Journal

by

James Meyers

PREFACE

Harvey Keitel, in the movie "Smoke", plays a middle-aged cigar shop owner in contemporary Brooklyn. Keitel's avocation is to chronicle the street corner on which his shop is situated. He does so by photographing his corner, in "broad view" each morning at 8 a.m. The same photograph each day, or so it appears to William Hurt (a bereaved writer in deep block). Hurt, who quickly looks at album after album, tells Keitel through a puzzled laugh "...but, they are all the same..." Keitel quietly says, "no, you're not looking at them; they're not at all alike. Each photograph is unique. Each different in some small way, but each different."

And so, the beginnings of my new project emerged. I thought that it might be interesting to produce a "photo of the day" journal; a simple chronicle of my world view. I would start by either shooting one photograph each day or designating a photograph as the photo of the day. This designated photo would then allow me to take additional photographs on any given day and not interfere with my project. I would begin this journal on the 1st day of summer 1996 and continue until the last day of spring 1997. 365 pictures of my world ... cool.

But simple minds can never stop with "the simple", so I thought that I could muck up this project a bit by additional complications.

Bob Greene's book, BE TRUE TO YOUR SCHOOL, is a cleaned up copy of the Chicago Tribune columnist's high school journal. Its history is also simple. Greene's English teacher told him that he should keep a journal. "The discipline of writing an entry every single day for a year will be good practice for you." And so, for the entire year of 1964, Greene wrote a journal entry. On December 31, 1964, he closed the journal and that was that.

To quote my brother-in-law Adam "click, clink." ...why not, I thought, join these two great ideas. So, not only will I be keeping a photo journal but also begin afresh my old journal "the james book too".

April 26, 1997
Saturday
Volume 6

I met Dave and Judy at the Brigantine Wildlife Refuge after work this afternoon for a quick bike ride. This is the first rid that the three of us have been on for quite some time.

I telephoned Sharon from work earlier this afternoon to see what she wanted to do. Bicycling, she told me, was not too high on her list. She would rather lift weights at the gym -- you know, a real man's exercise! "Well, if you're going to the gym, then give Judy a call and see if she wants to meet me at 5:00 for a ride." When I finally did get home from work, Sharon told me that Judy wasn't around. So I called Dave. "5:00? Sure, but pizza afterwards!" I tell Dave that he's got himself a deal. Five minutes later Judy calls. "I've been to the Lambertville Shad Festival, and I got you a present. Do you want to go for a bike ride at the Refuge?" "Well, sure, Judy -- I'm meeting Dave there at 5:00. Pizza after that." Talk about plans!

So, at 5:00 my two best friends and I hop on our bikes and head down the dike. The weather is really nice and the wind isn't too, too bad. The glossy ibis are out, along with the three types of egrets that usually frequent the area. Birding isn't great, but it was diverse enough to make it interesting.

On the back stretch I stop to count the number of goslings that are scurrying around a pair of Canada geese. "Ten, no, wait....four, five, seven, ten, thirteen. Thirteen babies." Dave U-turns and slides beside me. He's got new clipless pedals, and forgot to "twist" out as he stops. Crash! "Oh, neat, Dave. You just scared the shit out of 13 baby geese. Can I see you do that again?" Judy refuses to bring the camera over. Damn!

We continue on. I tell Judy that if she wants to see Dave crash again, all she has to do is say: "I'm going to stop here for a second to look at _____." "Oh, oh...crash...."

Now it's Judy's turn to have me bust her balls. We are planning on a quick stop at the beaver lodge just a few minutes away, when Dave says, "Where are we stopping?" I respond, "At the beaver's lodge...the dam." He's confused, so I offer, "You know, like when you were in high school -- the beaver's dam." Judy says something smart, so I ask, "Why, didn't you ever shoot anyone the 'beaver' in high school, girl?" "No," she says, "I didn't!" "Oh? What did the kids call you...'one time Judy'?" Judy looks over from her mango-colored Cannondale and says, "No; they called me Mrs. Ryan."

We stopped at the end of the marsh to listen to the sounds. Frogs mostly, but every once in a while a goose would honk, or a red-winged black bird would break out in its distinctive chirp. "What's that?" I ask. Maxwell holds his cupped hand up to his ear and identifies the sound -- "German shepherd. I think it's a brown German shepherd."

Pizza, cheese bread sticks and soda were on Dave. We met at the 89th Avenue Pizza Hut in Absecon and lollygagged around until we couldn't eat anything more. Then we each headed our separate way.

When I got home, I gave Sharon her "Shad Fest '97" tee shirt that Judy bought for her and told her that we were going to head up that way tomorrow! Lambertville on bicycle, then shad sandwiches for lunch. She was thrilled at the very idea of it all.

After dark I walked down our driveway to view the comet. It was out but viewing was not great. It looked weak-assed!

April 27, 1997
Sunday

Sharon started her day off with a bang. It was around 4:30 when I woke up to pee. As I was twisting out of my bed, I notice Sharon, or a streak that looked like Sharon, dashing towards the bathroom. "Oh, Ralph, where have you been? Oh Ralph, Ralph, Ralph." Yep, there's a whole lot of puking going on in there! I guess that this means that the Shad Festival is going to have to go on today without us.

By mid-morning I don my "Shad Fest '97" tee shirt. Then I make Sharon do the same. This is as close to Lambertville as we'll get this week. Oh, what a damn shame. I dreamed about grilled shad roasting on an open fire... Jack-offs nipping at their beers...

The Shad Fest started 16 years ago as a local arts and crafts show and has become a nationally known festival. The idea behind the whole thing is to give this lovely old riverfront town a yearly economic boost. To start the spring off on a positive note, a group of local volunteers put together a weekend of arts, crafts, music, dance and food (shad included) to raise money for scholarships and other civic-minded causes.

Our official 16th annual tee-shirts, gifts from the Jude, were designed by graphic artist Rosemary Rae, and are just bitchin'. Oh, well; we'll give them hell next year...

OK, now the big question is: what am I going to do today? Yard work somehow wins. The decision process was faulty or something. By 11:00 I'm outside shoveling dirt. Moving top soil from one place to another. I do this until my back has had enough, then I stop. I've got about 60% of my dirt pile moved, so I rake it out and stomp the thing down. It's going to rain tonight, so that should help me out even more. This is incredible. I've filled this low spot in my front yard at least three times before. It's like a sink hole. I recently found out why the ground keeps dropping, though. Roger Bradshaw (a locksmith at the Trump's Plaza) built this house. When he was having the yard "landscaped", he had a hole dug and then dumped all of the trees that he knocked down buried in that hole. So, as the years go by, the trees rot, the soil sinks and I put dirt in the pit. I hope that this is it -- I'm getting tired of this vicious cycle.

Dave called around two o'clock to see what I was up to. "I'm probably going to go to Borders. Why, do you want to go?" He tells me, "I'll be over in an hour." So off we go.

I found three books for Sharon, two for myself, plus a title that I'll snag from the library. Dave picks up a CD, a blank sketchbook, and a book on mountain biking. Before leaving, we stop in the café section. Two coffees. The guy behind the counter is an author. He co-wrote The Gem Trails of Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Judy owns an autographed copy. In fact, he is the subject of one of my photos of the day. I ask him about the "mine" that Judy wants to go to for crystals. He tells me that it's a good location to start collecting. "It's like a ball game that you can't lose. There are crystals all over the place. Big ones, too! Some are so big you can't even lift them." I point to Dave and ask, "Bigger than he can lift?" "Ah...yep!"

On the way home, Dave asked if I was hungry. It was a stupid question, but I answered him anyway. "Yes, I'm hungry." "Good, me too; I want to buy you dinner!" So we head to the Silver Coin. We both get the crab cake sandwich. I order a decaf, Dave a regular. When the waitress comes over, she puts the decaf in front of me without hesitation. Now, when I ordered, I didn't specify who wanted what, but she guessed that it was me who wanted the caffeine-free junk. "Oh, yeah; I guess I'm the old guy, ain't I..."

Earlier today my mother Margaret called to tell me that she is home from the hospital. "Oh, I didn't know a thing about it. What's going on?" She tells me that she has been in the hospital. "ICU, then a step-down unit since Monday. They think I had a mini-stroke." Well, no one told me a thing about it, but I'm not surprised. Margaret has been in the hospital more than anyone that I know. She keeps going to this quack who would admit a truck-struck rodent to ICU if he thought it had some means of paying. But anyway, Margaret says that she feels fine now, and is "rested up." She is the only person that I know who treats a hospital stay as though it were a European holiday.

