It Wouldn't Be Thunder Without a Little Rain

My hometown of Johnstown, PA hosts a big motorcycle rally every summer: Thunder in the Valley. We used to go every year, but when we gave the bike up, we gave Thunder up, too.

But now we have a bike again.

Now one of the (many) reasons I stopped riding last time was my husband's insistence on utilizing every safety precaution known to man. (Which completely counters one of the other reasons I stopped: I didn't think it was safe.) Now those of you who are cluck-clucking and saying, "Tammy, there is no such thing as too much safety. You are clearly a reckless gadabout and ne'er do well with no respect for life", hear me out. (Once again, isn't it eerie how accurately I can read your thoughts?)

Gearing up for a ride - EVEN IN SUMMER - consisted of long jeans, heavy boots, a leather jacket (with armor), a full-face helmet, gloves, and chaps. Yes, my friends, chaps. Now for those of you who don't know me or haven't seen me in a while, it is with a heavy heart that I inform you that of all the fruit shapes a body can adopt, mine has chosen the pear to emulate. The posterior? She is more than ample. The effect of chaps on an ample derriere is considerably less than delightful. Fat-bottomed girls, in chaps, assuredly do NOT make the rockin' world go round. It's like effectively drawing a circle around it for emphasis. "Oh, and in case you were in danger of missing it - HERE'S MY ASS!!!"

Man I hated those chaps.

And in summer, I hated it all.

We would go to rallys and bike nights and my husband would point out women - sometimes even my age and every now and then even my size - wearing cute, sexy little tops. "Why don't you ever dress like that?"

"Because I'd just have to cover it with a frackin' leather coat of armor! Geez, for all you or anyone else knows I might BE dressed like that under here!"

(I wasn't.)

Boys can be stupid.

No offense intended to my three esteemed male readers.

But sheesh.

So when we got this bike, the hubs assured me that he was ready to lighten up. He still insisted on full gear for highway riding, but for jaunts around town we could tone it down a notch or two.

The retirement of Safety Boy was a huge factor in my encouraging him to get a bike this time 'round. Being in danger of heat stroke doesn't feel safe.

He rode to Johnstown, fully geared up, while I followed in the car with the girls. We dropped our stuff (and the girls) off at my parents house and decided to hit Thunder. Just a little jaunt around town.

"You don't have to gear up, if you don't want to."

"Seriously? How much do I have to wear?"

"Whatever you want."

"So I don't have to wear boots?"

"Nah, you'll be fine."

"How 'bout a jacket?"

"We're only going a couple miles..."

"How 'bout a HELmet?" I asked teasingly. We're both very pro-helmet. I was really only kidding.

"Let's leave 'em. It's only a couple miles."

Wow.

Riding through my parents neighborhood in a sleeveless top with no helmet was downright blissful. Freeing. I was giggling like the simple shit I am (right below the surface).

Then we pulled out onto the main road. Not a highway. A little road. But a busy one. And I didn't like it. I felt vulnerable and scared. I envisioned my smashed skull on the pavement at every turn. I thought about my soon to be inevitably orphaned children. I felt stupid beyond almost all reason. What had possessed me to DO this? Never again, I vowed (the way one is wont to vow to oneself when one is right smack dab in the middle of a stupid decision).

We made it to the festival and I was tempted to pick up a cheap helmet from a vendor. I know they're not the sort of helmets that actually offer much protection (other than protection from the authorities in states with helmet laws) but I thought one might give me some peace of mind for the ride back to my parents' house.

I was really getting nervous about getting back on the bike without gear. I felt naked, and not in a good way.

And then, with barely a warning, the skies opened up and it started to rain. Hard. I don't know why I didn't see it coming. this was Johnstown, after all. Known, if it's known at all, for it's floods. Now we were going to have to ride back to the house without gear in the RAIN. Even if it cleared up (which it did) we were going to be riding on wet roads.

Message recieved, universe.

