Sunday, October 26, 2008
The Wave
The Wave
By Tom Ruttan
The bike's passenger seat swept up just enough that I could see over my father's shoulders. That seat was my throne. My dad and I traveled many back roads, searching for the ones we had never found before. Traveling these roads just to see where they went. Never in a rush. Just be home for supper.
I remember wandering down a back road with my father, sitting on my throne watching the trees whiz by, feeling the rumble of our bike beneath us like a contented giant cat. A motorcycle came over a hill toward us and as it went by, my father threw up his gloved clutch hand and gave a little wave. The other biker waved back with the same friendly swing of his left wrist.
I tapped my father on his shoulder, which was our signal that I wanted to say something. He c**k his helmeted ear back slightly while keeping his eyes ahead.
I yelled, "Do we know him?" "What?" he shouted.
"You waved to him. Who was it?" "I don't know. Just another guy on a bike. So I waved."
"How come?" "You just do. It's important."
Later, when we had stopped for chocolate ice cream, I asked why it was important to wave to other bikers. My father tried to explain how the wave demonstrated comradeship and a mutual understanding of what it was to enjoy riding a motorcycle. He looked for the words to describe how almost all bikers struggled with the same things like cold, rain, heat, car drivers who did not see them, but how riding remained an almost pure pleasure.
I was young then and I am not sure that I really understood what he was trying to get across, but .
It was a beginning. Afterward, I always waved along with my father when we passed other bikers.
I remember one cold October morning when the clouds were heavy and dark, giving us another clue that winter was rolling in from just over the horizon. My father and I were warm inside our car as we headed to a friend's home. Rounding a comer, we saw a motorcycle parked on the shoulder of the road. Past the bike, we saw the rider walking through the ditch, scouring the long grasses crowned with a touch of frost. We pulled over and backed up to where the bike stood.
I asked Dad, "Who's that?" "Don't know," he replied. "But he seems to have lost something. Maybe we can give him a hand."
We left the car and wandered through the tall grass of the ditch to the biker. He said that he had been pulling on his gloves as he rode and he had lost one. The three of us spent some time combing the ditch, but all we found were two empty cans and a plastic water bottle.
My father turned and headed back to our car and I followed him. He opened the trunk and threw the cans and the water bottle into a small cardboard box that we kept for garbage. He rummaged through various tools, oil containers and windshield washer fluid until he found an old crumpled pair of brown leather gloves. Dad straightened them out and handed them to me to hold. He continued looking until he located an old catalogue. I understood why my dad had grabbed the gloves. I had no idea what he was going to do with the catalogue. We headed back to the biker who was still walking the ditch.
My dad said, "Here's some gloves for you. And I brought you a catalogue as well." "Thanks," he replied. I really appreciate it." He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a worn black wallet. "Let me give you some money for the gloves," he said as he slid some bills out.
"No thanks," my dad replied as I handed the rider the gloves. "They're old and not worth anything anyway." The biker smiled. "Thanks a lot." He pulled on the old gloves and then he unzipped his jacket. I watched as my father handed him the catalogue and the biker slipped it inside his coat. He jostled his jacket around to get the catalogue sitting high and centered under his coat and zipped it up. I remember nodding my head at the time, finally making sense of why my dad had given him the catalogue. It would keep him bit warmer. After wishing the biker well, my father and I left him warming up his bike.
Two weeks later, the biker came to our home and returned my father's gloves. He had found our address on the catalogue. Neither my father nor the biker seemed to think that my father stopping at the side of the road for a stranger and giving him a pair of gloves, and that stranger making sure that the gloves were returned, were events at all out of the ordinary for people who rode motorcycles. For me, it was another subtle lesson.
It was spring the next year when I was sitting high on my throne, watching the farm fields slip by when I saw two bikes coming towards us. As they rumbled past, both my father and I waved, but the other bikers kept their sunglasses locked straight ahead and did not acknowledge us. I remember thinking that they must have seen us because our waves were too obvious to miss. Why hadn't they waved back? I thought all bikers waved to one another.
I patted my father on his shoulder and yelled, "How come they didn't wave to us?" "Don't know. Sometimes they don't."