My photo of the day is yardwork. Short film: School House Rock -- Grammar Rock

April 28, 1997
Monday

What happens when a 35 ton crane crosses a bridge with a seven ton weight limit? Nothing, the first three times. However, on the fourth crossing, the bridge collapses.

I was at the library this afternoon talking to Nancy, who was looking at a photo album that one of her friends dropped off. "Oh, what's this, Nancy?" I ask. She tells me the story. Last week this huge crane crossed the railroad bridge overpass just south of the Winslow Junction. This spot is the exact location of the 1921 train disaster that I wrote about earlier this year. Well, the crane made it two-thirds of the way across, when the structure fell onto the tracks below. 60% of the truck was on solid ground, while the other 40% hung off the edge. A small companion truck, which was about half-way across the bridge, slid down the incline while the structure was falling. And no one got hurt!

I tried to get a picture of the bridge, but the police were blocking my view. Why on earth we need cops at this site now is way beyond my comprehension. But it's better to pay them to sit there, than to actually have them do something. So, my picture of the day turned out to be the crane instead of the bridge.

Sharon and I were both off work today. Me, because it is my regular day off; Sharon, because she's sick. I did very little constructive today. I did manage to spend money, though! I ended up buying a beautiful Cannondale bike jacket, very much like Judy's new jacket. God, I'm a sucker for new jackets.

Around dinner time I took a walk back to the small truck farm behind my house. Leon, the owner, stopped down yesterday. I noticed him hauling something in his van. Another refrigerator. That makes at least four refrigerators, eight or so old stoves and countless other chunks of metal that he has dumped back there. What a disgrace. The guy owns a beautiful piece of ground and he trashes the place. I can't wait until this guy tries to sell his tract and finds out that he is going to have to get it cleaned up. He wanted me to buy it, but I'm not interested.

While I was back there I spotted five deer loping deeper into the woods. This is the first time in years that we've had deer this close to us. I guess that the dog that we used to have kept them away. It is really nice to have them around again. When I was at Wal*Mart earlier today I noticed that they sold salt licks. With as much damage as deer do to crops and flowers, I wonder why anyone would really want to attract deer onto their property.

At 8:00 p.m. I look out at our sunset. The entire view has a pink cast to it. Very beautiful. I can hear the frogs, toads and crickets all chirping, even through the closed windows and door. But more importantly, it's 8:00 and it is still light enough outside to chase naked French girls around in the back yard. God, I love the spring and summer.

April 29, 1997
Tuesday

When I stepped out of the Trump's Plaza at 3:10 p.m., I found that we were in the middle of one beautiful-ass day. Even though I've had a nasty headache for the past couple of days now, I decided that I would ignore it and go for a bike ride as soon as I got home. By 5:00 I was headed toward the refuge, but at the last minute I changed my mind and cut over towards Stockton State College, instead.

I've biked back here once before; there is an interesting and extensive network of trails, sand roads and walkways all throughout this forested campus. In fact, Stockton can boast that it has the largest "wooded" campus in the state of New Jersey.

And what makes it really nice is that it is bordered on all sides by roadways. It would be extremely difficult to be lost back here for long. So, off I go. First I duck behind the water tower and cycle toward Lake Pam. Once there I stopped for a few minutes to admire this lovely fresh water lake. I then negotiate my way along the single track that hugs the banks of the eastern side of this small lake. There is still evidence that people use the lake, but not in any great numbers. The lake was officially closed a few years ago by the campus police, not because of the nudity, but because of the State's liability.

After I circled the lake I headed south along the Garden State Parkway for a mile or so until I hit Jimmie Leeds Road. From there I U-turned back to the first "intersection." Taking this single track, I pedaled by another marsh-turned-lake, then into an open field. Off in the distance, I count five white-tails tearing deeper into the woods. I've spooked them.

Heading across the open field, I circle back to the main section of the trail. Here I connect with a pathway that takes me to the campus complex. As I glide past one of the dorms, I slow to admire a large-breasted coed on roller blades. My, she looked good! So after nine or 10 hours of intense gawking, I continued on.

The upper lake system comprises five lakes: Pam, Upper, Cedick Run, Little and Fred. A pathway and a nature trail allow you to view each of these waterways. This is a really ecologically diverse area. Within a mile you can wander into a cedar bog, an upland, and then back into a low wetlands. Each can be identified by the trees and brush along the trail. So far, I have not encountered any black flies or greenheads. This is about to quickly change. Probably within the next two weeks these swampy areas will be next to impossible to get near because of the biting and stinging insects that "roost" and breed in these soon-to-be foreboding places.

Although my ride was only about eight miles, it took me a little over an hour to complete. All in all, it was a nice trip.

After dinner I walked out to look at the comet. The night sky was brilliant and clear. Lots of stars, no clouds, and very little "light pollution." Gazing was fabulous. Hale-Bopp is losing its intensity, even on a dark night like tonight. Catching my attention to the south south-west was a bright star twinkling red and green. I've never seen a star wink so noticeably before. I'll have to check with Ron or Judy to find out what its name is.

Somewhere between 9:15 and 9:45, in the sky directly above me I notice a moving star. I then realize that I'm looking at a satellite in orbit (south to north.) I know about satellites being visible because of my brother Wayne. At his Lake Arthur camp he is able to spot two satellites. He knows exactly their travel path and the times that they would cross his sky. As we sat around his campfire one night, he told Sharon and me to look up. "There, right there...that's a satellite." He even knew the name of the damn thing. Cool.

My photo of the day is of the flower, Fern-leaf Bleeding Heart.

Short film: School House Rock: Science Rock

Reading: Anything Considered, by Peter Mayle

April 30, 1997
Wednesday
Lori and Ron's Last Day of Work!

After work I met Ed Brna at ProPedals. Ed is looking for a new bike, so I told him that I'd stop at the shop to help. After an hour or so of showing him around, he picked a tangerine-colored Trek M-300. Nice bike.

Dave stopped by the shop, too! He broke in shoes while bicycling the "rocks" in Fairmount Park. He literally ripped the clips out of the bottoms of both shoes. Man, is this kid strong. The shop will, of course, replace his shoes, but since he wears a size 12˝, they have to order him a pair.

Dave introduced me to one of his Thursday riding buddies. I know this kid from work. I overhear Dave explaining that I'm kind of like his second father, which got me thinking. Should I have Maxwell call me Mr. Meyers? I love that boy.

While reading Life Like, by Lorrie Moore, I stumbled upon a great quote in her short story, "The Jewish Hunter." "Guns, she was reminded then, were not for girls. They were for boys. They were invented by boys. They were invented by boys who had never gotten over their disappointment that accompanying their own orgasm there wasn't a big boom sound."

After I got squared away, Sharon and I headed over to the East Bay Crab and Grill for dinner. We haven't seen much of each other for the last two days, so it was nice to sit down with her and talk.

May 1, 1997
Thursday
Lori and Ron's First Day of Retirement
Bernie and Celeste's Anniversary

Yesterday I met Ed at ProPedals. He was interested in purchasing a bicycle. So, after we narrowed down what he was looking for, we pulled out a Cannondale M-300. "Put that helmet on, Ed, and take it out for a test ride." As we are walking outside, "Campy" got up off of the floor, well rested (no doubt) from a long, long nap. She followed us out. The instant she got outside she became a changed dog. She got excited...she wagged -- not her tail, mind you, but her. She wagged. Only her tail remained motionless.

Ed asked, "Where am I going?" Jeannie, the owner and Campy's "mom", yelled out to him, "Just follow the dog." And she meant it. Campy, you see, is a mountain bike junkie.

Over the years ProPedals, or rather, the people at ProPedals, have developed a short, windy, single track through the wood lot next to their shop. Although the loop is well-defined, they've added blazes to the trees -- just in case. Somewhere along the line Campy has learned the trail by heart. She loves the company, I guess; it excites her. As with any athlete, once you've practiced something long enough, your skill level is greatly enhanced. And so it is with Campy.

Yesterday Ed told me that the dog flew down the trail ahead of him. A recently fallen tree was lying across the path. Ed stopped, lifted his bike over the obstacle, then continued on. He tells me that the dog, without skipping a beat, leaped over the log as though it wasn't even there. When he reached the clearing beside Hammonton Lake, the dog was already there -- swimming. As he approached, Campy ran from the water, quaked off the excess water, then led Ed back to the shop. "Quite a good dog that lab is," he tells me. "Yep," I reply, "and good eating, too!"

