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| Map of Travels |
| 2005 - Journal 14 |
| Looking Southward . . . Eighty-one thousand, three hundred and ten miles! Little did I imagine three years ago that I could reach so far, see so much, and do so in three years. Actually, Sunshine and I have spent a total of two years on the road and a total of twelve month wintering in Paradise, at least what we thought was Paradise before five hurricanes crossed our peninsula and tried hard to put paid to our playground. Near the end of this year’s wanderings, I visited old haunts in New Jersey to carefully water the memories that attend my roots. My excitement at seeing former newspaper friends; George James, Peter Byron, Peter Monsees, Bob Townsend, Robyn Craig Girauldi, Al Paglione, John Bell, Rich Gigli, Bob Krist, Steve Auchard and new friend Tom Franklin was almost more pleasure than this old traveler could tolerate. Peter Byron and his wife Jane put together a party for former Daily Record staffers that was pure unadulterated nostalgia. While folks were soon to arrive, Peter, Al Paglione, and my friend JP Badkin drove in search of an old barn to use as a backdrop so Peter could take photos for my web page. It was a great evening, telling endless stories, most of which were definitely embellished. I met George James, (a former Morning Call and Record reporter) and his wife, Elaine at a restaurant in Ridgewood for lunch and learned, surprisingly, that George had retired from his job as a columnist for the New York Times. The moon, stars and planets must have slipped into alignment to insure that George would float down comfortably under a golden parachute. So it is that our years of struggle and hard work, are rewarded. Welcome to the junior geezer ranks, George. May you keep your mental and physical health, and above all your humor, pension and the freedom to spend it. Several days later I stopped to see Tina and Dillon Karsian. Dillon and I began our nascent careers at The Record (nee Bergen Evening Record) in 1953. We became fast friends and in fact he and Tina were largely responsible for helping Bea and I name our first born. All five of their children’s first names begin with the letter “K”; Kevin, Kathy, Karen, Keith, and Kristine. So it came to pass that the four of us finally settled on Kyle for our first born. It’s been a wonderful history and I cherish our long friendship. I suggested we go out to dinner some evening and left it to Tina to contact her family. I was to meet at their home. The appointed hour, I thought, was six pm. It was not! Old timer’s disease struck again! It was 3pm. Fortunately, I was showered, powdered, dressed and shined up when I got a call: “Where are you?” a sweet southern voice asked. “I’m in Franklin Lakes,” I replied. “Well, it’s 3:30 and you were supposed to be here at 3:00,” the sweet voice said with a bit of steel, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I shouted into the phone. My yellow steed carried me through, in, around and over traffic as I raced to Hackensack. I was a bit put out. I don’t like to be late and here I was almost hour after the fact. To save what face I had left, I argued with Tina that she was mistaken but the facts were overwhelming. Children and grandchildren were seated at the dining room table finishing their first and second courses. Need I mention that being with those folks, like all my New Jersey friends, even those who have moved on to other communities, has enriched my life’s journey and filled me with passion and love that is pure gold. The next morning I met Tina and her sister “Doll” for breakfast at a local café and talked about how the years had changed us and how fortunate we all are to have our health and such wonderful families. One part of me was in the present, talking with these two engaging women, while another part was thinking how our present moments are constantly turning into memories and later can be tasted and savored for their sweetness (equal time for the bittersweet, as well) playing across our mental screen; watching the subtle truths define who we are, and what we’ve become. Oh, how I’d like to go back and live some of those incredible moments in real time, again and again and again. * * * * I had an appointment to see Mike Tschappet of the Daily Record, (Morris Counties daily paper), a former sports writer, now editor of the TGIF magazine, who wanted to interview yours truly, as an “old employee makes good,” feature story.” Nothing like a newspaper article, to help an author market his book. Not many days later I sat with Tom Franklin, a Record photographer who also writes a feature column for Monday’s Local break page about folks doing unusual and interesting things with their lives. The stories printed in both papers were well written and accurate (I wanted them to stretch the truth slightly; you know, little things like: “Golly, he looks and acts so young,” “Man oh man, where does he get those rugged good looks,” or “The man is such a bon vivant,” etc. Nevertheless, I really was pleased. Tom Franklin and Peter Monsees (who was a former student and dear friend, handled a sidelight for the shoot and between poses was comic relief), spent every bit of an hour shooting digital of your reporter sitting for his portrait with Sunshine. It certainly is different being on the other end of the lens. I was a photographer at both papers for years and now had the pleasure of dusting off sweet memories; funny, exciting