Stumbling by Mahov

On our walk this morning, hubs and I found ourselves strolling up on Mahov’s house. The man, the myth, and the legend was out front shoveling, wearing a nondescript pair of navy nylon ski pants and a black wooly winter hat that covered most of his face.

To the average onlooker, Mahov’s just a big bear of a guy chipping away at ice on the driveway but to me, seeing one of the town idols from my childhood is still a rather monumental treat. He glanced sideways at us with that same smooth yet slightly squinty glance that as a ten-year-old I’d behold through the smudged Plexiglas; a glance where he surreptitiously scouted where to pass the puck and a glance that in a fraction of a second said to his opponent, go ahead, check me and I’ll make you forget what day it is.

I’ve never known what to say or do when I see pedestal-worthy athletes around town. I immediately feel tongue-tied. I look at my toes like they’re suddenly novelty items. My fingers curl and uncurl repeatedly within my mittens. I get what hubs calls the itchy-buggitchees where I start speaking too fast and I do weird things with my neck and shoulders. On this day, I peeked to see if Mahov still had the big red C for Captain sewed on his chest, and as I did so, stumbled clumsily on a deep rut in the road. Meanwhile, hubs, completely nonplussed, struck up a bit of conversation asking Pete if he was the proud owner of this new stretch of ‘waterfront property’ growing larger and larger due to all the melting ice.

They laughed together. Mahov said yes, in fact, he was buying a boat.

I’m grateful for hubs’s grace and ease for I am neither graceful nor easy around Mr. Peter Mahovlich.

You see, Mahov is a hockey God. Nostalgically, he represents, for me, a uniquely specific capsule of time…the time when my hometown built an arena and we banded together as a community to support all things hockey. When I see his face I see, in almost a sped up cinematic display, some of the best years of my life.

Ned Harkness, former NHL coach and hero to the town of Glens Falls, jockeyed hard so our little piece of hometown heaven could procure the Adirondack Red Wings, which in 1979 was the AHL affiliate of the NHL parent club Detroit Red Wings, and served as my personal initiation into the world of professional sports, a love of all things Canadian, and my ongoing acquisition of hockey related vocabulary. Just like movie lovers who rattle off lines from the very quotable “Slapshot”, hockey slang is a language all its own shared by casual fans, riotous revelers, and radio and television commentators; as well as pond and pro players alike.

Before we had hockey, famous folks were just people in magazines and on TV to a ten-year-old kid like me, but after the Civic Center was built, and the Red Wings started leasing apartments and houses in Glens Falls, my friends and I began seeing celebrities upon the streets of our city. We’d come to school with stories of who we’d seen and where, breathlessly told at the coat cubbies while shedding our parkas and collectively rattling names off with that faraway star struck glint in our eyes. I have to tell you, the AHL guys were pretty easy to spot. The married ones and their fox fur-coated wives worked out in the early mornings at the Nautilus. The single players danced at the local bars but they also came and talked to us at our schools with their accents, sometimes Canadian, sometimes Eastern European, sometimes Massachusetts or Minnesota; tossing back their feathered hair dos, scuffing the heels of their wooden clogs, and flashing their snowy white dental plates. Near the end of season one, which led to the playoffs, we saw that many sported superstitiously driven facial hair and even the townspeople refused to shave, catching on to the belief that a fresh face might bring bad luck.

As time went by, the team and their training staff mixed and mingled very freely within our habitat and every unattached female this side of the Hudson between the ages of 18 and 25 would head to “Heritage Hall”, a social gathering place within the arena, open both before and after the games. Those on the hunt for a hockey husband would stand around trying not to appear overly excited while holding small plastic cups of chardonnay. They wore tall, wine-colored stack-heeled boots with tightly tucked in dark washed and white stitched designer jeans, applying and reapplying their strawberry flavored Kissing Potion in the arena’s cold cement-walled bathrooms while we preteen girls looked on, wondering which of them we’d see sitting in the wives’ section (lower section JJ) next season, bundled together like a group of silken lemurs, chatting animatedly amongst themselves and trying not to catch the eye of us regular folk seated on the outside of their immediate vicinity.

Pete Mahovlich, Dennis Polonich, Claude LeGris, Al Jensen, Mal Davis, Greg Joly, Teddy Nolan, Jody Gage, Brad Smith, Dave Hanson, Rich Shinske, JP LeBlanc, John Ogrodnick, Danny Bolduc, these are the names I typed in without referencing anything but my own gray matter. I can’t tell you what I had for breakfast but I can tell you with about 90 percent certainty this was much of our regular roster in the inaugural season of 1979/80.