I remember feeling very puzzled. Why wouldn't someone wave back? Later that summer, I turned 12 and learned how to ride a bike with a clutch. I spent many afternoons on a country laneway beside our home, kicking and kicking to start my father's '55 BSA. When it would finally sputter to a start, my concentration would grow to a sharp focus as I tried to let out the clutch slowly while marrying it with just enough throttle to bring me to a smooth takeoff. More often, I lurched and stumbled forward while trying to keep the front wheel straight and remember to pick my feet up. A few feet farther down the lane, I would sigh and begin kicking again.
A couple of years later, my older brother began road racing, and I became a racetrack rat. We spent many weekends wandering to several tracks in Ontario-Harewood, Mosport and eventually Shannonville. These were the early years of two-stroke domination, of Kawasaki green and 750 two-stroke triples, of Yvon Duhamel's cat-and-mouse games and the artistry of Steve Baker.
Eventually, I started to pursue interests other than the race track. I got my motorcycle license and began wandering the back roads on my own. I found myself stopping along side roads if I saw a rider sitting alone, just checking to see if I could be of help. And I continued to wave to each biker I saw.
But I remained confused as to why some riders never waved back. It left me with almost a feeling of rejection, as if I were reaching to shake someone's hand but they kept their arm hanging by their side.
I began to canvass my friends about waving. I talked with people I met at bike events, asking what they thought. Most of the riders told me they waved to other motorcyclists and often initiated the friendly air handshake as they passed one another.
I did meet some riders, though, who told me that they did not wave to other riders because they felt that they were different from other bikers. They felt that they were "a breed apart." One guy told me in colorful language that he did not "wave to no wusses.'' He went on to say that his kind of bikers were tough, independent, and they did not require or want the help of anyone, whether they rode a bike or not.
I suspected that there were some people who bought a bike because they wanted to purchase an image of being tougher, more independent, a not-putting-up-with-anyone's-crap kind of person, but I did not think that this was typical of most riders.
People buy bikes for different reasons. Some will be quick to tell you what make it is, how much they paid for it, or how fast it will go. Brand loyalty is going to be strong for some people whether they have a Harley, Ford, Sony, Nike or whatever. Some people want to buy an image and try to purchase another person's perception of them. But it can't be done. They hope that it can, but it can't.
Still, there is a group of people who ride bikes who truly are a "breed apart." They appreciate both the engineering and the artistry in the machines they ride. Their bikes become part of who they are and how they define themselves to themselves alone.
They don't care what other people think. They don't care if anyone knows how much they paid for their bike or how fast it will go. The bike means something to them that nothing else does. They ride for themselves and not for anyone else. They don't care whether anyone knows they have a bike. They may not be able to find words to describe what it means to ride, but they still know.
They might not be able to explain what it means to feel the smooth acceleration and the strength beneath them. But they understand.
These are the riders who park their bikes, begin to walk away and then stop. They turn and took back. They see something when they look at their bikes that you might not. Something more complex, something that is almost secret, sensed rather than known. They see their passion. They see a part of themselves.
These are the riders who understand why they wave to other motorcyclists. They savor the wave.
It symbolizes the connection between riders, and if they saw you and your bike on the side of the road, they would stop to help and might not ask your name. They understand what you are up against every time you take your bike on the road-the drivers that do not see you, the ones that cut you off or tailgate you, the potholes that hide in wait. The rain. The cold.
I have been shivering and sweating on a bike for more than 40 years. Most of the riders that pass give me a supportive wave. I love it when I see a younger rider on a "crotch rocket" scream past me and wave. New riders carrying on traditions.
And I will continue in my attempts to get every biker just a little closer to one another with a simple wave of my gloved clutch hand. And if they do not wave back when I extend my hand into the breeze as I pass them, I will smile a little more. They may be a little mistaken about just who is a "breed apart."
By Tom Ruttan
The bike's passenger seat swept up just enough that I could see over my father's shoulders. That seat was my throne. My dad and I traveled many back roads, searching for the ones we had never found before. Traveling these roads just to see where they went. Never in a rush. Just be home for supper.
I remember wandering down a back road with my father, sitting on my throne watching the trees whiz by, feeling the rumble of our bike beneath us like a contented giant cat. A motorcycle came over a hill toward us and as it went by, my father threw up his gloved clutch hand and gave a little wave. The other biker waved back with the same friendly swing of his left wrist.
I tapped my father on his shoulder, which was our signal that I wanted to say something. He c**k his helmeted ear back slightly while keeping his eyes ahead.
I yelled, "Do we know him?" "What?" he shouted.
