is a place I want to ride — to the cemetery where he’s buried.  I’ve not been there since he died. It’s time to visit and say hello. I had a trip planned in November but some things came up and had to cancel.

kid with wooden go kartBuilding Dreams

Home after a second trip to Germany.  During or after each trip dad had something special prepared for me.  I was craving potato chips during the first trip so he shipped a big bag by airmail delivery which had to cost a fortune.  I still love potato chips though circumstance has changed how much or how often I can enjoy them.

A wooden push car built on the chassis of a little kid’s fire engine was the surprise in 1959.  The pack of kids living on our street pushed that thing around all over the neighborhood. Three years later I arrived home to find that he built me a clubhouse in the backyard.

Not everyone has good memories of their father for lots of reasons.  I’m grateful for mine but regret we didn’t talk more.  I never asked him the big questions.  It’s too late now.

Vespa GTS scooter on gravel roadLittle Journeys

Every ride is a journey if only to the grocery store for milk, bread and eggs.  I ride over the same roads and see the same places but somehow there’s always new things to see.  During a video interview I did while in graduate school with photographer Stephen Shore, he shared the challenge of photographing the landscape when he moved to Montana.  Shore told me it took him several years there before he could see anything.

I understand now what he meant.  And why a race to a destination for a quick photo or two and then on to the next doesn’t leave much room to experience a place.

So I’ll continue my destination-less riding and see where I end up.

Why I Blog: Year in Pictures

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Just found this video that my Google plus account produced — an automated construction using images that I posted to my old Blogger account that were sitting in a Picasa album.  Facebook builds similar things at the end of the year.  Watching I was struck by how well it depicted, in part, some of the things that took place in my life.  Paging through old family photo albums that my mother fastidiously curated and maintained do the same sort of thing.  But who has time to carefully mount and label images with meaningful captions anymore?

Certainly not me.

It did get me thinking about Scooter in the Sticks and the reasons why I blog.

  1.  To get rich.  (Hah, fat chance, pipe dream, immersion in denial)
  2. To sort things out that perplex or bother me.  (This is absolutely true)
  3. To practice writing.  (That’s how it started.  A blank page doesn’t frighten me anymore)

After looking at the video a couple times I realized there’s another reason — I want to share something of myself, leave something behind to help my family, and my infant granddaughter know something about what goes on between my ears.

I never really knew my father despite having spent a lot of time with him.  We were close, he was supportive, but I never really knew what he thought about, what bothered him, concerned him.  In art school I produced a series of videos about myself and I remember screening one for a class and afterwards several students — decades younger than me — told me how much they wished their fathers had made something like this.  Like me, they didn’t really know their fathers.

The Year in Pictures doesn’t reveal any secrets about me.  But it does reflect some of the things I’ve done.  As I approach 900 posts on this blog I can’t help but believe there’s some insight about what’s important to me.  I don’t have anything about my father that would fill one blog post that’s not a photograph.  After he was gone there were so many questions that I wished I had asked.

So many.

And the same goes for my mother though she revealed a bit more.  But much was unsaid and unlooked for.  Too bad now.

Do you know your father and mother?

 

Scooter Riding Daughter

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Lone tree in a foggy landscapeMy scooter riding daughter got her first taste of fog this morning (I think) as we headed south to breakfast.  I offered a few tips, watch traffic approaching from behind, clear your visor, and pay attention to everything, but I think she already deduced the risk.

No matter how often I look out across fog shrouded fields there’s a preternatural feeling that creeps into my bones, as if I’m a character in Game of Thrones and a direwolf will emerge from the mist.

I wish I could hold onto those flights of imagination.  Maybe I should write a book.

foggy roadTraffic was light to non-existent, at least until we got to the major east-west artery US Route 22 at Waterstreet.  Our scooters, Aleta on her Yamaha Vino and me on the Vespa, wandered along slowly, ready for whatever might emerge.

Deer warning sign on a foggy roadDeer remain my single biggest concern since the only way to effectively manage that risk is to ride slow enough that if you see one you can evade and if you collide the impact is not catastrophic.  Each mile I travel not seeing a deer is one mile closer to seeing one.  Or at least that’s how my brain thinks about it.

The same logic applies to lottery tickets — each loser is one closer to a winner.  Bullshit with lottery tickets and with deer.

Aleta on a scooter rideA quick portrait during an early stop.  Rider, gear, scooters, fog and a gravel road.  What more do you need for a good picture?

wooded area along old Alexandria PikeThe Vino’s 125cc engine is fine for most secondary roads but works hard to maintain 55mph so I try to find alternative routes to destinations.  The old Huntingdon, Cambria and Indiana turnpike route still exists though little used now compared to the late 1800s.  Another of the fine scenic byways in south central Pennsylvania.

Pulpit RocksThe old turnpike route took us past Pulpit Rocks, a notable geologic feature and now a National Historic Landmark.  I had never been through here before and plan to return to explore the rocks with a camera.

Standing Stone Coffee CompanyBy the time we got to the Standing Stone Coffee Company in Huntingdon, Pennsylvania is was ready for something substantial for breakfast.  This cafe is a gem in this neck of the woods and the Standing Stone Florentine breakfast sandwich was outstanding.