Their posters were on my wall, torn from the center of the programs we bought and brought home every weekend. Those particular black and white faces, some smiling, most serious and stoic, were what I looked at each night instead of counting sheep. I find it interesting as I reflect on the amount of money we spent on glossy programs; money that could have been used on milk or bread or a fix for our old garage that listed so badly to the left we couldn’t risk parking a car in it…but no, we bought thick, stat-heavy and photo-filled programs without thinking about it. It’s just what we all did. I imagine that being in the stranglehold of inflation, not that far removed from odd/even gasoline, the hard-working types who paid to go to Red Wing games felt like these tickets, these programs, these bags of popcorn, these sno-cones and these waxy paper cups of soda poured over gobs of ice… these were investments in our future.

We did it FERDA game. We did it FERDA fun. We did it FERDA players and if you are playing along with the hockey slang, you, like Mahov, might have said, we did it FERDA town. 

Through My Lens

I took Photography as an eighth grade elective. 

With an eye for beauty but no significant talent in the areas of drawing and painting, I wanted a way to express myself that didn't require me to put pencil or paint or cray-pas to paper anymore.

Photography it was.

My teacher was Mr. Barili, a tight-lipped, toneyed, Ralph Lauren oxford-outfitted gentleman with a thirty dollar haircut and a snazzy signature that looked like it contained more creative skill and imagination than my last twelve assignments combined in Mrs. Rowland's seventh grade drawing class. I coveted his extravagantly fancy felt tipped fountain pen, clipped securely to his shirt pocket. He repeatedly brandished and tapped it on completed prints drilling into our heads the finer points of photographic composition. Punctuating his thoughts, he'd relinquish its inky blackness to his polo-pony'd pocket with a self satisfied sweep suggesting he knew, without a doubt, precisely about what he was speaking. 

No sooner did I land on my assigned hard metal stool in that class when it was announced that we would all be responsible for buying our own 35 mm cameras. Handouts were provided with details about what model was required and where to go to make the purchase and the approximately 2 days' time we had during which to procure them; no excuses, no assistance, no subsidies, no kidding. 

Also, no camera, no class. So, as you can imagine, we lost more than a few kids on that day. 

I went home that night and tried selling my father on the idea that I (we) needed to buy this piece of art equipment and, swallowing hard, steeled myself, expecting an outcome wherein I would be lined up outside the guidance office the next day, dropping Photography along with half the class and adding a crap-tastic study hall to my already very vanilla, non-riveting schedule. However, Dad, purveyor of all of my required equipment throughout the years, thought a fancy camera was a solid investment in my education and happily agreed to take me shopping that night, despite the fact that this was 1982 and money was super tight and this particular photobox was going to be close to a hundred dollars. 

I'll always remember the occasion and how having the camera changed me. 

We went to Caldor which was in the local mall and had a decent "sporting goods" section which included a variety of cameras. The silvery Pentax K-1000 boxes were stocked high and deep because, I'm sure, every middle and high school in a 40 mile radius was requiring this particular model of its art students back in the day. I spied a well to do classmate and waved. She waved back and both of us scanned the camera selections on either end of the display, tucking our chins into our turtlenecks, me biting my thumbnail and half hiding a grin that said 'my parents do for me'...and 'look how special I am'.  

Close to my birthday, my father and I agreed that this would be my present and, picking one up, I scuffed slowly, cradling it to my chest all the way to the checkout counter like a baby. 

On my actual birthday, I would receive the accompanying zoom lens, also no cheap ticket.

I began to see the world through my camera lens that year. I wasn't super proficient either at loading film, which we had to practice again and again with our hands hidden in soft black velvety bags, unaided by sight, in an effort to repeatedly force the act into our unconscious, tactile second natures or at developing film, but I loved the preciseness of the mechanical part of it as much as I loved finding things to shoot. The chemical funk of the darkroom reminded me of red wine vinegar and made me crave tomatoes and leaf lettuce while the boys in my class clumsily groped all of us unsuspecting girls, out of sight of the teacher and, ensconced in the bloody red light luminescence, huddled improperly and devilishly close.