"You waved to him. Who was it?" "I don't know. Just another guy on a bike. So I waved."
"How come?" "You just do. It's important."
Later, when we had stopped for chocolate ice cream, I asked why it was important to wave to other bikers. My father tried to explain how the wave demonstrated comradeship and a mutual understanding of what it was to enjoy riding a motorcycle. He looked for the words to describe how almost all bikers struggled with the same things like cold, rain, heat, car drivers who did not see them, but how riding remained an almost pure pleasure.
I was young then and I am not sure that I really understood what he was trying to get across, but .
It was a beginning. Afterward, I always waved along with my father when we passed other bikers.
I remember one cold October morning when the clouds were heavy and dark, giving us another clue that winter was rolling in from just over the horizon. My father and I were warm inside our car as we headed to a friend's home. Rounding a comer, we saw a motorcycle parked on the shoulder of the road. Past the bike, we saw the rider walking through the ditch, scouring the long grasses crowned with a touch of frost. We pulled over and backed up to where the bike stood.
I asked Dad, "Who's that?" "Don't know," he replied. "But he seems to have lost something. Maybe we can give him a hand."
We left the car and wandered through the tall grass of the ditch to the biker. He said that he had been pulling on his gloves as he rode and he had lost one. The three of us spent some time combing the ditch, but all we found were two empty cans and a plastic water bottle.
My father turned and headed back to our car and I followed him. He opened the trunk and threw the cans and the water bottle into a small cardboard box that we kept for garbage. He rummaged through various tools, oil containers and windshield washer fluid until he found an old crumpled pair of brown leather gloves. Dad straightened them out and handed them to me to hold. He continued looking until he located an old catalogue. I understood why my dad had grabbed the gloves. I had no idea what he was going to do with the catalogue. We headed back to the biker who was still walking the ditch.
My dad said, "Here's some gloves for you. And I brought you a catalogue as well." "Thanks," he replied. I really appreciate it." He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a worn black wallet. "Let me give you some money for the gloves," he said as he slid some bills out.
"No thanks," my dad replied as I handed the rider the gloves. "They're old and not worth anything anyway." The biker smiled. "Thanks a lot." He pulled on the old gloves and then he unzipped his jacket. I watched as my father handed him the catalogue and the biker slipped it inside his coat. He jostled his jacket around to get the catalogue sitting high and centered under his coat and zipped it up. I remember nodding my head at the time, finally making sense of why my dad had given him the catalogue. It would keep him bit warmer. After wishing the biker well, my father and I left him warming up his bike.
Two weeks later, the biker came to our home and returned my father's gloves. He had found our address on the catalogue. Neither my father nor the biker seemed to think that my father stopping at the side of the road for a stranger and giving him a pair of gloves, and that stranger making sure that the gloves were returned, were events at all out of the ordinary for people who rode motorcycles. For me, it was another subtle lesson.
It was spring the next year when I was sitting high on my throne, watching the farm fields slip by when I saw two bikes coming towards us. As they rumbled past, both my father and I waved, but the other bikers kept their sunglasses locked straight ahead and did not acknowledge us. I remember thinking that they must have seen us because our waves were too obvious to miss. Why hadn't they waved back? I thought all bikers waved to one another.
I patted my father on his shoulder and yelled, "How come they didn't wave to us?" "Don't know. Sometimes they don't."
I remember feeling very puzzled. Why wouldn't someone wave back? Later that summer, I turned 12 and learned how to ride a bike with a clutch. I spent many afternoons on a country laneway beside our home, kicking and kicking to start my father's '55 BSA. When it would finally sputter to a start, my concentration would grow to a sharp focus as I tried to let out the clutch slowly while marrying it with just enough throttle to bring me to a smooth takeoff. More often, I lurched and stumbled forward while trying to keep the front wheel straight and remember to pick my feet up. A few feet farther down the lane, I would sigh and begin kicking again.
A couple of years later, my older brother began road racing, and I became a racetrack rat. We spent many weekends wandering to several tracks in Ontario-Harewood, Mosport and eventually Shannonville. These were the early years of two-stroke domination, of Kawasaki green and 750 two-stroke triples, of Yvon Duhamel's cat-and-mouse games and the artistry of Steve Baker.
