Killer Bikes

Today we entered the killer bike zone
Am I talking about huge Harley choppers with giant tattooed burly riders. N-o-o.. I'm referring secretaries and shopkeepers on simple black bicycles!  We're in Amsterdam and the most dangerous vehicle is the bicycle. They don't obey the rules of the road, they ARE the rules of the road. This is the only country in the world with more bicycles than people. And they will hit you.

We are starting our river cruise here and will visit five countries. From Amsterdam to Budapest we will sail. We looked a bit about Amsterdam today. There was a very interesting walking tour. About 30% of the information dispensed by the guide dealt with sex shops, prostitution and marijauna. We would have preferred more about history and culture of the city. But the skimpy clad women in the red light district were quite alluring. Our tour of the canals via boat was more to our liking. The building architecture was interesting and many buidings dated from the 17th century. There are over a thousand bridges spanning Amsterdam's canals.

We got back to the ship and I took a hot shower to wash off the travel grime and Claudette unpacked. We met our friends from California at dinner.

We sail at 23:00.

Little Jewel by the River

About an hour and a half from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC, on the banks of the Raritan River in the rolling hills of New Jersey, sits the Hunterdon Museum of Art. Looking out through the windows set in two foot thick stone walls the river rushes by, turning the water wheel of the red mill across the way. This tiny Victorian town of 2600 residents has a terrific art museum.
Every year or so we have the opportunity to visit.

Current exhibits include Darren McManus’s work. The brilliant colored amorphous images were painted on uniquely shaped wood panels. Viewed through 3D glasses incredible effects are achieved. Also now showing is the work of Sky Paper :Traces of Places, whose images are all black and white in stark contrast to colorful works of McManus. She works with handmade kozo paper and black Sumi ink. Initially she

was a painter, but when her studio was burned she switched to drawing with ink and brush. I found many of her images brooding, haunting, and somewhat disturbing. Her work is in many national collections including the Museum of Modern Art and the Guggenheim. Joining the two solo exhibitions is a display by some thirty artists, experts in the ancient medium of encaustic painting. Pigments are added to melted beeswax before applying to a

surface. The exhibition includes paintings, collages, prints, and sculptural works. Simply fantastic!

I'm not one of the greatest fans of contemporary art, but exhibits at the Hunterdon always challenge the imagination. The presentations are always first rate.  There is something about the contrast between stonewalls and contemporary art that adds to the ambiance.





 Anytime we're in the area we will visit the Hunterdon Art Museum and make a donation.

Tater Bugs and Collies.

Back when I was a wee  little boy I would spend time with my grandmother, but I called “Ma”. She would not allow herself to be called “Grandma”.  She thought she was too young for that term of endearment. So...she was always “Ma” to me. On summer evenings we’d sit on the porch of their farm house and she’d tell me stories of the olden days as the stars would come out and the whip-poor-wills would call. The Grand Ole Opry wasn’t on the battery powered radio, and television was somebody’s dream. She would always start the story the same way.

She would say,“Tony-boy, this happened way before you were born.”

On this particular evening she added, “...and it’s about a relative. I don’t think I ever told you about Uncle Gene Bannister, did I?”  

“No ma’am,” I answered as I snuggled up beside her.  It was cooling off in the darkness.  I loved this old woman still in her apron and her braids wrapped around her head. She held my small hand in her calloused one and tugged me closer to her.

“He was Pa’s aunt Polly’s husband, and he played a tater bug!”

“Pa showed me a tater bug out in the garden,” I said.

She laughed a bit and said, “This was a different kind of tater bug.  It was a musical instrument. Sort of like a small guitar with eight strings. Makes a kinda tinkling sound.”

“But why’d they call it a bug?”

“Because hit had a rounded back with stripes just like that bug Pa showed you in the garden.

Anyway,  Uncle Gene would walk through the woods to see us playin’ that tater bug, and we could hear that music long before he got here. Uncle Gene and Aunt Polly lived about three mile through those woods,” she pointed out in front of us at what looked like a trail through the tall pines.

“What happened to Uncle Gene, Ma?” I wanted to know.

“It’s a kinda sad story. But I reckon I’ll tell you anyway. I forgot to tell you about Uncle Gene’s dog, Lady.  He loved that dog almost as much as he did Aunt Polly.  They went everywhere together. Uncle Gene and Aunt Polly didn’t have any children.  That dog was the closest thing that they had to a child. You wouldn’t believe how they cared for that dog. Let it in the house, mind you! You’ll never find a dog in my house! Why, when they’d eat, Aunt Polly would fix a plate for Lady. Meat and vegetables or whatever they were havin’. I’ll bet that dog got fried chicken on Sunday.  Aunt Polly made the best fried chicken.  Uncle Gene and Lady were like two peas in a pod.  Never saw one without the other. Except at church, of course. Even Methodists won’t let dogs in church.  But she’d be waiting outside when the service was over.”