Well, today I stopped again at ProPedals. This time, however, I stopped to see Campy. "Come on, Campy; let's go, girl." I'm going to go for a walk with the old girl -- down the single track to the lake, then back. She was just as excited as if I were on a Cannondale or a Trek. But she is a bit confused over the speed... I follow her down the trail, over the fallen tree and down to the lake. She flops in. Ahhhh, it's not too cold. She shakes herself off. "No, Campy, it doesn't work that way, sweetie. You've got to be out of the water for that to be effective. Come here, girl." Now she shakes again. "Yeah, that's right; get the nice man with the camera all wet, honey." Click!

Last night I stopped at the library and scouted out a music book called I Hear America Singing, by Hazel Arnett. I check the index for "Erie Canal." Great; it's in here. I've had to go through at least a dozen other books (almost all without an index,) but nothing had the song that I was looking for. I turn to page 56. "Yep! 'Erie Canal.'" I close the book with a resounding and cocky thud, then head up to the counter to check it out. When I got home, however, I discover that this is not the Erie Canal song that I'm looking for. You know, the one that goes: "Low bridge, everybody down; low bridge, we'll be a-coming into town." This one had something to do with storms and the gin was a-gettin' thin -- that sort of thing. Oh, no! There are two Erie Canal songs. So today it was back to the library. After a little while I found it. "The Erie Canal" and not the "Erie Canal." I'll try to find someone who can get me the music portion so Dave, Judy and I will have some cheerful music to sing as we cycle along the Ee-rye-ee Canal...!

Reading: Painted Bodies, by forty-five Chilean artists. Photographed by Roberto Edwards.

May 2, 1997
Friday

So I figured why not call Monterey, California and ask someone to photograph the Western Biological Lab and send me the photograph. That's just what I did. 408-646-3935. "Hello, Bruce Kibby, it's me, James Meyers, calling from Egg Harbor. Hey, I was wondering..."

Bruce is the man in charge of Ed Ricketts's property. He's with the Monterey Housing Department, working as a planner. You know, I figured...I've got the number...I have a name... and what could he really say but, "It's a small town and we take pictures here." And that's just what he did say. With any luck he'll follow through and I'll have a picture of Doc's lab. Cool, huh.

I picked up my new glasses today at NuVision at the mall. The clip-ons that I wanted don't come in black, so I ended up taking the buffed gold pair that they had on display. They look really neat -- right out of the 1920's.

Shortly after I got home, Judy stopped by. We ordered Chinese take out. She and Bill were out on their bikes today -- 35 miles in three hours and 10 minutes. They rode from their house in Egg Harbor Township to the Atlantic County Park in Estell Manor. She tells me it was a great ride. "Bill did OK!" When she left, I cut grass and picked up a bit around the yard. When the machine broke down, I took the opportunity to call California. You have to be careful with your time!

My photo of the day is of my rocking chair. Wayne bought me this chair a few months ago. We were out on a visit when we stopped into an Amish furniture store near his camp site in western Pennsylvania. While Sharon and Mari Jo were in the store, I was checking out the hand-made rocking chairs out on the porch. "This one's perfect!" Well, when Sharon and I left for home the next morning, Wayne and Mari Jo drove over and picked me up the exact chair that I sat on the day before. About four months later we all met near Carlisle, PA to spend some time together at a B & B I'd booked. The idea was to have dinner -- that was our Christmas gift to them. Dinner and the B & B. The next morning Wayne gave me the chair. I really like the rocker; I think every house should have one.

When I lived with my parents they had a wooden rocker. It used to belong to my grandmother, Ellie. When she died, we inherited it. I kind of took it over, although when I moved out, it stayed. I'll have to ask Margaret what happened to that old chair.

May 3, 1997
Saturday

Princeton University, affectionately known the world over as PU, was founded in 1746 and was named the College of New Jersey until 1896. The original campus consisted of five buildings; Nassau Hall, completed in 1756, soon became the college's center. Today, nearly 6000 kids attend -- roughly 3600 undergraduate and around 1500 graduate students. Of those, 800 are foreign.

We met Sharon's Aunt Hanne and Uncle Sam at 9:30 this morning at their home in Hopewell. Sam was kind enough to offer to take us on a tour of the university earlier this year, but we decided to wait until the rainy season was over before we scheduled. Of course, it started to rain at exactly the time Sharon and I pulled out of our drive way this morning. And it didn't let up until our day was ended and we were safely tucked away indoors around 5:00. It was amazingly warm and sunny when we left north Jersey at 6:00 p.m.

We arrived on campus around 10:30 and headed over to Hanne's office, International Services. She has been an employee of the University for around 12 or so years. Sam is now retired from the University's James Forrestal Research Center (founded in 1951.) To put it mildly, their day was about to be much like ours would be if family asks us to show them the sights and sounds of Atlantic City. But, on the bright side, they were dealing with a couple of really nice people and Princeton is a beautiful town.

Because we were meeting up with an "official" tour at 11:00, we couldn't dally too long at the International Services Building. We were able to see most of her building, but we weren't able to really get to study much of its details. Some of the old woodwork was spectacular and really needed more time to be appreciated.

Our official tour began in one of the four original structures that still stand today. Nothing much was said about the building, but I think our guide, Will, (a freshman) said that it housed the college's first president. We quickly headed to Nassau Hall. In the outer chambers of this building, stone tablets are inscribed with the names of those boys who left the safety of the college to fight in our nation's wars. Beginning with the Revolutionary War, a handful of names are listed. The War of 1812 -- one boy. Civil War, the names are equally divided: one half fought for the North, one half fought for the South. W.W.I and W.W.II had lots of names, probably a couple of hundred each -- I was impressed. Korea, forgettable. Southeast Asia -- 22. Now, remember, these are not names of people who died, just kids who quit school to serve. Don't misunderstand me, I honor anyone who would join the military during war time. What struck me as odd were the numbers.

Going deeper into Nassau Hall, we learned that the room was designed after the House of Lords. This room is the Faculty Room. Paintings of former this's-and-that's -- many of them alumni -- decorate the walls. A large portrait of General Washington (one of only four for which he actually posed) depicts the Battle of Princeton (January 3, 1777). It is said that three cannonballs hit this building during that battle. One went directly through the wall of this room and struck a painting of King George -- decapitating the good King's portrait. Washington's picture is now in that frame. A pair of portraits decorate another wall. This time the image of "Belcher" (whoever the hell he was) and another of William III, Prince of Orange and Nassau. Nassau Hall was going to be named after this Belcher fellow, but he declined and suggested that the hall be named for his superior -- William.

The Princeton colors were soon established, in part by the crew team. Wearing colored jerseys in honor of Prince William of Orange, the team was requested to don numbers for a race. The kids reached into the mud and smeared numbers across their chests -- thus, orange and black.

Other paintings included several signers of the Declaration of Independence, past college presidents and a former US President. Good old Woodrow Wilson was the president of the college. He went on to become the Governor of the State of New Jersey, before his big move on the Washington front. Princetonians make a big deal out of Wilson. Actually there was another Princeton alumnus who was president of the US, but, of course, I forget which one. John Kennedy attended one year at Princeton before he literally turned yellow and ran back to Harvard.

Leaving Nassau, by way of the ground floor, we enter a long hallway that houses the offices of the deans. The floor is constructed of an uneven, beaten brick. Will comments that this is what happens when you have a building that is approaching 250 years old. "Besides, in the old days, s tudents used to 'bowl' here using iron balls." That accounts for some of the dings and dents, I suppose. As we walk down the short flight of sandstone stairs that lead outside, you can feel the dramatic wearing of the stone risers from the eight-odd-thousand days of use. What is so interesting about this tour thus far is the known history about the place. The portrait of George being ripped through by a cannon ball is interesting, but it pales in comparison with the social history of the place -- the students used to bowl here using iron balls! It's facts like these that make this place so wonderful. It's almost like this young freshman telling us a story about his dad when he was a boy!

Princeton is a campus of arches. Every time you look through one, it seems that you are looking at another. This might, in fact, be more than feeling -- it may actually be the case. The architecture is grand. Gothic mostly. Gargoyles abound. I tell Sam that it would be an interesting project to study -- photograph the gargoyles of Princeton. He says, "You can buy the book in the University book store!" Yep, that's Princeton.