Eventually, I started to pursue interests other than the race track. I got my motorcycle license and began wandering the back roads on my own. I found myself stopping along side roads if I saw a rider sitting alone, just checking to see if I could be of help. And I continued to wave to each biker I saw.
But I remained confused as to why some riders never waved back. It left me with almost a feeling of rejection, as if I were reaching to shake someone's hand but they kept their arm hanging by their side.
I began to canvass my friends about waving. I talked with people I met at bike events, asking what they thought. Most of the riders told me they waved to other motorcyclists and often initiated the friendly air handshake as they passed one another.
I did meet some riders, though, who told me that they did not wave to other riders because they felt that they were different from other bikers. They felt that they were "a breed apart." One guy told me in colorful language that he did not "wave to no wusses.'' He went on to say that his kind of bikers were tough, independent, and they did not require or want the help of anyone, whether they rode a bike or not.
I suspected that there were some people who bought a bike because they wanted to purchase an image of being tougher, more independent, a not-putting-up-with-anyone's-crap kind of person, but I did not think that this was typical of most riders.
People buy bikes for different reasons. Some will be quick to tell you what make it is, how much they paid for it, or how fast it will go. Brand loyalty is going to be strong for some people whether they have a Harley, Ford, Sony, Nike or whatever. Some people want to buy an image and try to purchase another person's perception of them. But it can't be done. They hope that it can, but it can't.
Still, there is a group of people who ride bikes who truly are a "breed apart." They appreciate both the engineering and the artistry in the machines they ride. Their bikes become part of who they are and how they define themselves to themselves alone.
They don't care what other people think. They don't care if anyone knows how much they paid for their bike or how fast it will go. The bike means something to them that nothing else does. They ride for themselves and not for anyone else. They don't care whether anyone knows they have a bike. They may not be able to find words to describe what it means to ride, but they still know.
They might not be able to explain what it means to feel the smooth acceleration and the strength beneath them. But they understand.
These are the riders who park their bikes, begin to walk away and then stop. They turn and took back. They see something when they look at their bikes that you might not. Something more complex, something that is almost secret, sensed rather than known. They see their passion. They see a part of themselves.
These are the riders who understand why they wave to other motorcyclists. They savor the wave.
It symbolizes the connection between riders, and if they saw you and your bike on the side of the road, they would stop to help and might not ask your name. They understand what you are up against every time you take your bike on the road-the drivers that do not see you, the ones that cut you off or tailgate you, the potholes that hide in wait. The rain. The cold.
I have been shivering and sweating on a bike for more than 40 years. Most of the riders that pass give me a supportive wave. I love it when I see a younger rider on a "crotch rocket" scream past me and wave. New riders carrying on traditions.
And I will continue in my attempts to get every biker just a little closer to one another with a simple wave of my gloved clutch hand. And if they do not wave back when I extend my hand into the breeze as I pass them, I will smile a little more. They may be a little mistaken about just who is a "breed apart."
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Just a Biker
JUST A BIKER
I saw you hug your purse closer to you in the grocery store line. But you didn't see me put an extra $10.00 in the collection plate last Sunday.
I saw you pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk. But you didn't see me playing Santa at the local Mall.
I saw you change your mind about going into the restaurant when you saw my bike
parked out front. But you didn't see me attending a meeting to Raise more money
for the hurricane relief.
parked out front. But you didn't see me attending a meeting to Raise more money
for the hurricane relief.
I saw you roll up your window
and shake your head when I rode by. But you didn't see me riding behind you when you flicked your cigarette butt out the car window.
I saw you frown at me when I smiled at your children. But you didn't see me, when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless.
I saw you stare at my long hair. But you didn't see me and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.
I saw you roll your eyes at our
Leather jackets and gloves. But you didn't see me and my brothers donate our old ones to those that had none.
I saw you look in fright at my tattoos. But you didn't see me cry as my children wsere born or have their names written over and in my heart.
I saw you change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere. But you didn't see me going home to be with my family.
I saw you, complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be. But you didn't see me when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.
I saw you yelling at your kids in the car. But you didn't see me pat my child's hands knowing she was safe behind me.
I saw you reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road. But you didn't see me squeeze my wife's leg when she told me to take the next turn.
I saw you race down the road in the rain. But you didn't see me get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.
I saw you run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time. But you didn't see me trying to turn right.
I saw you cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in. But you didn't see me leave the road.
I saw you, waiting impatiently for my friends to pass. But you didn't see me. I wasn't there.