Our assignments rarely included the objects I preferred to snap. I wanted to click close ups of single and unique facial features. I liked the messy menagerie of a foul afterparty mess divulging an underaged alcohol blast. I got down and dirty with textures like mammoth sized bootprints stamped deep in frozen mud, bouncy wavelike treads on a rubber truck tire, and the curious peeling of rosy translucent 12 year old female shin skin after an unfortunate and accidental motorcycle tailpipe burn. 

Barili wanted trees, flowers and foods. 

I wanted life 

as art 

as life. 

I think I earned a B in Photography that year. Mr. B never saw or drummed his pen nub on any of my decent work. I only gave him what he asked for...subjects befitting an overprotected twelve year old's perspective. I remember submitting a print of an inflated surgical glove when he asked for a picture of a hand. 

I also remember he wasn't amused. 

The class might have taught me how to frame an objet d'art but I truly taught myself to look at everything twice that year as a result of being behind a monocle. I learned that when you look hard enough, the regular can be divine. I picked up that no two artists see things exactly from the same vantage point. The more I squinted and paid attention the less I quit writing off the everyday as ordinary. 

Dad was right. The "solid investment" he made in my education taught me how to flip everything on its head in order to get a better look at the light and the shadows.

Like a camera. 

 

Edit: Mr. Barili was (and probably still is) a fantastic photographer. His work was unbelievably complex and grand and I am sure he would have loved to have offered those of us who wanted it a more challenging curriculum. I don't fault him at all for not asking us for shots worthy of publication and I always wished I could have taken additional classes from him. 

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Bright Green Jackets and Bright White Lights - a Tale of Two Givings

Hubs and I parked the Prius in one of our usual spots today in order to take the min pin on one of her jaunty city walks. We can stroll merrily in our own suburban neighborhood well enough, but our doggy diva prefers sidewalks and front porches with big wooden steps upon which she can hurtle herself into the arms of one of our assorted daily well-wishers; and if she's lucky, receive a doggy treat. 

Trust me, she is often lucky.

As we parked today, we saw a fellow wearing a day-glo green parka standing outside of a Jeep jostling an immensely large clear mug of liquid. The jacket's color suggested either extreme skier or mad scientist or perhaps just someone who was also planning on strolling and preferred the sort of textile driven visibility that would most certainly lower the odds of getting hit by a car. 

Hubs remarked on the man's very obviously displayed cylinder. "What is that? Chem lab?" 

The gray haired gentleman expertly poured cloudless liquid from the beaker into another receptacle, a simple yet beautiful vase. Then, from the hatch, he brought forth with flourish, a giant bouquet of safe-in-plastic autumnal hued flowers. As Hubs leashed the min pin, I watched from my parking lot vantage point while Mr. Green Jacket, the amateur florist, arranged the browns, oranges and golds in a pleasant pattern; smiling and smoothing their ochre and auburn heads. 

Walking toward him, I remarked that the arrangement could not be more lovely. He blushed, thanked me, and remarked that he hoped that the recipient would love them as much as I did. I assured him that they would be a total home run. Someone was in for a gorgeous grace-filled surprise.

My heart sings in moments like this. My right hand floats chestward as if possessed during such occasions and I clutch lightly around my neck and at my clothing. It's as if I hold myself because I sense the crescendo of my heartbeat. My heart is a red balloon filled with gratitude and it will float out of my collar and up to the sky if I don't hold the feeling tightly.

And so I cradle it and breathe in love like the warm draft of a woodstove on a wintry day.

I am snug, and pleased with the world. As we cross Hubs, with a light hearted wisecrack, makes it known to the flower arranger that he's upstaging all husbands with the flowers; making them look bad. With a phosphorescent wave of his arm, the almsgiver of blossoms yodels the name of the nearby shop where he purchased them. Smiling, we express our thanks and walked on.

It is the time of year where all of the Halloween and harvest pumpkins are being discarded below the curb, primed for the street sweepers. The carved ones have taken on the appearance of shrunken heads. Others are solid and in one piece. I beg Hubs to grab some of these discards for the squirrels in our yard who, after I split them open, feast upon the seeds and fleshy bits with the excitement of Romans at a banquet. I love when they wring their little hands as though they can't contain their ecstasy of being offered such a delicious prize. 

Forty five minutes later into our walk, we see fluorescent flower man ushering small children at a cross walk near the neighborhood school. Hubs and I smile widely at one another. That explains the jacket. Rosy cheeked from the cold, he grins, eyes crinkled behind his glasses, listening intently to the little ones recounting their days. He sees us. We wave. He waves back with mittened enthusiasm. 