“But what about the sad part of the story?” I wanted to know.

“Okay, okay! One day when Uncle Gene and Lady were coming to see us they didn’t make it,” she began.

“They didn’t make it?”

“We didn’t know what had happened at first. The mailman, Luther Godfrey, saw me at the clothesline when he brought the mail and asked me If I’d seen Gene Bannister. I said I hadn’t. He said Aunt Polly was worried about him and that he had said he was headed here on

Tuesday. It was Friday when Luther asked me about him.  After Luther left I got a hold of Pa, he was plowing up in the new ground. I rung the dinner bell too. That was before telephones like they got in the city. When the neighbors heard that bell they come a-runnin’ ‘cause they knew something was wrong. We all started to look for him. Didn’t take long to find him. He had fallen down graveyard dead.  He was pretty old, you know. And them old buzzards was circling around. But Lady was with ‘im and every time one of them buzzards would get close she’d snap her teeth at ‘em and scare ‘em away.  Good dog, that Lady. It’s a funny thing,” she paused, “but about a month after we buried Uncle Gene, Lady died too. And the next year, Aunt Polly.”

“That was a sad story, Ma,”  I said.

“You know, Tony-boy, sometimes when I sit out here in the evening, I can still hear that tater bug,”  she said with that far away look in her eye.

And...I think I heard that tater bug too.

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A Bug in Flight

It was yellow and noisy. Like a giant insect. I watched it gently touch down on the tarmac, and the rotor blades slowed their motion. I was going for a helicopter tour. This ride was a birthday gift from my wife. I had once mused about how great it would be to see the city of Charleston, South Carolina from a helicopter. Sometimes I think she can see my daydreams. Charleston is an old and colorful historic city.

The whirlybird, to use an antiquated term, was quite modern appearing, not one of those MASH jobs that always had Radar O'Reilly yelling, "Incoming! Incoming! Nor was it as menacing  as Airwolf. It was relatively small and manufactured by the Robinson Helicopter Company. Actually, I would have preferred a Sikorsky.  Sikorsky has been in business since 1925.  I think experience is important in the design and manufacture of flying machines. The Robinson R-44 is a four door model and as you would expect carries a pilot and three passengers. It has a payload of 789 pounds. I started a little mental arithmetic.  I weigh 249 lbs, and the guy in the back seat

next to  me was over 200 as well. The pilot was no lightweight, and the woman sitting next to him could never have been considered small.  I think she was what my mother called "big boned". After Frank, the ground crewman, helped us fasten our seatbelts the pilot motioned for us to put on our earphones, which had a microphone built in so we could talk. The six-cylinder engine made a lot of noise. I think maybe it needed a tune-up. One of the first things the pilot said was, "We've got a heavy load."

"What if it wouldn't take off?" I asked myself. You didn't get out and push a helicopter.  But the two hundred and forty-five horsepower of the Lycoming engine got us off the ground. In minutes we were heading toward the Cooper River, the great river that joins the Ashley River to form the Atlantic Ocean. Or so they say!  We passed over a tank farm at four hundred feet.  The pilot said we would be flying at that altitude because we would be out of everybody's way there. That was good to know because I had seen two F/A-18 Hornets take off earlier, and I would not want to be in their airspace. Soon there were some gray Navy ships below us which looked like the same ones I had seen from sea level while fishing with my neighbor. My ears were getting their fill. The lady riding shotgun was telling the pilot all about her experiences as a UPS driver. Earlier she had almost become hysterical when she had spotted a UPS truck on I-26. I was unable to find a way to turn off the audio. Maybe I should not have tried to find a way to turn  off the sound.  What if there had been an emergency? Did you know that if the engine stops on a helicopter the aircraft will land safely under autorotation? But of course the R-44 was now over water.  I could see the Ravenel Bridge through the windshield. The pilot began pointing out things below. There was a hospital ship heading out to sea, painted white with a big red cross on the side. Our pilot said it was probably going to Africa, since Charlston is directly across the ocean from that continent. We could see what appeared to be