and powerful emotional moments with co-workers, some of whom have gone on to their rewards and are missed. I was close (only four hours away) from Vermont’s western border I had to visit my long time friends, Emmett and Kerstin François. I’d worked with Emmett at The Record from ‘68 to ’72 and have kept in close touch through the years. Emmett, a most talented photographer, filled my boots as photography instructor at Fairleigh Dickinson University (Teaneck campus) in New Jersey when I left the newspaper business at the end of 1972. The François’ now live in a small town in southwestern Vermont, a short ride from Poultney’s Green Mountain College where Emmett has continued his teaching career. Their cozy, expanded Cape Cod home, sits on a hill looking southward across a large hayfield towards the Morgan Mountains. Behind them are the Plumb Mountains, named, so local legend insists, for climbers who’re plumb worn-out climbing to the summit. My weather was grand. Warm, sunny and cool enough in the evenings for a light sweater. I joined Emmett for a few hours at his Monday class at Green Mountain College and had the opportunity to chat with his students and of course show off Sunshine. One of Emmett’s impromptu assignments for that morning was to take advantage of the bikes availability and appearance, in other words, to view her as an art form. Sunshine is photogenic, no mistake, so it would be interesting to see how creative the students could be. When I talked to Emmett the other evening he said photos of Sunshine were posted in several buildings on campus. It appears Sunshine has graduated from refrigerator doors to bulletin boards in public places. I’d say that’s a step up. The return to New Jersey from Vermont generally does not exceed four hours, but took Sunshine and I twenty-four. I noticed the previous day that Sunshine’s front tire had a slow leak so Emmett and I drove to a store in Rutland to purchase a 12 volt tire inflator. Good thing. When I left the next morning, joining him at his photography class, Sunshine’s tire was losing air almost as fast as I could pump it in. When I left him after lunch I was stopping every five or six miles to pump up the tire. I inquired after a Honda shop but it was just too far away to stop every three miles for air. There was a Harley shop in Ft. Ann, unfortunately closed on Mondays, so I backtracked to a nearby motel for the rest of the afternoon and evening. The motel folks were riders as well and that evening the owner call to inquire about my flat tire. I said it was only flat on one side but that I had a pump and in the morning would fill it for my short ride to the Harley shop. So the next morning, bright and early (actually I was a bit anxious that the valve stem would break off prematurely). I attached the inflator and twenty or so minutes later had enough air to make the motorbike shop. The Harley guys were most courteous and helpful. Here I was with a “rice burner” in American Iron territory. I explained I could help remove the wheel but first the fenders, duel brake calipers, axel nut and axel clamping bolts would have to be removed or loosened at which point the axel can be slid out and the wheel withdrawn. “No problem,” said the mechanic. “We’ll just remove the air, pop the bead next to the valve stem, reach in and pull out the old one and put in a replacement.” By golly, the entire procedure took only a few minutes and cost 22 bucks. I would like to think the Honda guys, if there had been one close by, would have saved me time and my money using the same trick. Hopefully I’ll never have to find out. Isn’t it exceptional that in 81 thousand miles, I've had nothing worse than a tired, broken tire valve and in a location where with little difficulty I could get immediate help. Years ago my Dakota pickup began to shudder, fizz and pop as I rolled into my carport after a long trip. Not far from home, but in my carport. That happened three times, always in my driveway. Make of it what you will, but I know which side my toast is buttered on. Good ole Universe, always looking after me! The Badkins and I decided to visit a place in New York State I’ve had a hankering to visit for years. We had one of the ten best days of the year on that early October Sunday with cloudless skies and temps in the mid-sixties. It was perfect flying weather, for visitors and pilots alike. A little more than an hour north of New Jersey, off State Highway 9G, located on Stone Church road, is the celebrated home of Cole Palen’s Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome,. As they say in their brochure, it’s “America’s Original Living Museum of Antique Aircraft.” We watched with open mouths, as did a large group of visitors, World War I replica aircraft (there are no original WW I planes flying), German Folkers, two and three wing aircraft, French Spads, and a British Gypsy Moth. The German and French planes pursued each other in mock dog fights, finishing their aerial shenanigans with low passes over the field for photo opportunities. It was late afternoon as the show closed so there was no opportunity to peek into hangers filled with antique aircraft. If one likes flying machines, especially antiques and classics then Cole Palens Aerodrome is the place to visit. * * * * Finally it was time to move on. I left the Badkins mid-morning on a Monday and rode South (really west at that point) on I-287 passing through Morristown, a lovely, city I’d like to explore again, remembering the