Tonight, on our evening walk, with the min pin bundled and darting into leaf piles, Hubs and I notice how many homes are already decked out for the holidays. It's quite dark so we can peek into windows as we stroll past; trees festooned in garland and lights; icicles, snowy white and electrified, hanging from garages and walkways; blowup St. Nicks and North Poles, some tall, some small, all carefully tethered to the cold ground and whirring gently from the fans inflating them for our collective delight. 

Turning onto one of my favorite streets, I see a home lit from top to bottom; 'Griswald-like" in appearance. A charming little tree stands squarely placed in the middle of the lawn with an illuminated sign set to its left. Initially, I thought it was a prop; maybe a giant letter to Santa or a copy of the naughty list, but upon closer inspection, it was a fervent request...a plea for those walking by to please "Be an Angel" and select a tag off of the giving tree**. As I'm sure you are aware, plucking a tag off a giving tree obligates one to benevolently buy for the recipient and return that special something in a prompt and elvish fashion.  

In our many years together, Hubs and I have grabbed tags off many a church giving tree, workplace trees, and even at Walmart in years past when we walked in three days prior to Christmas and saw that half the tags were still hanging unclaimed, but this was the first time we'd seen a tree like this on a regular city street in front of a regular city house. 

But this is no "regular" city house because the thoughtful people in this house recognized a need and took on the task of showing up for and shining a light, quite literally, on the plight of those who are hurting this holiday season. 

This is a house of "Why not me?" instead of "Why me?" 

This is a house of "I can," in place of "I can't."  

This is a house of "I will do" in lieu of "I could have done..."and as I read the wishes of the children on those tags, the whole scene touched me so that I felt the red balloon start filling up in my chest again.   

Hubs is used to my tears. He knows me. He sees first hand how I am touched day after day by the beautiful things which I am blessed to witness...ordinary people lifting one another up and creating opportunities for connection in a world that has been advised to avoid those around us, even the most vulnerable, in the name of safety.

One of my friends told me, via phone from across the country yesterday, that she feels as though she is stuck in a Jell-O mold; just wiggling from side to side from an occasional jolt in the biome. Truth be told, I've been known to enjoy a cup of the cherry goo, especially with fruit, but after hearing her analogy, I no longer have the childlike urge to suck it through my teeth. I've literally lost my taste for it just like I've lost my patience for rules and the regulations and the tamping down on all that we love as humankind, even though I know it's supposedly good for us. 

Safe for us. 

Responsible of us.  

So, I un-looped a tag off the tree with the hopes that by the time this child is old enough to know what Christmas dreams are, we will be back to our natural, regular routines; methodical and commonplace; the return of our ordinary days and our ordinary selves. 

And a sense of divine gratitude for each other.

I hope that the flowers meant for the crossing guard's special person have a starring role in the center of his or her Thanksgiving table. 

May blessings rain down like glittery white icicles on your holiday and on you. 

With big red balloon love,

Me

**P.S. The address for the giving tree is 16 Garfield Street, Glens Falls, NY 12801 if you feel moved enough to want to send a toy to a needy child. (Deadline for receipt of gifts is Dec, 18, 2020, thank you.) 

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The Avon Series - Blog 1

My first Avon product encounter was purely by chance. Walking home from school with my best friend in 1974, I unintentionally stepped on something under a bunch of orange, crunchy fallen leaves that caused my foot to roll slightly and being a little kid who liked finding random objects, I curiously picked it up.

I remember it was a small plastic cylinder, kind of like a Chapstick, which we had in my house, but larger and the color of a dark night of rain; fancy in its appearance. As I turned  it over in my hand, my friend decided we should show it to her mother. We lived in the same apartment complex, but Teri's building was nearer to school than mine, so her place would be our first stop with an item of such grand importance. This was back in the days when kids found something of value and quickly ran home so that they could turn it over to the first available adult, otherwise if you hid it in a pocket it glowed there like red hot contraband and would burn your hand if you fiddled with it.  

Rose, my friend's mother, identified the valuable object right away as an Avon "Demistick". She popped off the cap and expertly twisted up what was left of the solid milky looking fragrance. There was very little left in the tube, clearly this had been discarded, street-side, on purpose. As Rose tossed it in the trash, she explained that this was not an unusual item for a lady to have in her purse or coat pocket. Since nearly all of the women in our apartment complex were Avon customers, Rose naturally had a Demistick or two of her own. Grabbing a new one from the medicine cabinet, still packaged in its small box, she sat us down in the living room so that she could show it off. In my mind's eye, I see a navy colored label showcasing a female figure, Greek or Roman, mythical in appearance. The goddess may or may not have been wearing a toga. As a five year old, this seemed like an unbelievable treasure. 