The college's chapel, the third largest university church in the world, houses two of the more interesting gargoyles that I've seen today. The building was designed by an architect from "Yale University." As you pass through the main entrance, a small gargoyle with the face of the architect, and another with the face of his assistant (also another Yale guy) "look down upon" all of the student body as they enter.

The chapel itself is stunning. Massive dark blue stained glass windows decorate the interior. Two US flags are also displayed in the church. One flew in the Wilson's White House, and the other, half-burned, flew on the cruiser U.S.S. Princeton during its attack in W.W.II. Leaving this beautifully designed building, we are told to look up. "See, right there on the rain gutter -- the Yale boys got us again." I see the face of a large bulldog decorating the gutter. "That's the Yale mascot. Now, we could easily have removed that thing, but we didn't. We like to think that the bulldog belongs there -- in the gutter." ("The administration only has two requirements for their tour guides: one, the ability to walk backwards, and two, we have to tell this story!")

The only truly ugly building on campus houses the School of Architecture. Built in the 1960's Harrison City office style, it is grisly. Another grandly designed building here on campus was actually a senior's thesis. The student failed. "This building is utterly laughable," the professor told him, "it could never be built." Well, there it stands, very whimsical in a Gothic sort of way.

As we pass by the dormitories we noticed small metal stars imbedded into some of the sills. These are the rooms where our veterans slept before they went off to war. Each star lists a name and the year the student would have graduated had he stayed. Dorms are co-ed, except for two buildings: "the nunnery and the monastery." Any student (or parent) who requests a segregated dorm can get one. Princeton went co-ed in 1969.

As we continued our walk, I only spotted two surreal images: a banana peel dropped into a clear plastic glass, and a wad of white paper stuffed into a gargoyle's mouth. I captured both on film.

There is a main gate at the college's entrance that leads out onto Nassau Street. Two smaller gateways are located on either side of the main one. Will tells us that it is considered to be bad luck for students to exit the main gate before graduation. On Commencement Day the entire graduating class walks through the gate -- a symbolic gesture: going into the real world. I thought about that. I considered myself as a student there (yeah, right); I saw myself also in a symbolic gesture. I would deliberately walk through that gate, every day. Go out of my way, in fact, to walk out that gate to demonstrate my grounding in the real world. But, I'm not a kid, am I!

Leaving the ivy-covered buildings of the college, we head over to the wisteria-covered buildings of the graduate school. We are now on an extended tour sans Will. We pass Einstein's house on Mercer Street. Right past Al's place there is an iron gateway leading to the dorms. Hanne tells me that most of her "foreign students" are here, at the graduate school. The Quad is lovely -- I photograph "the dream person": a relatively attractive, obviously well-to-do female graduate student. (Can you think of anything that you'd rather be?) The grad school is bicycle city. There must be a scuzzy-looking bike for every student in the place. Not a single Trek or Cannondale among them. I wonder why? One last stop -- The Institute for Advanced Studies. Although not a part of the University, this "think tank" was where Einstein had an office. Sam tells me that the large room in the main building, where we are presently standing, is where a part of the movie "IQ" was filmed. I remember the scene. Einstein's office is in here somewhere, but no one is around to show us. So, on another day I'll stumble in and give them my best ...Aw, shucks, golly geez touristy smile and ask, "Can you show me Al's office?" What do I have to lose!

Our tour ended abruptly, when I, all of a sudden, suffered a godawfully painful attack of stomach cramps. This, coupled with the pain in my back, was enough to send us back to Sam's place.

I saw a rose-breasted grosbeak (pheucticul ludovicianus) on our feeder this morning. Although my life list indicates that I've seen this bird before, I don't remember the previous sighting. Nice bird -- very striking; the rose color on its breast is stunning. The book doesn't do it justice.

May 4, 1997
Sunday

My official title was Corner Marshal. Corner III, Moore's Avenue, my "duty station." The ProPedals bike shop held its annual (2nd, maybe) Pine Cone circuit race today about two miles from my front door. Jeannie asked me a few weeks ago whether I could help out -- so, there I was.

At 7:00 I drove over to the Mullica Township ballpark and met up with Jason. He gave me four really cool orange flags, two huge signs that said something about bicycles ahead, four traffic cones and two sets of job descriptions. By 8:00 I'm in my position. I've dropped off everything except one flag to my "relay" people at the corner of Rte. 542 and Moores Avenue. My function for the next three and a half hours is to signal these people when racers are approaching. They will, in turn, stop all traffic on 542 to let the cyclists through. I'm also to keep the corner free of any obstruction; this would include any crash victims, I assumed.

Not much happened until 8:22, when a shitload of bikers turned onto Moores Avenue. I could see them approaching -- I had them clearly focused in my little pair of Nikon binoculars. I ran up to the corner and signaled. As they got closer, the pack thinned out -- whoosh -- single file through my hard, left-hand bend. Later I asked Jason "how many and at what speed?" He tells me that each of the six races had between 50 and 75 cyclists and speeds at my corner reached 35 miles an hour.

Twelve times race packs rounded my station. Four races were 20 miles, one race 10 miles and one race was 30 miles. One, two or three 10 mile loops.

About every 20 minutes a mob of brightly colored blurs would come whizzing by. That meant that for 15 minutes, between each lap, I could bird watch.

The first bird that caught my eye was a bluebird sitting on one of the fence posts a hundred yards down the road. Next, a rose-breasted grosbeak (two in two days) landed on the tree directly above me. I listened to its chirps carefully, trying to remember its distinctive song. But no sooner had the bird flown away, so did its call. The next group of birds flew in: red-winged blackbirds. About a dozen of them landed in the trees above me. One would squawk, then they all would squawk. A change of tune would be followed by a chorus of the same song. Again the noise changed; again all of the birds would mimic the sound over and over again. Just as I was starting to realize how long this had gone on, it was over. Neat! Next, a hummer zipped by. Call in the crows -- their turn. Follow these up with -- barn swallows. Now it's the hawk's turn...

As I was wandering around my prison space, I noticed a small skeleton. The backbone was spread out like the little dashes in a Morse code message. A couple of femurs, a clavicle and a handful of other assorted bones were laid out in a neat little package. A future archaeologist's dream.

May 5, 1997
Monday

I went to work today sick. Whatever I picked upon Saturday hasn't really eased up yet. Nasty headache, stomach and bowel cramps, and my neck muscles are all locked up. I was so miserable that I didn't even want to take the day off. Why bother. I told the guys at work today that "if I feel better tomorrow, I'm calling out sick." And I meant it!

Well, not much went on today. I stopped at the former Hammonton State Police Barracks and photographed the boarded-up building. I don't know where they went and I don't really care. The only thing that bothers me, though, is that I know these bastards got a new multi-million dollar facility somewhere, and it's loaded with every known police gizmo known to man. Like we need their level of protection. Bastards.

May 6, 1997
Tuesday

The Hindenburg left Frankfurt at 7:30 p.m. on May 3, 1937, and was expected to reach the United States on May 6th -- two and a half days later. The pilots were used to the trip. Although this voyage would be the first transatlantic flight of the 19 that were scheduled for that year, it was not the first time that the ship had followed this route. In March of 1936 the Hindenburg made an Atlantic crossing to Brazil, then, two months later, it stopped in the United States. Lakehurst Naval Air Station's Hanger # 1 was built specifically to accommodate her and, in fact, did house this huge ship twice during the '36 season.

The Hindenburg was big -- 804 feet long. It rose 15 stories above the ground and weighed 240 tons when filled. It still holds the record as being the largest object ever to fly; it was three and a half times bigger than the largest passenger jet in use today.

Because the United States feared that the Germans (under the Chancellorship of Hitler since 1933) might one day utilize the zeppelins for military purposes, as they had during the first World War, our nation was reluctant to sell them the helium that they needed for their lighter-than-air ships. Although the fleet was originally designed for helium, hydrogen was substituted. The Hindenburg required 7,000,000 cubic feet of this explosive gas to fill the 16 giant air bags housed inside the ten miles of aluminum girders that were needed to construct her hull.

Hydrogen was a trade-off: it was more dangerous, but had a greater lifting power than helium. Because of the volatility of this gas, the crew was extremely careful. No passenger was permitted to carry on board anything that could cause a "mishap." Over 1,000,000 miles of safe travel was realized because of the crew's diligent care.