As God is my witness, I'll never go lidless again.

Can't say the same about the chaps.

Other People's Kids

We used to have this kid in our neighborhood. He was loud and obnoxious and couldn't take a hint. He was also one of the most sincere kids I've ever met. The moniker 'rascal' would not be a poor fit. His age put him right between my daughters. My eldest couldn't stand him. My youngest thought he was a great playmate. And he WAS a great playmate - for the most part - but I never let her play with him if I couldn't be RIGHT THERE because along with loud and obnoxious, he was very impulsive. Hearing him say (scream) "Hey! I have an idea!" would send chills down my spine.

He moved away last year when his parents divorced. Dad was still our neighbor, but he went to live with Mom. My eldest and I breathed a sigh of relief. Every now and then he'd visit his dad - more over the summer months - and every time he visited, he always made a beeline for our house.

Yesterday my youngest and I were assembling some patio furniture on the back deck. We were determined to have it all together before my husband came home, because we (okay, I) didn't want to ask for his help. I am woman, hear me roar. We were working our way through the directions and sorting the hardware when up rolled our old neighbor. He parked his bike outside our fence and stood at the gate, clearly waiting for an invitation to join us.

"Whatcha doin'?

"Putting chairs together."

"I could help. If you'd open the gate. Never mind, I think I can jump the fence.'

"Don't jump the fence! We'll open the gate."

Turns out he was quite helpful indeed. Although I did have to stifle a giggle when he slid under my patio chair like it was a car on a lift. There was an easier way. But it wouldn't have been nearly as sweet. And he wouldn't have felt nearly as manly. My daughter ran into the house to fetch him a glass of ice water. He hadn't asked. So much for roaring women.

I'd effectively gotten out of putting together the furniture.

When they were done, they took to playing with the box.

"Oh, that's cute" I thought, as I turned my back on them and started preparing dinner.

"Can I play your drums?" that went about as well as you are imagining...

"Dinner's almost ready."

"Can I stay for dinner?"

"Of course. Call your dad and see if it's ok."

Of course it was.

As I turned my attention away from the task of preparing dinner, I was treated to the sight of pieces of box and packing material spread out over my entire first floor. This had taken less than 15 minutes.

It felt like I had toddlers again.

Sigh.

Then we sat down to dinner.

Our guest had impeccable table manners. He waited to eat until everyone had been served. He asked if he could have things that were right in front of him. He complimented my cooking.

Screeeeeeech! Rewind!

He complimented my cooking.

One more time -

He complimented my cooking.

I used to think I was a pretty decent cook, but my kids have complained so much about what I serve them over the last decade or so that I have completely lost my confidence in that particular arena. And here was this child - this child who annoyed me more often than he didn't - telling me it was the best he ever had and asking me for my recipe. He's twelve.

Could he have been Eddie Haskell-ing me? It's possible. But he's a pretty sincere little kid.

Could he have just been being polite? Also possible, but not likely - since ten minutes earlier, in the midst of banging the hell out of my daughter's drum kit, I'd heard him scream to her, "let's see how loud we can get before your mom goes crazy and yells!"

I'd made dessert, too.

We rarely have dessert, but last night we did.

Do I have to tell you it was the best thing he'd ever tasted in his life?

Do you have any idea how much I enjoyed being complimented on my cooking?

He also very happily remembered very specific gifts my daughters had given him at his birthday party two years ago.

He also told us his dad sold his house and will be moving.

Dang. I think I'm gonna miss that kid.

The Spirit of St. Louis

Buoyed by your kind comments on some of my nostalgic vacation posts, I decided to do a series of them to collect for my parents for Christmas. The following is one of them. Let me know if you'd like to see more, or if these are really the sort of thing that only a parent could love...


In preparation for a trip to the Smithsonian Institute one year my mother, like any good mother, told my sister and I about some of the things we'd see when we got there. In child development circles we call that 'scripting' but, like many of the things we feel the need to label and discuss as though they're lofty philosophical/psychological ideas, it's really just common sense.