"Moonwind," Rose said peering at the label on the bottom of the stick. Teri and I looked at one another and she went on to explain that names of all of the Avon perfumes were redolent of far away places or romance. Teri and I observed excitedly as she first dabbed some on herself; permitting each of us to test the grown up scent on our wrists and behind our ears. We lifted our little arms to our noses in order to inhale our newly spicy bouquet.

Rose game me that Demistick, probably because I was so enamored with it and the one I'd stumbled upon was not useful. I carried the Moonwind Demistick to my apartment and placed it in my red patent purse which was used for carrying my small sized identification and books and candies for church each Sunday. I don't recall applying it but I liked taking it out and drawing in its incensy goodness.

My mother got her first visit from the Avon lady almost immediately following my discovery. Ringing the doorbell with her small valise of items, she was a bit like a traveling sales Mary Poppins. Makeup, fragrance, and jewelry would pour out of what seemed like too small a case to hold all of the goodies which Mom and I were encouraged to admire, hold, or sample. 

Flash forward to November 2020 and I have begun selling Avon at age 51. 

I am the Avon Lady. 

Needing a little something special for myself, this seems very comfortable and natural. That early childhood introduction led to a lifetime of Avon during which I've received dozens of cherished gifts, and, when I was old enough, selected products of my own which have brought me an abundance of happiness.

Tune in for more Avon stories, which I plan to chronicle here and on my Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/valbucciavonlady.

Enjoy these cool photos I found of vintage Demisticks. Do you remember them?

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Ports and Payots

I have to keep reminding myself that my neighbor is sick.

He has cancer. It's a cancer that he has been battling and which initially gets knocked back by the medicines his care team offers; but then the disease becomes smarter and stealthier and the medicines need tweaking so that they can once again sneak up on it by surprise and trounce it into a prolonged chokehold.  

I wonder how my neighbor, who is the same age as my father (a survivor of the same cancer, thanks be to God) keeps the faith in a situation where either the cancer or the treatment has to win and there isn't an odds maker in Vegas that would be able to give you a smidgen of reassurance which'd make you want to take the action on this. 

Today, I was pulling dead flowers out of my front garden when he came driving up in his car, fresh from a two hour treatment, zipping up his Patriots windbreaker over top of a gleaming white gauze pad which sits over top of the port in his chest. The port, for those of you who haven't taken Cancer 101, is where the chemo goes in. 

Chuckling, he flipped back his ball cap to show me and my other neighbor, both of us outside on a good weather day for yard work, how he had just become a new member of the 'bald head club', popular with guys of a certain age on our street. He explained how his hair was tumbling out, not by choice, and how he was in style now; his normally thick and healthy white follicles gone in favor of a shiny baby pink crown which he kept touching, self-consciously.

He speaks, we laugh, we listen. His countenance is so jolly it shames me. It shames me because today is my first full day off the couch since September 8. I've been sick myself, but with something that I will eventually overcome. It just takes me a while because I am compromised in multiple ways these days...and I'm a bit of a dweller...and I'm completely strung out on anxiety. But alas, I am me. 

As I sprawled out on my living room couch this past month, watching the best and brightest days of Autumn pass me by sunrise after sunset like my Fiddler on the Roof record stuck in a bad groove, I have been watching my neighbor in his Patriots windbreaker maneuver his lawn tractor, week after week, cutting and bagging his leaves and grass. From my vantage point I spy him carefully assembling his Halloween decorations, filling his birdfeeder, and piloting his car on daily errands with his wife. But me? I mostly sat, ordering things online that I don't require but which amuse me during my prolonged downtime: new storm cloud colored walking sneakers; a vintage oxblood Aigner leather clutch that reminds me of 8th grade; and clearance priced tank tops from Duluth Trading Company for next summer or southern travel, because, heavy on the spandex, they girdle my middle aged belly better than any other brand at the moment. Even deeply discounted they are too expensive but I don't care. As our left side couch cushion becomes permanently imprinted with my ass, an extra few dollars to cradle my guts seems inconsequential. 

But every package that arrives is proof that I cannot drive, cannot shop in a store like other normal (albeit masked because of the pandemic) folks, cannot walk without assistance, all due to an unforeseen complication from a recent medical procedure. The typical high that one might get from the receipt of a package has, for me, turned into more of an exercise in despair; and all the while I convalesce I repeatedly spot the neighbor, far sicker than I, going about his business.