Flying in the Hindenburg was the epitome of travel. For $400, 70 passengers could secure a ticket on board the fastest transoceanic vessel in the world (the SST of the 1937 skies.) Ocean travel took almost twice as long as the German Zephyrs. The four diesel engines mounted port and starboard on the aft section of the ship could easily bring the speed of the Hindenburg to 80 miles per hour.

Life on board was first rate. Twenty-five luxurious cabins were housed near the front of the ship. In fact, the entire passenger portion was contained in 20% of just one of the sixteen sections of the craft. A self-contained power plant aided in the traveler's comfort. Hot and cold running water, gourmet dining, a writing room, lounges and observation decks and even an airtight smoking compartment were found on board. During the 1936 season a specially designed baby grand, weighing 397 pounds (aluminum covered with brown pigskin) was located in one of the lounges. (The '37 season hosted an accordion player, so the piano was removed.)

Even though the flight across the Atlantic Ocean was uneventful, Captains Ernst Lehmann and Max Pruss had been fighting headwinds for most of the flight. Reaching New York almost ten hours late, they still felt that they should circle the Empire State Building before again turning south towards Lakehurst.

Arriving at Lakehurst Naval Air Station, the crew found the weather unacceptable for landing. So, for the next two hours, the huge ship waddled around the New Jersey skies waiting for the winds to settle. First heading north along the shore towards Long Branch, it then circled back inland and headed south. From the small map that I'm looking at now, it appears that the zeppelin got as far south as Greenbank, on the Mullica River. Turning northward again, the aircraft reached its landing site shortly after 7:00 p.m.

When I arrived this morning at the Lakehurst Naval Air Engineering Station (the N.A.S. having been disestablished in March of 1977), I found the weather to be exactly (according to what I have read) as it was 60 years earlier: high winds with gusts up to 25 mph, and severe weather systems scattered throughout the tri-state area.

After checking in at the Visitor's Center, I was waved through the gate by a uniformed sailor. I drove past Hanger # 1 and continued another half a mile or so. There, I was told, I would see a small sign pointing to the site of the Hindenburg crash. I really didn't need a marker; I'd seen enough pictures to know where the ship settled. I pulled into the large field and parked my car. About a hundred yards or so away from my car sits a very unimpressive-looking monument commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Hindenburg disaster. An in-ground work of concrete, 80 feet long, resembling a rough outline of the ship (at 1/10 scale) was installed ten years ago. In its center a bronze plaque, proclaiming more about who put up the monument than the event of the crash itself, is inlaid at the center. The whole work is enclosed by a ship's anchor line. A small wind directional in the shape of the craft twisted with each gust of wind.

Standing next to me is a man in his late fifties (I later learned that he was 58 years old), who tells me that there used to be another plaque at this site put up by the people of Germany right after the crash, but it was removed during W.W.II. "I drove up today from Delaware," he tells me. "I had a relative on board, a crew member -- an engineman, actually. He was killed when she caught fire."

About this time two newscasters pulled up and displayed their usual attitude: "OK, everybody, listen up. We're takin' over this site now, so...stay clear and nobody will get hurt..." God, these people are abrasive! When they ask the mourner why he is here today, he quietly replies that he had a relative on board. When the newscaster heard this, he sprouted a woody. "Oh, we'll have to interview you." The nice man declined, saying "I'll talk to you privately if you are really interested, but I'm not going to be interviewed." After about a five minute chat, the newspeople lost interest and decided to scurry about elsewhere. "So, why are you here today?" He peers in my direction. I smile and tell them, "No reason that I can think of that you would need to know." Again I smile.,br>
Now, it's quite obvious that neither reporter from Channel 10 (Philadelphia) or Channel 2 (New York) knew much about anything. I share my notes: "The Hindenburg was 804 feet long, weighing approximately 240 tons..." They scribble frantically in their note pads. About the only thing that they did do right was to schedule an interview with 86 year-old John Iannacone. John was one of 195 sailors stationed at the N.A.S. in 1937 to work as a member of the ground crew. Another 100 civilians were also employed to assist in the landing of the lighter-than-air ships.

On the evening of May 6, 1937, as the ground crew was preparing to attach the Hindenburg to its mooring, a small flame was seen venting from the top of the craft. Within seconds the entire back section of the Zephyr was on fire. "We all dropped our lines and then ran back towards the hanger." Because of the high winds, the ship started drifting away from the mooring post, ablaze the entire time. "The flames were awful.. We all stood by; there was nothing any of us could do." As the hydrogen burned, the ship got "heavier." First the tail section settled and then the bow. "It didn't really crash, as many believe; it just settled onto the ground. I saw one man jump from the nose cone; it was either that or burn. Another man stumbled out of the wreckage wearing only his shoes. His clothes had been completely burned off. He died minutes later." One couple, he told me, rode down with the craft, and as it touched ground they were told to "leave the ship!" "I remember seeing the young cabin boy (14 year-old Werner Franz) running from the flames. He was soaking wet; one of the ballast water tanks broke directly above him -- it saved his life!"

Thirty-four seconds was all the time that it took for the fire to reduce the Hindenburg to a rubble of scorched and twisted aluminum. Although flames continued for another three hours -- fueled by the engine's diesel tanks -- the ground crew was able to begin their rescue just seconds after the ship touched the ground. From my readings, I've learned that both ship's captains survived the crash, but ran back into the flames to assist in the rescue. Both were badly burned. Captain Pruss survived, but Lehmann died as a result of his burns one day later.

Of the 79 people on board, 35 died (13 passengers and 22 crew members.) Additionally, a small dog named "Ulla" perished. One member of the civilian landing crew also died. "He opted to run in the other direction," Iannacone told me. "None of us really knew where this thing was going to end up, so he just picked the wrong way -- the Hindenburg fell on top of him."

During a filmed interview poorly given by NY Channel 2 broadcaster Morry Alter, Iannacone told him that he doesn't think much about the disaster, "except when you guys start to show up," and that "no, he doesn't get emotional; hell, that was 60 years ago."

After his interview, John told me that he spent another 12 years in the navy (retiring after 20 years) and his involvement with the "lighter-than-airs" continued into W.W.II, where he was assigned to "blimp duty" in the Atlantic. He proudly boasts that not a single ship was sunk by a German U-boat while being monitored by the navy's airship fleet.

At this point, John produces a package of photographs taken during his days at the airfield. The picture that I'll never forget is not one showing the crash, but of a photograph taken in 1936. It showed the Hindenburg -- well, actually 80% of the Hindenburg -- in Hanger # 1. Only the back fin piece, decorated with the German "cross" is sticking out of the hanger. He then dropped a small piece of line about five inches long in my hand. "This didn't burn!" He also produced a spoon that he found in the rubble. Yep, I held that, too. But best of all: "Here, this is a piece of the aluminum girder (from the rib section.) This here was used to keep the fabric from fluttering." He reached over and shook my jacket to demonstrate. "Just like that."

He then reached into his pocket and took out three rubber strips. "This is the material that the ships were, and still are, made of. Keep 'em!" And so I did. I'll give one to Maxwell, one to Judy, and put the third in my "treasure box."

May 7, 1997
Wednesday

Because I wasn't able to finish yesterday's journal entry last night, I spent most of the day today working on my Hindenburg essay. I can't believe that I spent close to six hours writing five pages of text. But it's done! I'll need to clean it up a bit, but that will have to wait until after it's typed. It looks pretty good.

Dave stopped by around 6:00 for dinner. Sharon made a really nice salad and an asparagus casserole. Top that off with a chocolate cake, and "bing!"

Later we walked outside to see if the comet was still visible. Around 9:00 or so we stumbled out into a very clear night. The Big Dipper was directly in front of us in the northeastern sky, Mars was off to our left, but no moon was visible.

Bopp is gone -- we searched the western sky. Nothing. About 10 minutes later I pointed up into the sky directly over my head and said, "A few weeks ago I was out here, just about this time, and saw a satellite." He replies, "I think I see one now -- look, right there." He pulls me over to him and points me in the right direction. "Right above the tree." Damn, I don't believe this. "Yep, I see it." This is just too bizarre.

My picture of the day is of the ajuga that I planted in a fan-shaped bed a couple of years ago.

May 8, 1997
Thursday
Haitian Flag Day
VE Day

Shortly after I got home from work tonight, a delivery van from Jimmie's Florist pulls into our driveway. Boy Maxwell told me the other night that he would be sending Sharon a bouquet of flowers for Mother's Day. Imagine that. He's such a nice boy -- she's such a cutie.