hundreds of BMW automobiles waiting to be loaded onto ships. The Ashley River was visible on the skyline as the City Market came into view. I could easily pick out St. Philip's Episcopal Church where on a summer day my nephew played a stirring rendition of "Free Bird". It was awesome! The doors were open, and you could hear it from Bocci's to the Dock Street Theater! And I saw the Circular Congregational Church where I found out that I was rhythmically challenged.  Broad Street came into view, and I recalled selling paintings in Washington Park. There is one thing you miss from on high...the smells of the city. From four hundred feet in the sky you can't smell shrimp boilin', magnolia blossoms or horse urine.  The flying machine then turned to port, and we could see Fort Sumter, where the War Between the States began. After passing Shem Creek we were flying over Mount Pleasant as we headed up the Wando River. Soon the fastest growing municipality in Berkeley County was beneath us, Daniel Island. The lady in the front seat was still talking about UPS, and I thought the engine was still making a funny noise. I kept remembering what my Grandma used to say, "If man had been meant to fly, God would have given him wings".

We had been airborne about twenty-five minutes when the control tower at the Charleston International Airport came into view. Our pilot gently lowered the Robinson R-44 to the tarmac and maybe, just maybe, I gave a sigh of relief. It had been a great ride and a great birthday present. 

The Christmas Cake

It was late July 1954.  The temperature was soaring towards one hundred degrees in the red clay area of South Carolina. My father was plowing in a field, and I had just carried him a cold drink of water. We had no thermos, only a quart Mason jar. Daddy emptied the jar as the cool water spilled onto his chambray shirt that was already wet with sweat. He always wore a long sleeved shirt while working in the fields in summer. Said it kept him cooler. He handed me the empty jar, removed his straw hat, and pulled a red and white bandana from his pocket to wipe his brow.

“Looks like it’s gonna rain, Son” he said.

“Yessir, it does,” I said.

“Well, hurry home now before you get wet,” he said.

“Yessir, I will,” I answered, as I turned and began my walk back home.

I was about half the way home when the sky got very dark.  In a few minutes a lightning bolt split a pine tree up in front of me, and the thunder seemed to shake the ground. I started to run. Then the rain came.  I was soaked to the skin in just a few seconds. I could hear Daddy coming behind me.   The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed as we walked  toward the barn. The rain was relentless.  We got to the barn about the same time and ducked inside for shelter from the storm. The rain poured down in sheets for about twenty minutes and then it stopped as suddenly as it started.  Daddy put the mule in the barn lot and went inside the house.  Mama had been worried about us of course. I guess mamas always worry about something. We all went out on the front porch and began to shell some butterbeans. It was too wet to plow after the rain storm. My little sister was even trying to shell beans. I knew it was a matter of time before she’d spill ‘em all over the porch. Maybe she’d get a spankin’...that’d be great!

As we sat there working a car went slippin’ and slidin’ all over the road. We lived on a red clay dirt road, and when it rained it was slicker than a greased pig. It was a big fancy car, a Pontiac convertible.  We didn’t know anybody with a Pontiac. People we knew drove Fords, and Chevys and Plymouths.

“Who was that?” my sister asked.

“Name ‘im and take ‘im,” Daddy said.  I didn’t know what that meant, but I did know that that was always what Daddy said when he didn’t know who it was.

Mama said, “I think it was some of Mister John Patterson’s people.”  We sharecropped with Mister John Patterson. Where I came from, the rich man was always called “Mister”.

“Mama, I think you’re right.  They got a boy and girl ‘bout me and Sissy’s size. I don’t like ’em,” I said.

Mama stopped shelling beans and looked straight into my eyes and said,  “Now why’d you say that , Son? You know the Bible tells us we are to like everybody!”

“They was going by one time, and they stuck out their tongues at me and Sissy,” I said defensively.

“They were going by,” she corrected my grammar.

“Listen!” Daddy said before Mama could say anything else. We all stopped shelling and listened.

‘You here that?  That’s a car that’s got stuck!  Bet it was that Pontiac that got stuck in the mud ,” he said. “Them folks need help!” and then he said to me, “Son, go get that chain out of the well house while I get the mule. We might have to pull ’em out.”

Daddy was back in a few minutes with the mule, and I gave him the chain which he slung over the mule's back.

We walked about a half mile down the muddy road.   The cool mud kind of tickled my toes as it oozed up between them.  Sure enough the Pontiac convertible was in the ditch. When the lady driving saw us the turned off the motor.

“Looks like you could use some help,” Daddy said.

“We certainly can.  I think we need a tow truck,” she said. She was a right pretty lady.  Her hair was fixed up real nice, and she had rosy cheeks and bright red lipstick. I could see she had on what Mama called a sundress.