His hair immediately brings to mind my Aunt and her fight with multiple myeloma which, I am sorry to say, she did not win. Let me just pause to affirm that "sorry to say" sounds like the weakest, most inept way to convey how the hole that she has left in our collective family's heart and lives has changed us all, and not for the better but I don't know how else to impart it properly without taking thirty paragraphs to do so. 

My Aunt Rene (pronounced REE KNEE) lost her hair in the same way that my neighbor is losing his, from treatments which were meant to kill the rapidly growing cancer cells that ailed her, but which also killed the rapidly growing hair on her head and caused her confused scalp to sigh and willingly release all of her long gray-streaked locks in clumps. Rene used to have a particular way of tucking her hair behind her ears. Having had surgeries as a little girl in the 1950s, she had small patches of scar tissue both in front of and behind her ears and I don't know if was purely habit or a purposeful move for vanity's sake, but she used to leave a wisp of hair in front of each ear as she tucked the majority of her tresses behind her for an easy, casual look. As her hair started falling out, those wide front of the ear pieces, almost like the side locks on the most devout of Jews, stayed stubborn and strong, while she started finding their wooly sisters and brothers on her pillowcase, on the back of the couch, and blocking the drain of the bathtub. She called me the day of our family reunion and asked me to bring down clippers and a scarf. I knew what was coming, and I did what she asked. 

That day I shaved her head. As our family gathered and milled about outdoors, we sat on my Uncle's couch and I tried my best to make her comfortable by telling her things like how perfectly her noggin was shaped and how she absolutely did not need to cover it with a scratchy wig or some sort of soft bandana, and how it looked nothing like Darth Vader's dome when we got that spooky peek of his giant, soft, peachy head sans-helmet in one of the Star Wars movies. She giggled wearily and played along, as we both tried to make one another feel less awkward about the fact that I was shearing off the last pieces of her pre-cancer identity. Upon finishing, I flicked hair off the couch onto the floor where someone would sweep it up later and as she rummaged her hands about her head, we looked at each other with a sense of relief. However, the humid August air hung with an atmosphere of collective sadness for having shared the experience. Eventually, the hair went in the trash. The more that I think about it now, I wish we'd saved it, like the soft precious pieces folded away in our baby books. 

Anyway, today's experience got me blogging again. I hadn't the energy nor the enthusiasm for it in the last 6 weeks but seeing my neighbor up close sparked something in me and I swear as I hacked at and pulled the dead grass from the ground level of my stella d'oro day lilies, I felt just like I was pulling hair from the scalp of the earth. I could hear my Aunt whispering, in my ear, with my hair style so similar to hers; a big hunk of silvery gray hanging down in front as I pulled my garden gloves off and tucked the rest of my very long argentate fall behind my shoulders, "you'd better start to write again."

And I did.  

 "Payot": Hebrew word for sideburns.  

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Harley Rendezvous

I miss large social gatherings. I miss weddings and graduation parties and concerts and movies and I miss going to the 3 day Harley Rendezvous in Pattersonville, NY. To be clear, I haven't been to this Harley Rendezvous in about three decades but it still ranks up there as far as compelling memories go.

My college boyfriend played bass guitar in a band which was faithfully hired to play at the yearly biker rally. On this sunny late summer morning, something about the air and the atmosphere brings the playlist for those events to the forefront, thrumming through my mind. Perhaps you can join me for a trip down memory lane. Strap on your helmet, sidle up and ride along.

I had the privilege of introducing the band. This was a time in my life when my weekend attire consisted of denim mid-thigh skirts, concert t-shirts and studded cowboy boots made of black ox hide and alligator so I was the perfect two minute frontwoman. Stepping up to the mic, I'd hold it with my right hand and holding my clear cup of domestic beer by the rim with my other hand, dangle it casually down my left leg. When the wolf whistles stopped (more ceremonial than intimidating), I'd welcome everyone and do my best "Ladies and Gentlemen..." intro. I'm not saying it was perfect but it was effective. I got the attention I asked for.

The opening song was always "Call Me the Breeze" by Lynyrd Skynyrd and I was primed and ready to jump off and dance with whatever biker chicks were already out on the floor. They were the ones swathed across the stagefront chirping to the guys while they set up their amps and instruments. They were the ones who would hip check me hard at the bathroom sink so they could apply layer after layer of fairy tale pink lipstick to their wanton mouths. They were the ones who the lead guitar player's wife wanted to kill, show after show, and the reason why she'd come to only the very occasional outing.