Later I was returning a film back to Hammonton when I got behind a local cop doing 35 mph in a posted 40 mph zone. Of course, these guys think that they own the passing lane. So I flash the guy my high beam -- yeah, move over there where you belong, clown. And he does. I pass. About a third of a mile up the road I make a left-hand turn into the Gulf station. He cuts behind me and turns on his lights. I jump out of the car ... "What do you want!?" Well, the bottom line is that this asshole gives me a ticket for flashing him my light. Improper use of lights -- yeah, right. I'll see you in court!

As soon as I get home the cats bring up another field mouse -- great!

My photo of the day is of a Trek baby carrier. $300.

Movie: Nelly (French)
Reading: Social Blunders, by Tim Sandlin

May 9, 1997
Friday

When I left the house last night, I saw the flying squirrel sticking its head out of its nest. "Hey, little critter." I walked out and got in my truck. As soon as I turned on the headlights, I saw "Bunny." Well, actually, two bunnies. "Hi, bunnies!" Driving up to Hammonton, I slow for a white-tail deer. Later, as I sat at the dining room table working on my journal, I hear a squeaking sound. I look over and notice that our cat has a little field mouse. Oh, great!

This morning I wake up to three squirrels on my feeder. (Make that one; the other two quickly left this world.) I walk downstairs and pick up a dead field mouse. Sharon is, about this time, banging on the window -- two deer are grazing in our back yard. Out on the feeder sits our rose-breasted grosbeak. What a day.

After a quick breakfast at the bagel shop in Smithville, I head over to the wildlife refuge for a bike ride. Here I spot a new bird for my life list, # 168. In the fresh water marsh near the farthest point out on the circuit, I spot a female Wilson's Phalarope (steganopus tricolor.) According to my Peterson Field Guide to Eastern Birds, the female of this species is larger and more colorful than the male. This is the first time that I've come across this phenomenon. I wonder what other species are out there where the female is the more colorful animal. Before I finish the loop, a deer runs out right in front of me; a near miss!

After my ride I head back home. While talking to Sharon on the phone, I spot a brilliant splash of orange flashing past my window. I run outside -- yep, a "Baltimore" oriole (Northern oriole; icterus galbua.) Man, what a day.

After dark I head outside to see if there are any stars visible. I'm certain that Hale-Bopp is gone, but I can look at other stuff, I guess. When I get outside I see nothing but clouds. I won't be able to see anything tonight.

I pulled out one of the books that Maxwell got me for Christmas this year. Earlier today I stopped at I. Goldberg and purchased two small pieces of line (two feet long, each.) I'm going to start practicing my knots. Tonight I learned the "figure 8 knot", useful, the book tells me, "...to keep a rope from slipping through some kind of tight spot."

Reading: The Klutz Book of Knots, by John Cassidy (second reading)

May 10, 1997
Saturday

We met Lori and Ron at Mastori's Diner this morning at 8:30. Since we were dealing with a couple of veteran retirees, timing for them was of little concern. A few days ago I called to invite them to breakfast. Since Sharon and I were stopping in Bordentown to get something to eat before we headed out to Pittsburgh, I thought that it might be nice to hook up with the "old folks" before we took off. The way that we left it was, "Well, if you're there we'll eat with you and if you ain't, we'll eat by ourselves." Luckily, they were there.

Lori's plan for the day was to attack her bathroom with a wire brush and a bottle of lye, while Ron is off playing around at a gun show in Allentown. This retirement thing sounds OK to me! After an hour-long meal, everyone headed off to begin their respective day.

Our eight hour/350+ mile day naturally starts off with rain. Driving the Pennsylvania Turnpike is bad enough, but having to deal with limited visibility and slippery roads just adds that little something extra that we all hope for on such trips. But it wasn't too bad.

Sharon and I spent the day point out birds, weird-colored cows and groundhogs to each other. "Look at those crows chasing that red-tailed hawk -- wow, just like the chickadees!" "Did you see that black and white colored cow scratching its ear with its back hoof?" But our real treats came when we saw baby livestock -- cows, colts and sheep -- frolicking about in the fields... "Oh, they're soooo cute." Sad, sad, sad!

When we finally reached the western part of the state, we had only seen one wreck in progress -- an 18-wheeler and two pick-ups. But we did see evidence of two others: a bus, slightly smashed in at the rear with engine fire damage; and a tractor trailer tipped over and lying without wheels along the side of the road. Lori's parting words to us were: "Slow and low." I'm glad that I took her advice.

As we entered my old home county -- Westmoreland -- we were negotiating around eight or so miles of "s" curves through the mountains. I've always thought that this section was the prettiest part of the whole trip: mountains, deep woods, streams lined with round river rocks. You know -- the things movies are made of. Well, this time we witnessed miles of dead trees a quarter of a mile deep. Both sides of the pike were lined with them. I t hought of Sharon's cousin Lothar from Germany telling us about the Black Forest being dead. I asked Sharon what she thought. "Pollution, obviously!" "Yes, but what? Road salt?" I ask. For the next 15 minutes or so we pool our collective science knowledge together. Something is killing the great trees of western Pennsylvania, and we think we've figured it out. "Probably has something to do with all them dead trees, hon." "Yeah." She smiles, then thinks "Poor idiot child." She then asks, "How 'bout them Mets?"

Pulling into the hotel's parking lot with an hour and a half to spare, our trip is finally over. My body doesn't quite yet believe it, though. Usually I feel like my body is still moving -- pulsing, like my tires hitting the seams in the pavement. This will continue for hours; it always does.

By 5:00 we arrive at Jack's (which is now Jay's) Mountain View Restaurant. We're an hour early; perfect! We can sit down, have a beer or decaf, and relax. As I pulled into the driveway I stopped to collect a rock for Judy. Pennsylvania sandstone. She tells me that she has never seen it. Now she can see the difference between bog ore and sandstone. (Someone told her that the two are the same. Wrong.)

Within a half hour, guests begin to arrive. Mari Jo graduated today from Geneva College with a BA in Human Resources. She's been working on it for years. And today it's over. Wayne invited 60 or so people; close to 50 showed up for dinner. My entire family, except sister Lou, was able to come. Margaret, escorted by her new beau, was anxious for me to meet him. Bernie (no, not my brother, but mom's boyfriend) seems quite nice. The man is a charmer.
Bernie (my brother, and not my mother's boyfriend) has also graduated this month, after eight years of school, with a B.S.E.E. from Point Park College (and school of dance.) He's also very happy to be done. College is so much work, and to do it with other commitments like work, marriage and/or kids is just awful. It took me six years; it took Sharon's father eight years. But I'm sure that all four of us are glad we were able to complete what we had started.

The party went well and after four or so hours people were getting ready to pack it up. Wayne and Mari Jo followed us back to our hotel for a night cap. We were all tired and ready for bed. By 11:00 it was very obvious that it was bedtime. We said our good-byes, then headed off to dreamland.

May 11, 1997
Sunday
Mother's Day
Norman and Janet's Anniversary

The wake up call came in at 6:00. Up, dressed, and out the door by 6:45. We decided last night that we would stop at Denny's, which was just up the road, for breakfast. I thought nothing of the hostess who seated us. Then the waitress came over. Wait a minute...they're both... no, there's a third ... they're all LFG's. An LFG is a woman, usually a young woman, who is attractive, but very overweight. LFG. Little, fat girl. I use the term with great affection! Monet's models -- all of them -- LFG's. I scan the room; it's full of short, overweight women -- even the older and old-old-old ones. There is only one female body type in the place. "Oh, my God! Some kind of genetic strain has gotten loose ... Andromeda." I call out to Sharon, "Help!"

It's amazing. How can an entire area produce one body type? Then I'm reminded of my initial thoughts about Monet's models. Yep, it's just like a small French village full of plump young girls. Soft, I think, they must be real soft. Hmmm!

We hit the turnpike. The weather was perfect for driving: bright, sunny and cool. As we are heading east, I notice these huge spots on a clear rounded hillside. "Cows! Sharon, look at those cows." The sun caused huge distorted shadows to fall below each of the 30 or so motionless animals grazing in the pasture. The image was right out of a Salvador Dali painting -- 1920's Surrealism in a 1960's farm community.