I saw you go home to your family. But you didn't see me. Because I died that day you cut me off.
I was just a biker. A person with friends and a family. But you didn't see me.
Repost this around in hopes that people will understand the biker community..
EVEN IF YOU DON'T LIKE US, RESPECT OUR RIGHTS TO RIDE WHAT WE CHOOSE AND TAKE A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO BE SURE WE ARE NOT IN 'YOUR' WAY
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Anyone wondering....?
... where I've been lately? Well, remember back around the time of my last post when I showed a certain motorcycle and said it was my motivation to recover from my hand surgery? Yeah, well I didn't exactly wait till it was ALL healed. ;) I've been riding two wheels and an engine every chance I get! Some lessons I learned really early on (like within the first 5 minutes)
She's a 2003 Suzuki Savage 650cc cruiser, AKA "Thumper" to bike riders, with a dry weight of 350 lbs (that's really low) and a seat height of 27 inches!!! (also very low) Despite the photo, she's not all black. The tank is black with BLUE flake and silver flake graphics. Gorgeous and matches my helmet. She rides like she was built with my name written all over her. SOOOOOOOOOOO much fun to ride. Tons of giddy-up and with that single cylinder has that characteristic sound of a classic "thumper". I love that sound. LOL. (You knew there was a rabbit reference in there someplace, right?) Only 3K miles on her and the price was right. Now she's MY thumper. :D Her name is "Katie" and I'll save that explanation for another post. Meanwhile, I put almost 200 miles on her Saturday and Sunday (today) and plan to take her to work tomorrow if the weather holds out. So far it looks like close to 60 mpg! Hey Judy, I can drive to your place for less than HALF the gas cost! WOOT!
I can't say THANK YOU enough to my fellow Lady Biker friend Julia for loaning me the Honda. If she hadn't, I doubt I'd have followed through with my threat to learn to ride. But the Honda isn't ready to go home just yet...she's getting a bit of a makeover first. ;)
Wave at bikers when you see them on the road. One of them just might be ME! And PLEASE, LOOK FOR MOTORCYCLES actively when you drive and PLEASE stay off the cell phone and pay attention.
- laying the bike over while at slow or stopped speeds doesn't nesseserily kill you but it sure creates colorful bruises.
- Stitches are stronger than you may think and doctors are not at all understanding of a girls need to have fun.
- Vicodin is a wonderful thing.
- If anyone suggests learning to ride a motorcycle on grass first, hunt them down and kill them.
- Getting caught in a rain-shower also won't kill you but thunderstorms are best weathered under a roof of some sort.
- Even Harley riders show some signs of humility while pouring rainwater out of their boots.
- Cars really, really, truly look right THROUGH motorcycles on the road and I vow not to talk on my cell phone while driving (unless I have a bluetooth and then only when it's really important and brief). My boss will just have to wait a few minutes till I can call back.
- There really is nothing in the world like a 600 lb vibrator. :D
She's a 2003 Suzuki Savage 650cc cruiser, AKA "Thumper" to bike riders, with a dry weight of 350 lbs (that's really low) and a seat height of 27 inches!!! (also very low) Despite the photo, she's not all black. The tank is black with BLUE flake and silver flake graphics. Gorgeous and matches my helmet. She rides like she was built with my name written all over her. SOOOOOOOOOOO much fun to ride. Tons of giddy-up and with that single cylinder has that characteristic sound of a classic "thumper". I love that sound. LOL. (You knew there was a rabbit reference in there someplace, right?) Only 3K miles on her and the price was right. Now she's MY thumper. :D Her name is "Katie" and I'll save that explanation for another post. Meanwhile, I put almost 200 miles on her Saturday and Sunday (today) and plan to take her to work tomorrow if the weather holds out. So far it looks like close to 60 mpg! Hey Judy, I can drive to your place for less than HALF the gas cost! WOOT!I can't say THANK YOU enough to my fellow Lady Biker friend Julia for loaning me the Honda. If she hadn't, I doubt I'd have followed through with my threat to learn to ride. But the Honda isn't ready to go home just yet...she's getting a bit of a makeover first. ;)
Wave at bikers when you see them on the road. One of them just might be ME! And PLEASE, LOOK FOR MOTORCYCLES actively when you drive and PLEASE stay off the cell phone and pay attention.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
I really DO work with a bunch of clowns ya know...