A minute into The Breeze, a few long limbed bikers would join us on the floor. Usually the chaps, so proudly and boldly worn up until that moment, would be shed in an effort to move more freely. In my mind I see crimson colored do-rag bandanas, inky black tshirts rolled up north of the bicep, boxes of Marlboro Reds tucked safely within those rolls or visible dangling just above the stitching of the front tshirt pocket, well worn jeans ripped and thin in all the right places, and boots of every variety being lifted and lowered in time to the music, some remarkably alight despite their lugged heft.

You can tell a lot about a biker based purely on boot selection. 

Most of the guys that I knew wore electrician boots. These boots were waterproof, shock proof, steel toed, oily leather. They were also skid and slip proof, with 2 inch rubber soles, so they weren't the easiest to dance in, but the guys who wore them were usually so bone-weary and dog-tired from working five twelves one sleep prior to their Saturday rides that they didn't shimmy a lot anyway.  They were more or less standing in place, singing loudly, lifting their plastic cups in overhead drippy gestures of respect, and letting their necks loll side to side in a deliberate motion of loosening and slackening, shrugging off the stress of the week. 

The guys who wore classic coal colored, engineer-style, pewter buckled riding boots were typically well groomed with nice leather jackets and newer black Levis. When speaking with them I would detect a hint of cologne which was in stark contrast to the majority of the guys who smelled of hard work and sweat and oil and electricity and maybe even something burning. The engineer boot wearers' jackets were blank tabula rasa style smooth cowhide, also dissimilar to the motorcycle gang artwork adorning many of the backs of the others in attendance. I loved the decorated garments and would spend a lot of time studying them, memorizing their allegiances and, often, pictures suggesting pain. Running my hands over the tapestry of painted, stitched and patched jackets left draped over the seats of barstools, I could feel the stories of these men animatedly sparking in my palms.

Chiseled jaws, facial scars, eye patches, gloves, and shots of whiskey instead of plastic cups of beer belonged to the denim jacketed guys. Some had sleeves, many did not. The denim dudes rarely made eye contact with me despite my attempts. Their combat wounded veteran patches helped me sense what might belie their shifty eyed silences. Sometimes their hands and gills would tremble in the beginning of the first set while they stood alone and I anonymously bought them shots, but later in the night when I crept by again and stole a glimpse, I'd see a pack of heads pitched together, a cohesive powwow of blue jeaned GIs, and the fingers were pond water calm. 

The guys with the cowboy boots were usually the dancers, tripping the light fantastic. Their smooth soles allowed for scooting and sliding and I liked their assortment of T-shirts, emblazoned with the latest concert, or an American made automobile logo, or checkered flags and STP, or even the occasional Bart Simpson. The band's second song was usually Honky Tonk Woman by the Rolling Stones and the cowboys would ball up their fists and close their eyes and hoist their shoulders up a few inches toward their ears sloping their hips forward, knees bent, while the front row ladies cavorted and spun and mingled about giving them giving them giving them the honky tonk blues. 

Songs three through eight were always a nod to the late sixties and early seventies when many of the festival patrons came up in the world. Louie Louie by the Kingsman, Wooly Bully by Sam the Sham, Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf, a trifecta of Run For the Jungle, Bad Moon Rising and Green River by Creedence Clearwater Revival; then they'd take it down with the Allman Brothers Midnight Rider. 

Jimi Hendrix's version of the Star Spangled Banner followed (and I almost always heard the first three minutes from the bathroom because I knew this was the song right before their first break and I tried to get in there before everyone else did).  I'd catch the end, exiting while wiping my hands on my skirt and bearing witness to every person in the crowd standing at attention, some hands on hearts, some lifting salutes, all listening to the lead guitarist share his powerfully metallic patriotism, full of reverb and whammy, eventually down on his knees, back arching and fingers cramping from the dichotomy of the notes; a whirling swirl of red, white and blue spiritualism tinged with hope, backdropped by grungy strings squealing in protest and anger.

After the break, with the front row ladies tipsy and sparkling with sweat laying claim to their prominent positions on the floor, the band opened back up with Greg Allman's I'm No Angel. This would invariably draw a huge crowd. I never thought the song was the best in the set, but it spoke to the people, well seasoned and unwound, hanging loose and trolleyed by the music and liquid courage. 