Today's trip is different from yesterday's. Yesterday we spent the entire day pointing out animals along the highway: groundhogs, crows, hawks, cows, horses, sheep. Today we pointed out dead things along the pike: groundhogs, crows, hawks (two red-tails), deer, raccoons and opossums were among some of the recognizable chunks of glob that we encountered. Disgusting!

On the positive side of things, however, Sharon and I kept an eye open for bluebirds. There are 200 bluebird boxes installed along the turnpike between Fort Littleton and Carlisle. Two hundred boxes along 47 miles of road should mean one hell of a lot of bluebirds. We only saw one.

A few hours later we pulled into a rest stop in Bowmansville, just south of Reading. As we get out of the truck, I notice five young (probably teenaged) Amish girls walking single file down a grassy hill on the other side of the turnpike. Each was wearing a light blue dress and a white bonnet. We watch as they proceed. You can hear them chatter and laugh over the noise of this busy roadway. Down the hill now, they turn into the young woodlot. You can see them through the trees as they continue on the path. They've done this before -- Sunday recreation in Pennsylvania Dutch country. As I watch, I form a strong emotional bond with these young women. I can sense their joy, their fellowship, from a quarter of a mile away. I can envision them, years from now, walking this path -- another typical Sunday afternoon in their lives. I now wonder what the reality of the situation is. I would have loved to spend an hour with these folks -- to "interview" them, to see what I can learn about myself and my life by "peering" into theirs. It is a shame that we can't really do that. I try, but succeed only to a small extent. It would be an interesting life to follow -- a Charles Kuralt kind of thing!

By 4:00 we were home. The cats left a field mouse lying on our living room floor. A small offering for us. I mentally add it to my collection of dead things for the day.

May 12, 1997
Monday

Since I worked at the World's Fair today, I decided to check out the ice skating rink. When it closed down in March, it was rumored that it would reopen as a roller skating rink later this spring. Well, it's spring and as far as I can tell, nothing much is going on. When I got to the entrance way, my view was instantly corrected. Even though the skating floor was untouched, the changing area was a construction zone. A sign above the door advised all that a "state-of-the-art roller rink, a European coffee house, a water fountain children's garden and a children's theater" would open in June. The city has really done a wonderful job at this site. I can't wait to "hit" the floor (softly, I hope) once the facility opens next month. I wonder if it is going to be a roller or an in-line rink.

When I got home, I talked to Dave and Judy. Not much is going on with those two except both are looking forward to the New York trip on the 19th. I have to admit that the idea of biking the Erie Canal excites me, too!

Judy told me that she got bit by a dog last Wednesday or Thursday. She and her husband Bill were out on a bicycle ride when a dog got hold of her leg and took a bite. Judy tells me that the dog was just "excited; he was looking up in the trees at birds when we zipped by, so he was just being a dog." If it had been me who was bitten, I would have been "just" a dog-bit human, and I would have beaten the living shit out of old Fido. I'm going to stop at Lawman and pick her up some pepper mace.

Today at work I learned a new knot: the "constrictor knot." My book describes it as, a "supremely good knot for 'seizing' bundles of loose material, or for closing the necks of bags. ... it will not work loose, possessing a ratchet-like bulldog grip." It goes on to say that the best way to untie it is with a very sharp knife.

I'm not yet sure how I plan on learning the knots that are in my book. At first I thought that I'd learn a new one each day, while I was at work, but now I think that three a week might be better. That way I could be certain that I know them; one a day for the first three days, then a review for the rest of the week. So unless I change my mind, that is what I'll do.

While I was tying the constrictor knot at work, I thought -- hey, this might make a really cool photo of the day. So when I got home, I set up the camera equipment and then tied a couple of knots on an old broom handle. They looked good through the viewfinder, so I'll be anxious to see how they look in print.

After my "photo shoot," I walked down our driveway to get our mail. As I walked past our maple tree, I noticed a scar on the tree. Someone, years ago, had carved a heart and initials into the bark of this old tree. We have lived here for 13 or 14 years now, and this is the first time that I've seen it. (How on earth you miss something like that is beyond me -- but I did, at least 4,745 times!) I'm not sure how old this declaration of love is, but the initials are no longer legible. Also, if it were fresh when Sharon and I first moved in, surely we would have noticed the scar right away. I wonder what branch of archaeology studies the amorous carvings of young boys in the bark of petrified trees. Sounds like the thing a modern Ph.D. is made of -- doesn't it?

May 13, 1997
Tuesday

After work I popped over to the Arcade Building at Tennessee and the Boardwalk; I was told that "they" are filming a movie somewhere up on the boards. Well, it wasn't too hard to find. From Tennessee Avenue up to South Carolina, a distance of about 150 yards, movie junk was scattered about. I asked the camera man what the movie was called and he told me "Gun Shy." "Anyone we know?" "William Peterson, Michael Wincott and Diane Lane." I then ask, "When are they going to start filming?" "Oh, right now -- in fact, as we speak." I headed north. About two minutes later I recognize William Peterson, but I couldn't name a single thing that he was in.

I walked over to the edge of the boardwalk, ocean side, and bumped into a woman who was in charge of casting. Local folks -- extras. "We don't call them that any more, though. Today we refer to them as 'background actors'. They're all well-trained professionals -- union, too!" Looking around, it was hard to tell who was public and who was cast.

"Action!" The two stars begin to walk -- a ton of people begin to walk. Peterson and Wincott pause; the background actors continue down the boardwalk. "Cut!" "My God! How many people do you have out there?" The woman responds, "50 background actors and two extras." Just then someone calls out, "Who was walking behind the 'actors'?" Two old men raise their hands and say, "We followed them most of the way and then we turned right there, then headed over toward the telephone." My casting lady tells me that this is why it's so important to work with professionals: "They need to know what's going on, because of the editing."

The small section of the movie that they were filming this afternoon involved the two stars walking, pausing, walking some more, then stopping for an extended conversation. I saw four or five takes.

The film staff handled the boardwalk crowds with great finesse. One cameraman noticed that he was getting a reflection of a couple of people standing nearby. It had rained today, so the boards were wet. The images of these gawkers were being reflected off of the wet boards and, apparently, into the camera's viewfinder. Ah, but whose? "Would everyone over in this direction kindly stretch out your arms and then wiggle your fingers." The crowd responded. "OK; I need you folks there to move back about 40 feet."

On another take, the cameraman notices that two people inside the Arcade Building are in the shot; they have to be moved. People are more than willing to comply with the request of the director. Hey, anything for Hollywood.

I learned a new knot today: the "bowline." I have known how to tie this knot for 35 years now, but only while I had a line around my waist. I never knew how to do it isolated, just out there with a line in my hand. Well, today I got it down. Neat knot.

Reading: (again) Over the Hills, by David Lamb

May 14, 1997
Wednesday

May 15, 1997
Thursday

I had made arrangements last week to bicycle with Ed Brna (Caesar's countroom employee) today, so at 11:00 we met near Stockton College. Ed bought a Cannondale M300 earlier this month, and has only been on it once so far. Not knowing what his endurance level is, I figured 12 miles ought to do it.

This is the third time that I've ridden at the campus, so I pretty much have the trails down. Today I figured I would explore some new single tracks and sand roads -- how lost can you really get. We began our ride by heading to Lake Pam. There we, well I, saw a Northern Black Racer (coluber constrictor) -- about three feet long. Ed almost ran it over. Once the snake entered the woods, it disappeared. Two seconds off the road, it was gone.

Next we headed toward Jimmie Leeds Road, biking alongside the parkway. For the next 20 minutes, we rolled along this section of the woods. We saw Fowler's Toads (bufowoodhousei fowleri), deer, ducks, rabbits, squirrels and an assortment of bugs. There were a lot of flying critters. I ended up with several in my eyes and Ed got one stuck in his throat. Yum!

As we got close to the access road to the school, I decided to turn down a fire break. We ended up near Rte. 575. I turned left. There must have been a house back here once, because all of a sudden we are in a grassy area with lots of ornamental shrubs and trees. I looked for a buried foundation, but found nothing. Bee-lining our way out of the woods, we ride directly into Free to Be, Stockton's day care facility. I pull out onto 575 and head back towards the dorms.