Anyhoo.

As she mentioned some of the things we were likely to encounter, one thing stuck out boldly from the rest: The Spirit of St. Louis.

Now I wasn't sure who St. Louis was, but I wasn't all that concerned about it with the prospect of actually encountering his SPIRIT in my near future.

I asked all sorts of questions about this spirit with just enough ambiguity that my mother was able to believe we were on the same page.

"How did they get the Spirit of St. Louis in the museum in the first place?

"How in the world do they get it to stay there?"

"We'll be able to see the actual Spirit of St. Louis? Not just a picture?"

The morning we headed to the museum I was beside myself. I could hardly eat from the excitement.

My parents were, no doubt, pleased that I was so excited about visiting a museum. They were probably also a little perplexed by my sudden and passionate interest in aviation.

As we entered the Air and Space Museum I got my first twinge of nervousness. I was still excited, but suddenly my excitement was tempered with just a little bit of fear. This WAS a restless apparition we were talking about, here. What if it chose today to go rogue?

We entered a huge open room with old airplanes suspended from the high ceiling.

"There it is." my mom said, pointing to I sure as heck didn't know what.

"What? There what is?"

"The Spirit of St. Louis."

Holy buckets, had I missed it? Had it zoomed right past me without so much as sending a chill down my spine to alert me to it's presence?

"Where?" I asked rather desperately, eyes darting wildly around the room trying to pin down the poltergeist.

"There." she said, coming down to my level and helping me to focus on - an airplane?


Then I noticed the lettering on the side of the plane. 'The Spirit of St. Louis'. I realized my error immediately and three thoughts formed in quick succession:

"How could I have been so stupid?" was the first.

"I mustn't ever let them know what I was really thinking." was the second.

"Dang. I'm not gonna see a ghost." was the third, final, and most devastating of all.

Soylent Green is People

And flan is gelatin and gelatin is animal parts.

My youngest daughter is a vegetarian and she loves flan. She is not vegan. But lately I've begun to think she may be leaning that way.

She loves flan. Almost as much as I do. Which is, in case you may not know, an awful lot.

I've never made it. I get it at restaurants. And sometimes the grocery store, but not often. And once a student made some for me. But I've never made it.

So I was unaware of the ingredients.

I never thought gelatin.

And frankly, if I had, I probably wouldn't have gotten very excited.

But she did. Very excited indeed. Agitated, you might even say.

She is pretty firm in her conviction, a conviction the rest of the family does not share. As she is never obnoxious or preachy about it, I find it easy to be respectful of her decision. She never says, "you shouldn't do this", she just says, "I won't do this". PETA take note. Much easier to take someone seriously when they express their opinions respectfully. Just sayin'.

The more she is able to research things for herself, though, the more difficult it becomes.

She won't wear leather. Shoes.

Wait'll she finds out the upright bass is held together with hide glue.

Wait'll she hears about the conditions dairy cows endure.

Good bye, milk.

Good bye, cheese.

A little ignorance can be bliss. And bliss tastes a lot like flan.

King of the Road

Yesterday Tom and I rather spontaneously entered Phase II of our collective mid-life crisis.


We got a new bike.

We used to ride, then we stopped - for reasons that don't seem so important anymore.

Yesterday, for Father's Day, we headed to the dealership and signed the papers on a new to us Harley.


Gorgeous, no?

She is so like us.

With the tour pack and windshield on, she is really quite practical.

Off, and she is so damn badass.


We rode around a little today - just getting a feel for it again.

It came back like - um - well - like riding a bike.

As we put her in the garage I made a connection I hadn't made at the dealership: She is exactly the same color as my first bicycle. My Schwinn Fair Lady with the white sparkly banana seat.

Coincidence?


Probably. But still...