“You can’t get a tow truck to come out in the country ma’am.  Besides, we don’t have no telephone to call one. I think my mule Beulah here can pull you right out,” Daddy said.

“I don’t know about that.  It might damage the car, and my husband wouldn’t like that,” she said.

“I’m pretty dad-gummed sure I can get you out of that ditch without any damage.  But it’s up to you,” Daddy said impatiently.

“Okay then, I don’t really have a choice,” she finally said.

The boy and girl hadn’t said a word. The little girl said, “Mother, I’m scared!”  Her mama shushed her.

Daddy and I got busy. He positioned the mule in front  of the car and told me to attach the chain to the bumper of the car. He attached the other end of the chain to Beulah’s harness.

“What we gonna do now, Daddy?” I asked.

“This is what we're gonna do.  I’m gonna get in the car and drive while you get Beulah to pull the car,” he said as he looked me straight in the eye.

Daddy went back to the car and said to the lady, “Ma’am, would you slide over so I can get in to drive your car out of the ditch?”

“Why? I can drive it!”

“I know you can drive the car.  I just want make sure you don’t drive into my mule!”

“Well, okay, but could you take those muddy shoes off?”

As Daddy got in the car he took each shoe off and handed it to me before he put his feet into the Pontiac. I heard the lady say, “You know it has an automatic transmission?”

“I’ve seen one before,” he said as he started the engine in the car.  Then he said to me, “Take up the slack, Son.”

Beulah done good.  She hunkered down and used all her strength, as Daddy had the wheels on that Pontiac spinning. The car slowly moved up into the road.  I gave Daddy his shoes as he got out of the car. The lady was all smiles as she thanked us for pulling her out of the ditch.

On the way back to the house I told Daddy I really didn't want to help them because of those smart aleck kids. But he said, “Son, sometimes you just gotta do the right thing.”

Some years would pass before I really understood what he meant.

A funny thing happened that year in late November.  We got this package in the mail. It was a fruit cake. Not just any fruit cake.  A store-bought fruit cake with colorful fruit and lots of nuts. Me and Sissy had never seen one before. And you know what? It was from that lady we pulled out of that ditch on the muddy July day.  We received a fruit cake every Christmas for quite a few years because of what me and Daddy did on a muddy country road.

Years have passed since then, but I still remember what daddy said: “Sometimes you just got to do the right thing.”

Down the River

Last week we went on a day trip down a wild and scenic river, the Chattooga. This river forms the border between northwest SC and northeast GA. We began our voyage at Wildwater Outfitters in Long Creek, SC. Actually, instruction began there. Our river guides introduced themselves. Some of the guides were bearded but not the two girl guides. The  guides, all in their early twenties, informed us on the dos and don'ts of river rafting; such necessary things as to how to properly adjust your PFD, Personal Flotation Device, and helmet. Then we walked to the equipment barn and were issued our paddle, PFD, and helmet. Our guides checked to see if we had our safety equipment worn correctly. The four bright blue rafts were lashed to the roof of a converted school bus, and our driver gave a short speech about safety. He wore what appeared to be an airline pilot's uniform with the visored cap of the Royal Air Force. His face bore a white handlebar mustache. We knew quite a bit about Captain John, the retired RAF pilot, having spoken with his wife at the registration counter. Soon we are at the river, having been transported on a bus using used cooking oil for fuel from a local fast food restaurant.  We had to carry everything a quarter of a mile to  the river. (The forest service allows no roads within a quarter of a mile of the river.) Prior to launching the seven man rafts we were given instruction on how to sit on the raft. Note the word "on". The paddler does not sit in the raft but rather on the side with the foot nearest the side wedged under the seat.  The guides also instructed us on how to survive falling into the river and how to retrieve a fellow paddler.

After at least an hour of instruction we launched the raft. Claudette and I were in a boat with a family of four from Melbourne, Florida.  As we ventured onto the river, our guide, Nicole, told us what commands we

would be given.  Commands such as "two strokes" or "left forward, right back". She also emphasized safety again. The raft was drifting with the flow of the river, and then it began to move faster as we entered the faster moving water. 