good times of my working years with the Daily Record. Interstate 78 West was my next major road and that led me through New Jersey’s beautiful countryside. Jersey gets a bad rap much too often. Most folks see Jersey’s seamier side traveling the turnpike south to Delaware: an area filled with industry, refineries and awful traffic. But not on I-78 as we rode through gentle, green hills that passed over the Delaware River. One hundred miles later I saw signs for Harrisburg, and my next major road, Interstate 81 South. My destination, a two day ride, was Hendersonville, North Carolina to visit my Web Master, Debra Sullivan, and hopefully learn a few computer tricks. My ride south through Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia and North Carolina on Interstates 81 and 40 was long and full of rain. Lot’s of rain, I mean buckets. Jersey was getting its share and the bottom edge of the front was dumping on my parade. It was the kinda rain that finds all kinds of little cracks and microscopic holes to penetrate, soak, marinate and saturate stuff that should never, ever be touched by water. Needless to mention, I couldn’t be wetter if I’d stepped into a shower wearing my full kit. I was mopping up and drying the floor of the sidecar days after I reached Stuart. Rain is part and parcel of our motorbike experience but I don’t like starting out in rain unless I’m fortunate to stay in a motel with an entrance canopy so one can load and unload comfortably. Sometimes motel folks will let biker’s park overnight, under the canopy. I bless them for their kindness. I’ve been known to pass up cheaper motels for one with a roofed entry way. There may be a correlation. I’ll have to research that. Debbie Sullivan joined me the day after I reached Flat Rock, close on to Hendersonville. I picked a Mountain Inn Suites motel/hotel because it was far enough away from Hendersonville to take advantage of lower rates. Scott Muchmore, that day’s Desk Associate, made me feel most welcome. I love it. It’s that southern thing, again. Debbie is a great gal, friendly and computer savvy. She was able to follow my sometimes difficult directions and rearranged my web site. It wasn’t without problems. Downloading photos from one program to another was complicated because of the size of the file. She played with it for two days and with a photo software program she installed on my laptop was able to finally export photos to my site. I had an opportunity to reconnect with Lily Ann, an RN who worked at Hospice in Stuart where I was a volunteer five years ago. She moved to the Hendersonville area for the same reasons my friends have settled or will settle there in the future: the green mountains, the good vibes, friendly people and cultural/social opportunities. Lily I discovered, is a licensed hypotherapist. What to do but organize a session one afternoon before I left the area. The process is fascinating and surprisingly easy. I was wide awake, or so it seemed, but focused in a loose way on my past, remembering people, places and conversations I thought were long forgotten. I don’t believe anything was resolved or clarified but the door was opened to explore my past in more detail. The ride south to visit Val and John in Jacksonville was straight forward. I got back on I-26 which in turn led me to I- 95 South, a journey of five or six hours depending on time spent at lunch and the necessary fuel stops. I can’t count the number of trips Bea and I spent traveling from New Jersey to Florida on I-95 to visit with my mother and dad on the west coast and my children on the east side of the peninsula. There was a time when I thought I recognized every town and mile marker on that road. It got to be a boring ride with one exception. Must have been ‘90 or ‘91 when we headed south, a few days before Christmas, in my pickup, and spent the first night in Fredericksburg, Virginia. The next morning the weather was gray and cloudy, perfect snow weather, I thought. Wasn’t long into the morning when the flakes began to fall and by golly we were soon in the cold clutches of a winter storm. We drove for nineteen straight hours at speeds approaching 15 to 20 miles an hour in heavy traffic. We had to stop for fuel and toilet time but frankly I don’t remember much other than it seemed to take forever. We heard on the radio I-95 might be shut down but it turned out only the northbound side was closed. Florida folks have no idea how to drive in icy conditions and were running off the road and turning over in droves. It was a hellacious experience. The next morning the sun blazed forth and all that slippery ice and snow evaporated as if nothing happened. Florida was once more a sunny Paradise. I’m home now and my little trailer is out of storage and set up in a great trailer park in Jenson Beach, a few miles north of Stuart. I’m pleased to be there (my former trailer park had no room this year) I’m under a shade tree, just a hundred yards or so from the Indian River. Then Wilma loomed on the horizon, interrupting my quiet reverie. My daughter Valerie called and suggested I come back for an extended visit. Why not, I thought. I’ll leave a few days early and beat all the panicked drivers running from the storm. Should be a very interesting weekend. At least Sunshine is safe in their garage and that’s the first consideration, isn’t it? |
| FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE Motorcycle Touring with Stuart Davis and His Side Car www.followtheyellowline.com |