This would be one of them...
Don Kelly...
the...........
wait for it.............
Social Work assistant
and
facility .......................
CHAPLAIN.
Yeah.
Don Kelly...
the...........
wait for it.............
Social Work assistant
and
facility .......................
CHAPLAIN.
Yeah.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
my reward
...as soon as the hand is better...;)
--
Elaine
Site - http://www.ccrfuzzy.com
BLOG - http://www.ccrfuzzyoutofhand.com
Store - http://www.outofhandfiberarts.com
Complications arose, ensued, were overcome.
Capt Jack Sparrow
Fwd: not much knitting going on
--
Elaine
Site - http://www.ccrfuzzy.com
BLOG - http://www.ccrfuzzyoutofhand.com
Store - http://www.outofhandfiberarts.com
Complications arose, ensued, were overcome.
Capt Jack Sparrow
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Frustration
This is the emotion (?) that I'm dealing with today. Frustration. Hmmm, is it really an emotion? a thought process? certainly a reaction.So one way I deal with such things is to look up quotes about them. This helps me to consider various perspectives. These are some I found today
Society expects man to be a passive social animal who believes like the People of the Field in "Jurgen" that "to do what you always have done" and "what is expected of you" are the twin rules of life. This, of course, is not true. The wanton crucifixion of impulses, the unnecessary blocking and frustration of the drives and urges, are an evil that reflects itself in sophistication, ennui and boredom, dissatisfaction, melancholy, fatigue, anxiety and neurosis. Abraham MyersonIndeed, my frustration comes from my perception that others expect me to 'do as always has been done' and to 'do what is expected of me' and not to question that expectation too much. It is what I percieve as the crucifixtion of what I see as vitally important - my passion, dedication to the task and my drives and urges to do the best job I know how that are causing my dissatisfaction, melancholy, fatigue, anxiety and yes...frustration. I don't think I'm at the point of neurosis yet.
Am I too pretentious thinking that my nursing is a form of art? I certainly don't think so. Especially the art of reading a person in crisis and taking aim on that part of them that most needs my care and providing that care immediately. People who are grieving don't have time to specify their needs to you. They just know they hurt and they want you to make it all better. period. And with that art comes limits and limits will inevitably lead to frustration (where I am) so perhaps my next goal is discipline so that I can learn to control myself through the inevitable change and growth. I know I want to outlast this frustration and I know I DO NOT like limitations!
- In human life, art may arise from almost any activity, and once it does so, it is launched on a long road of exploration, invention, freedom to the limits of extravagance, interference to the point of frustration, finally discipline, controlling constant change and growth.
And of course, I know dang well who'd be cleaning up that mess too! I think I like my husband's quote the best:
- Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.
It's hard to fly like an eagle when you work with a bunch of turkeys.Amen and A-MEN!
Response to my own quandry...
- It takes in reality only one to make a quarrel. It is useless for the sheep to pass resolutions in favour of vegetarianism while the wolf remains of a different opinion.
In other words...
Don't try to teach a pig to dance...you only waste your own time and annoy the pig.
Yeah, I knew that.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Catching up...
- My 10+ year old Mini Lop pet bunny Radar - AKA "the best bunny in the whole wide world" - left us for the green ethereal pastures recently. I'll miss him so much but he suffered enough. I think he had as hard a time leaving us as we had saying goodbye to him. For all the wonderful rabbits I'll ever have, he'll always be the one to live up to. Here's raisin kisses to you old pal!
- My middle son is again on the 'available' list and I gotta tell ya. He won't have to work real hard to do better. That's a great big "WHEW"!
- Work is really keeping me hopping lately. My caseload got changed and it's always hard learning new people. I'll manage though. With new people come new opportunities.... or some shit like that.
- The Navajo weaving is really growing on me! I'll get an updated photo soon.
- I had a FANTASTIC time going up to NY with Judy to grope bunnies with pal Amy. What a beautiful herd she has! Yes, I brought home a new fuzzy of my own. His name is Woodstock (Woody) and he really does act stoned as all get out. Kewl rabbit. LOL Amy's mom shared a wonderful cast on stitch with Judy and I. The cops in a little town on the PA line don't know what to make of chatty women with fluffy bunnies who don't know how to sign their own registration cards.
- It's hot.
- It's raining.
- Oh look...YARN!
Another way to say...