"Gimme two strokes," Nicole yelled over the roar of the river.  We dug in. I was perched precariously on the side of a blue raft  digging deep into the clear mountain water while holding on with my toes wedged under the raft seat. Suddenly, I notice that Claudette was missing. She had fallen overboard. Nicole was quick to the rescue.  She grabbed the top of Claudette's life jacket and pulled her back aboard the raft. Then she jumped back to the helm with her paddle and yelled for us to give three, meaning three strokes forward. There was no time to rejoice for Claudette's rescue.  The river waits for no one. We continued through Class II rapids; these are the most tame. Nicole continued to call out strokes.  My favorite was "break", that's when we rested a bit and let the raft move with the current. As we continued we floated into some Class III rapids and the paddling tempo picked up. Our guide navigated our boat through a rapid named Washington's Nose.  Unfortunately, we lost either Jared or  Jeremy there.  I could not tell the brothers apart.  Built like a college running back he simply stood in the water and grabbed the boat and climbed back in. On the next Class III, Nicole introduced us to a new command: "right forward, left back" which means that those on the left side paddled forward and those on the right  paddled backwards. The effect was to turn the raft around. Each rapid had to be run differently according to the water level of the river. Our guide said the water level was "just right".  I took that to be a positive comment. At one point I got almost thrown overboard, but felt Nicole and Claudette pulling me back aboard. On some occasions when the raft would be almost swamped our guide would tell us to "duck in". Once on one the Class IIIs the raft was almost flipped. It was tipped up on its side, and we were all scrambling to right it. It was a huge adrenaline rush.  We cheered for ourselves. 

In some of the quiet moments Nicole would entertain us with lively commentary. According to her if someone was a guide year round they would develop bigger muscles on one side. This reminded me of asymmetrical mammary augmentation*, a condition frequently contracted by British barmaids by pulling the tapper handle with the same hand all the time.  She told of taking some of the people who made the 1972 movie, Deliverance, down the river in celebration of the fortieth anniversary of the film.  Naturally everyone started hearing banjo music, and we found out that the banjo picker in the movie now worked at the Wal-Mart in nearby Clayton, Georgia. 

"Do you know where to hide your money from a river guide?" she asked.

"I donno," we said in unison.

"Under a bar of soap!" she answered. 

It seems that most  river guide jokes concern hygiene. At a flat  smooth place on the river we pulled up on a sandy beach and the guides flipped a raft over to use as a table for lunch. We enjoyed a lunch of sandwiches we made from a variety of meats, cheeses and vegetables. After a half hour break we were back on the river. Soon we were at a Class IV rapid, Bull Sluice. Here we had the option of whether we would run the rapid or not.  It had a nice drop. Claudette and I decided that we'd rather watch.  Our raft was the only one of the four which did not lose a paddler running this rapid. One raft lost everyone except the guide. After all the rafts were through the rapid it was time for a swim. But not really. You jumped in the water  and the current carried you down the river about fifty feet and a river guide pulled you out. The sirens were there clad in bikinis.  They were like the women in Greek mythology who lured the sailors' ships onto the rocky shore. I remembered visiting this place to watch the rafters and kayakers in the 1980s, and the sirens were there then. Maybe these were the daughters or granddaughters.  We continued on paddling under the Highway 76 bridge.  I had once done a painting of a baptismal service there. We floated quietly for a short length of time. Then Nicole told us that there is a quarter of a mile of rapids ahead. We braced ourselves.  Soon she began yelling the commands over the roar of the Chattooga. 

"Gimme two!"
"Gimme three!"
"Gimme three more!"
"Put your whole body into it!"
"Left forward, right back!"
"Duck in!"
"Gimme two!"
"Thanks, Guys."
"Take a break."
"Gimme one!"

And then the cycle began again. She told us that we were on the part of the river where they filmed the scene in Deliverance where Burt Reynold's character broke his leg.  I'm not sure this fact gave me a feeling of security.  Soon we stopped for another swim. Claudette and I opted to kick back in the boat while the younger rafters intentionally got into the river. When everybody was back in the boat we got hung on a rock, and Nicole jumped out of the raft to move it off the rock. Jared followed her in to help.  The rest of us jumped up and down to help free the raft. After two more rapids, Class IIIs, our trip was over. We hauled everything up the quarter mile slope to the see the smiling face of Captain John, the bus driver. 

When we got back to the Wildwater registration center we hopped in the car for a quick trip to our cottage and hot showers. Then we went back to the registration center to chat with Nicole a bit and for Claudette to shop at the store. We made a fifteen mile drive in the pouring rain to Clayton, Georgia, for some hamburgers, the closest hot food. We were starving!

We found our "adventure" enjoyable, but I wished I had gone river rafting twenty or thirty years sooner. 

Tony, Tim, Michelle,Jared, Jeremy, and Claudette

*imaginary name for an actual condition