Everything tastes better after a long ride.

Aleta at Standing Stone Coffee Company cafeEveryone notices something different on a ride or in life.  I saw two motorcycles parked across the street.  Aleta noticed free WI-FI.  As things wrapped up we had a discussion on the next leg of the ride.  She wanted to ride onto Altoona to visit her grandparents but I needed to head home.  Riding to Altoona would mean Aleta would have nearly 90 miles of riding ahead — alone on unfamiliar roads.

sign for soda at flea marketTen miles down the road we stopped at a flea market, the last stop before I turned northward toward home with Aleta joining me.  Both of us were feeling the pressure of the clock as the day wore on.

The last 30 miles were under a bright sun and blue skies with temperatures rising toward the mid-80s.  Summer is fading in the rear view mirror and my preferred riding season is approaching. Passed my oldest daughter on the way into Boalsburg as she was running up the road but my attention was on a passing truck and a line of parked cars.  Found out later that she was on her first run since giving birth to granddaughter Emma.

Maybe someday Hannah will give up the running shoes for a Vespa.

Remembering Christmas

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Vespa GTS in the snow

No dashing through the snow on a one cylinder Vespa this year so I pulled an image from last winter of one of the more picturesque winter scenes.  Quiet snowfalls are just one of the many images and ideas in my head surrounding the holiday season.  Remembering Christmas is part bittersweet exercise and part challenge to the soul to engage the world with a bright heart and wide smile.

Oh, and by the way, Merry Christmas to all!

Corner Room Restaurant in State College, PA

The magic felt as a kid remains elusive.  Perhaps it doesn’t exist as my adult mind has become too twisted with mature thought, rational behavior, and a mechanistic approach to living that stifles possibilities for magical thinking.

During the run up to Christmas I’ve witnessed much energy and resources invested in the season — decorations, parties and food.  Enjoyable and fun, but not successful in stirring the excitement of my child fantasy of Christmas.

I remember when it happened.  Nine years old, late in the evening after the traditional Christmas eve party followed by a candlelight church service at midnight complete with carols and shimmering desire for Christmas morning.  In a sudden, tearful recognition at bed time I knew it was gone.  No thrill in my stomach or imaginings of Santa Claus.  I was just gone.  My father came to say goodnight and listened to my sadness and told me the feeling would return again when I had kids.

He had that ability to make me feel ok — about Christmas, problems at school, or cutting my thumb in half with my Cub Scout knife.  I wish he was here now, to help me remember Christmas.

Christmas lights in Boalsburg, PA

Colored lights and evergreen trees help make the spirits bright.  Just like the song.  Snow would be a plus but I’m not at all bothered by the snow free weather.  Aside from movies, television and a wealth of Christmas card imagery I’m not certain I have any memories directly connected to the white stuff.  Instead I remember people, and parties.  There are a couple years of adolescent bar-keeping at our Christmas party at the wet bar we had in our family room where I carefully made mixed drinks for people.

On Christmas eve our kids were here and we talked a bit about our favorite gifts over the years.  And the least favorite.  Thinking about those questions I realize the brightest memories and feelings have little to do with presents.  Like the time my dad had the bad chili.

I was maybe twelve when my dad was sick on Christmas day from eating chili, presumably it was too spicy and hot.  When you’re twelve years old and focused on the holiday the health issues of your parents don’t seem too important, especially when it’s an intolerance for spicy food.

Years later I got the real Christmas chili story and it has become indelible in how I see my family and Christmas.  Here’s the short story:

Late on Christmas eve dad goes to the neighbor’s house to help him put together some toy for his kid.  Alcohol is involved.  After finishing the toy he returns home and retrieves a 110 pound weight set in a box from the trunk of the car.  Struggling with the box as he makes his way up the stairs to the kitchen door our overly excited dog jumps on him and he ends up at the bottom of the steps with three broken ribs.

My mother, hearing the commotion, descends the stairs when my father, drunk, looks up into her eyes and say, “An angel!”.  Her response, “Go to hell!”. He spent the next day in bed. The chili story sprang to life but I never learned who hatched the idea.  

At the time I slept through this and only knew dad had eaten some bad chili.  Now I have a more striking picture of Christmas with my parents.  And until his death I had never seen my father drunk.  A case of Rolling Rock would last a year.

These are the stories of Christmas that stand out but again, have not helped me find the magic I once held as a kid.  Maybe when a new grandchild appears the magic will return.  I want to be a kid again at Christmas…

Hershey's milk chocolate at Christmas

I had a brief thrill this evening when I was handed six big Hershey bars.  I still love a Hershey bar, the memory of them from another century to the way they taste now.

Tucano Urbano scooter mitts on Vespa GTSI hope each of you has had a fine holiday.  For those of you who still feel the magic, maybe you’ll share how that happens. In the meantime I can report that the Vespa is back together, the heated grips working and hot, the Tucano Urbano mitts in place, and a short test ride accomplished on Christmas day.

Happy holidays!