"Why does mayhem and suspicion turn up in your wake?" i.e. You are a trouble-maker. Yup... Guilty as charged. :)
Monday, May 26, 2008
A new obsession
This is a Navajo (Dine) style loom built by DH and myself using plans from Navajo Weaving Way: The Path from Fleece to Rug (Paperback) by Noel Bennett (Author), Tiana Bighorse (Author), John Running (Author) The yarn is handspun singles as traditional to Dine weaving and boy is it hard to force myself to spin a worsted single! My real interest is in pictorial weaving in the Dine style but we'll see where this takes me.
Monday, May 19, 2008
A picture of my day
So here's the poop...
By switching to the new URL I can easily get my email posting and RSS feeds to work. The $10 a year was worth all the headache it saved trying to fix it on my own site. Of course, now I can't seem to get my ftp to load so I can't fix the links on the main site. Ah well. I'll get that settled later. In the meantime, here I am.
So I'm thinking that I have so much in a day that I WANT to post...little thoughts, funny sights, touching moments... but I don't have the time or energy to sit down to long typing sessions with links and all that. I love those sights with small thought provoking messages or photos and that's the way I'd like to share my days and thoughts. At least that's the plan. Sheesh...I have TWO of the most internet savy smartphones on the market with fantastic cameras on them....I even have one of those truly kewl keyboards that folds to the size of a wallet. You would think I could be a bit mobile, right? So I'll try, I promise I'll try.
So I'm thinking that I have so much in a day that I WANT to post...little thoughts, funny sights, touching moments... but I don't have the time or energy to sit down to long typing sessions with links and all that. I love those sights with small thought provoking messages or photos and that's the way I'd like to share my days and thoughts. At least that's the plan. Sheesh...I have TWO of the most internet savy smartphones on the market with fantastic cameras on them....I even have one of those truly kewl keyboards that folds to the size of a wallet. You would think I could be a bit mobile, right? So I'll try, I promise I'll try.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Gotta get this working better
Frustrated? who...ME?! grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
I have got to get this blog working better. I'm still not getting the email post to show up to say nothing of the email photos. I just don't have as much time to trouble shoot as I used to. I also don't have as much time for template tuning by html like I used to. Something's got to give. I might go back to a blogger hosted address and let it do most of the work for me. If anyone has easier suggestions, please feel free to send them along.
I have got to get this blog working better. I'm still not getting the email post to show up to say nothing of the email photos. I just don't have as much time to trouble shoot as I used to. I also don't have as much time for template tuning by html like I used to. Something's got to give. I might go back to a blogger hosted address and let it do most of the work for me. If anyone has easier suggestions, please feel free to send them along.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Lots of good stuff!
Comment from "Nanna":Please correct me if I am wrong but do you not have 3 sons?? Whats been going on in your eldest sons life? Curious minds want to know. :)
LOL Ok, I'm busted! (and I know who you are "nanna" ;-} )
Indeed, I do have three sons and I failed to mention the eldest. Why? Well, it's not because he isn't doing wonderful things, it's more that he IS doing wonderful things and so doesn't cause me heartburn like the others. LOL ;)
My eldest son Nik, earned a promotion at his work to Sergeant and moved to a bigger and more "interesting" (his words) jail. He worked long and hard for that promotion and I am VERY proud of him. Waiting paid off though and he now has more work but also more opportunity. He is also a 2nd (?)) degree black belt and teaching at his own martial arts classes and at the school for Corrections Officers! Do not EVEN mess with me! I have my own bodyguard. hehehe
I also have a Daughter In Choice (I hate the term 'In Law'. It sounds like she's only there cause she HAS to be. ) and she has also moved into a job that she seems to really excel at. She works with Social Services and has spent the past year training for her responsibilities. It's so wonderful to see them both relaxing into professions that they really enjoy. Many people never achieve that.
Of course it's their joint effort that I'm most proud of. My beautiful little GrandPrincess. Darn, my photo uploading isn't working today. I'll get that fixed. for now, you just have to trust me when I say she's the prettiest granddaughter I've ever had. :D
UPDATE!
The hubby just came in from his latest flying lesson. He completed his FIRST SOLO FLIGHT!!! Woot! Big ole certificate and everything! OK, so I'll work on figuring out how to fix the photo thing and upload a pic of that too.
Wow, enough for one evening. I'm happy.