"So I might steal your diamonds. I'll bring you back some gold. I'm no angel." 

Elvis, Johnny Cash, Tom Petty, George Thorogood, Bruce Springsteen, Marshall Tucker, Molly Hatchet, Little Feat and the Georgia Satellites peppered the second set. Dancing ensued. Drinking ensued. The revving of engines and smoking of cigarettes and noisy peel outs ensued. Break time after set two was usually around ten thirty at night. 

Since my friend's group began as a Skynyrd tribute band, set three was almost exclusively Florida swamp rock. The flooring trembled underfoot while a hundred or more gamy, euphorically carefree bikers, bathed in the sweat of a good time, hoofed it without reserve for another hour. The drummer looked like he'd emerged from a nearby lake, mullet plastered to the sides and back of his thick neck. This time of night was my favorite because we all became one sticky ball of black tar, oozing and swelling and dragging on each other. Shoulder hanging-on was common; holding one another up was routine. Differences were overlooked. Kindness was the rule. Kinship through music and back slapping and heat and drink made us all sailors on the same boat in the same sea. We were all worshipping at the same altar. The greatest of friends for an evening; ready to defend someone you met an hour ago within a heartbeat of your life, we fit together like the shingles of a roof. 

We did a lot of car sleeping back then. Tired and too drunk to drive, we would recline the bucket seats and catch a few hours of awkwardly positioned, mosquito-bit rest before getting up and making our way home. The early morning grounds around this out of the way farmtown premises would be festooned with the dancers, some in tents, others curled in balls on Mexican blankets next to their motorcycles, some single, some spooned in the mauve colored light. It was like a battlefield scene, and I'd walk silently among them as I waited for my boyfriend to shake off the night and start the car. 

They slept, some peacefully childlike, some contorted in the clutches of a bad dream or a sour stomach, but mostly puddled softly in the light; jumped and jived out, spent like an ultra marathon runner at the finish, it was, for me, the best morning-after buzz. 

http://www.harleyrendezvous.com/index.php

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Hemingway and Me

If given a choice, I think I'd like to be beach bound with countless cats, drunk and writing all the live long day.

Like Hemingway.

Now don't get me wrong and for God's sake, untwist those English major panties, please. I am not comparing literary styles. I am not suggesting that I am the next great American novelist. I'm simply drawn to a few of the finer ingredients in what should have been Hemi's 1930s lifestyle cookbook. 

Namely:

1. Beach.

2. Cats.

3. Booze. 

4. Writing.

Having lived a more structured life for the last 33 years I think I am ready to exchange it for a few dozen, God willing, preponderantly Havanian-flavored seasons. 

The recent events of 2020 have shaken me like Scrooge after coin-eyed Marley grabbed him, double fisted, by the nightgown. I'm floating around in a similar dream state, examining what I thought were the most productive years of my life and wondering: Should I have done something else? Been something else? 

And with everything so berserk and ferocious and frenzied, I ponder the idea...am I living my truth? Am I listening and learning? What is the universe telling me?

Lots of my friends are searching and probing as the world twists off its axis. I receive their distress signals via text every day; and although the lot of us are on very different paths, we seem to have one solid sentiment in common: 

Screw all this. 

I feel we are each primed for personal upheaval. 

Lately, like Hemi, I've engaged in a little day drinking. It's not a regular occurrence, but I cannot deny the sensuously gentle touch of alcohol in the belly right around 3 pm. It makes my brain fog seem like cotton candy clouds festooned in tinsel and doused with glitter and gloss. I haven't decided whether this is a perfectly legitimate form of lubrication which allows for unbridled written self expression or whether I might eventually need an intervention, but today, because I am a realist I say fuck it. Pass me another hard kombucha.

At this moment, I can see Hubs and me packing our bags to live among the Key West outlaws where I can loudly profess what I love right out down in the street; where I can help usher the sea turtles into the ocean; where the sun can bespeckle my nose with caramel-colored stipples; where the Ron Centauro rum flows unreservedly; and where I can stroke the warm fur of lazy genetically freakish multiple-toed cats whenever the hell I please. 

And where I can write about it. All the live long day. 

Roll out the turquoise carpet. I've had enough.

Fun Fact: Ernie claimed to have written mostly when sober, a notion upon which I call "bullshit".

And, just for giggles: here is the Hemingway cat cam: https://www.hemingwayhome.com/cams/cat/

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