Good Day, Sunshine

It's time I came to terms with something - a truism that has been in place since my infancy. an addiction, an affliction, a compulsion, an obsession.

My name is Tammy, and I'm a sun-worshiper.

I rise with the sun, and start my existence. ~ The Partridge Family

Mom says from the time I was wee, I was an early riser. It didn't matter if she put me to bed early or late. If the sun was up; so was I. It's still so. It took me a while to figure out what Mom figured out in my infancy. I'm getting up with the sun no matter what time I go to bed. I'm in a much better mood for this if I go to bed earlier.


When I was a youngin and the collective consciousness did not include terms like SPF and melanoma I played happily from sun-up to sundown sans sunscreen. True - Dad didn't allow us to be out in the 11-2 sun at the beach, but that wasn't to fend off skin cancer. That was just so no one got a bad burn and ruined our whole vacation. I never burned. I went increasingly yummy shades of brown. My Teutonic mother called me her little brown bean.

As a teen I was out by 10 wearing as little as the law (and my mom) would allow. Soaking up that Vitamin D and helping it along with baby oil.

It's a sunshine day - everybody's smilin'. ~ The Brady Bunch

As a young adult I tried really hard to become a night owl, but the pull of the sun was too strong. It never really took.

(Sorry Twilighters, Interview was the shiz!)

Up all night, sleep all day. ~ Slaughter

Big surprise to anyone that I developed SAD (seasonal affect disorder) as an adult? I thought not.

Sunshine go away today. I don't feel much like dancin'. ~ Jonathon Edwards

But hey! None of that now! On accounta today we'll see more sun than any other day this year. Happy Summer Solstice, ya'll!

I'm walkin' on sunshine - and don't it feel good? ~ Katrina and the Waves

***I know, I know, it's Father's Day, too, but my Daddy's (80th, holy cow!) birthday is just a little more than a week away and I've planned to do an homage of sorts to him, then.

Got Cheese?

'Cause I'm bringing a little whine. Just a little taste, not a full on drunken orgy. Watch out, you might get what you're after.

We got home about an hour ago. When we pulled into our driveway, it was like I'd sat down at the shoulder press after a competitive weightlifter without bothering to adjust the weight. I quite literally felt the tears welling up before I was even out of the car.

My house was never in danger of being featured in Better Homes and Gardens (or, as they accurately spoofed on The Simpson's once, Better Homes Than Yours). But two weeks worth of weeds and grass growth didn't serve to make it any more welcoming.

Inside was better, but not by a lot.

I hate my house.

I didn't love it before we left, but it was adequate. It was what it was. It's where I keep my stuff.

Walking into it today was walking into a prison. A prison, of course, of my own making - which is small darn comfort.

As someone drank all the tequila and most of the vodka before we left, I reached for my only other go-to comfort. I drew a warm bath and threw in some scented bubbles. I had just achieved my best "Calgon, take me away" pose and was nowhere close to the Calgon mood when one of the girls walked right in and sat on the edge of the tub. She started right in on the take me, drive me, I need, I want's. I was in the frackin' tub! Is nothing sacred? I couldn't have relaxed anyway, because the bathroom is part of this house and - did I mention? - I HATE this house!

I got dressed and set about trying to cope with the fact that I LIVE in this s**thole when the other one started practicing her drums. I usually don't mind - I'm so used to it, I tune it right out - but I'm SAD! It is going right down my spine, the drumming is.

I look over to ask her to stop and she is grinning ear to ear. She missed her drums so much. She missed her dog and her rat. She was actually homesick for this place. She is as happy to be home as I am unhappy.

I can't ask her to stop being happy because I have.

So I'm home. I'll start weeding. And landscaping. And cleaning. I'll do what I can to make it liveable.

But not right this minute. The weeds will be here tomorrow. The unpacking will be here tomorrow. The laundry will be here tomorrow.

God knows, it will all still be here tomorrow.

Right this minute I'm gonna go ahead and be sad.