Once there, we cut back into the woods and follow the trails around the four upper lakes. Here we spot hundreds of turtles. Big ones. The Eastern Painted Turtle (chrysemys picta) is a common turtle found in the Pine Barrens. You can see them sunning themselves on logs and mud rises. These guys are cool. If there is a tree fallen along the water, you will usually see every square inch of the "deck" covered with this large 10 to 13 inch turtle. We watched as several scurried out of our way and plopped into the water. I would have loved to have had my telephoto lens with me today -- there were some great shots that I could have captured. Imagine eight turtles all resting on a single stump. It kind of reminded me of kids cramming into a VW beetle.

As we rounded the upper lakes, we bumped into a couple fishing for bass. Yesterday was a better day for them, but they were really "just getting started" today. We wished them luck. Well, actually I said, "Give 'em hell!"

After eleven and a half miles, in about one and a half hours, we had gone full circle. Our ride was over. We headed back toward the parking lots and rode over to our cars. Within 10 minutes we were packed up and heading towards home.

The ride and the weather were both perfect!

My photo of the day is of the Fowler's Toad. (I hope it turns out.)

May 16, 1997
Friday

I had planned on driving up to Washington's Crossing today to cycle the D & R Canal. However, when I woke up this morning at 5:00, the wind was gusting upwards to 35 mph. Now I'll ride in the rain, and I'll even ride in the snow; 110° -- no problem. I draw the line at high winds; it's just too painful! So, with nothing (now) planned, I hung around the house until 10:30, then drove over towards the mall. On the way, I notice that a minivan has pulled off to the side of the road. It's northbound; I'm southbound. In front of the van is ... what? A Canada goose? No, the head's not right -- Christ, it's a hawk -- a red shoulder, I think, eating something! Usually a hawk will take flight, but this thing is just sitting there chomping away. The van is only a dozen feet away. I slow, consider stopping, but I'm afraid that I might scare the bird into flight. Spoiling the animal's lunch is one thing, but wrecking a once-in-a-lifetime event for the guy in the van would be unforgivable. I slowly drive by -- peering the whole time in my rearview mirror until the van finally blocks my view.

As I continue on, I chuckle as I spot the sign for B.J.'s and Dick's. Then I look at it. Oh my God, Judy wasn't kidding! They've built a Seaman's furniture store next door. This is too much -- I take a photograph to preserve the evidence: B.J.'s, Dick's and Seaman's. What's next -- Hooters? What a sense of humor the landlord must have. Twisted? No doubt!

After a nice lunch at the Eatery I stop at a couple of stores to pick up some odds and ends for my Erie Canal trip. By 1:00, though, I head back home; I've got the whole house to clean. And that is exactly how I spent the rest of my day.

When Sharon got home we went outside to photograph the new growth on a pitch pine (pinus rigida.) Yesterday I noticed the growth and walked over to the tree to check it out. When I touched the branch, a ton of yellowish-green pollen shook loose. It was like I had turned over a sugar dispenser and given it a good flick. No wonder there is a layer of pollen over everything. Today, however, when we tapped the branch, we got nothing. I was afraid that this was going to happen. I wanted to get a close-up photograph of the new growth with the pollen pouring out. Last night's wind, however, must have dispersed it all. I'll keep checking the trees around here and see if I can capture yesterday's experience on film.

May 17, 1997
Saturday
Armed Forces Day

I woke up this morning and commented to myself, "Damn, it's cold in here..." Then I noticed a short time later that the heater kicked on. The middle of May and the furnace is still working. And this, unfortunately, is a typical morning lately. I can't remember a spring that has had such lousy weather. There hasn't yet been a single hot day. In fact, there haven't even been more than a couple of days that I would consider to be warm. So far this year we have only been able to sleep with our bedroom windows open three times. And on each of those nights I've had to close them well before day break. The weather just sucks this year!

A few days ago Judy told me that she had gotten her hair cut -- short. "I had to chop it all off to get rid of that shitty perm." Last month her stylist gave her what turned out to be an "old lady's" permanent. It didn't look all that bad, after the first week, but it really didn't suit her. So she went down to the Claridge's salon, threw down $25 and ended up with a "buzz." "It looks really nice, Judy," I told her, "but I'd go even shorter next time." "Well, I can't," she explained. "You see, you never know when you might need a guy -- you know, like sorta in a pinch -- and if you look like a militant dyke bitch you might just scare all of the nice ones away." She tells me that she is going to let this grow out!

Borders opened today. Sharon, Judy, Dave and I were all planning on meeting there tonight to celebrate the opening of a gathering place for the intellectually curious. A South Jersey first! Let's see: Sharon was in Jacobstown, Judy went to a show at Stockton, and Maxwell was "sleeping in." I decided on grocery shopping instead. When I drove by Borders the other day, though, I noticed that the entire right-hand side of the store seemed to be unoccupied. I suspect that this might be where the coffee shop portion of the store might be. I can never understand the mentality behind opening an unfinished business. I thought that the whole idea of a "grand opening" was to impress the public. A construction site just doesn't do it for me. So, why not wait and do the thing right! Why rush an opening just to say that you're open? Why not dazzle me!

I am still trying to organize a bi-weekly (once every other week) "coffee klatsch" there, so I'll have to check to see what would be a good day for all of us to meet. If it works and then survives for any length of time, I think that this would be really important for me. I've never met people in a casual, yet structured social setting before. I'm not really sure what to expect. It may well end up being one of those things that you look back on (when you're so old that you've lost all of your teeth and you haven't seen your penis for at least eight years because your belly has gotten too big. You know -- that kind of thing.)

I'll try to get over there on Sunday and check out just how much of the shop is completed. Borders opening also means that I didn't get the part-time job that I interviewed for. I would not have taken it anyway, but it would have been nice had they made an offer.

When Sharon got home from her mom and dad's place, she had a roaring headache. Pollen, I would guess. It's been pretty bad here lately. There are lots of people complaining about itchy eyes, sore throats and stuffy noses. They'll all be fine in a couple of weeks, but getting through the day is going to be tough. I found Sharon with an ice pack on her neck -- moaning. Not too good!

After I got back from shopping, I decided to get my gear ready for my Erie Canal ride. Three days of cycling is easy to pack for: three pair of shorts, three tee-shirts, three pair of socks. Throw in some foul weather gear, boots, helmet and gloves, and voilá, you're set. The rest of the stuff is much more difficult. OK; I'll wear this outfit up and back. That leaves only two nights to worry about: one pair of jeans, one pair of sweat pants and a couple more tee-shirts, socks, underwear. Hmmm! What if we go somewhere nice for dinner? Will I shave, shower or brush my teeth? And if I do, shouldn't I throw a toothbrush or something in my pack?

While I packed, I telephoned Cynthia Cox. Cynthia is an artist who has lived up in Brooklyn now for the last two or so years. We met her through a mutual friend -- Nancy Chu -- when they both lived down here. Like almost everyone we know ... after a few years, t hey moved. Nancy to Long Island, Cynthia to Brooklyn and her friend Nick went to Arizona.

I find Cynthia a hoot. Yet, at the same time, a challenge. What I find to be the most fractured element of her life I also find to be her most admirable trait. In her late-late 30's or maybe even her early 40's, Cynthia has never held a full-time job in her life. Her good fortune (or perhaps it's her sensual presentation) has always been enough to get her through. When we met her, she was living with a college administrator (Vice President of Stockton College.) She worked part-time doing art work for a couple of commercial video companies on the east coast. Her spare time was devoted to doing her Art. Of course, her art wasn't earning her a dime, but that really wasn't the point.

Before we met her, she had been everywhere, but always as a "guest" of someone or another: Costa Rica, the Middle East, Asia.

Today, with the help of her father, she purchased a large house in Brooklyn. She rents out two of the "units." "I make a substantial piece of change," she tells me. She is still doing some part-time video work, but only because it allows her free use of the equipment. "I'd have to spend thousands to be able to do my personal work." So as long as she needs access to these tools, she will continue to work. Limited hours, of course.

Her art? Right now she is doing a lot of writing. "I'm trying to find someone who will provide me a space (read that: 'pay me') to do an installation. If I can't find a suitable place, I'll do it anyway."

I wish I had the balls to be able to carve out my own lifestyle. Of course, I would have to develop a salable skill first. But it must be wonderful to be able to wake up each day and not worry about earning enough money to get you through the month. Schedule enough outside work to fill in the gaps (both socially and economically) but mostly just devote the day to your "art." I can picture myself -- an architectural painter -- a modern-day Charles Ryder (of Brideshead Revisited.)

Photographic work first, I think, then isolated close-up studies on paper. This would, of course, be studio work. Then, finally, the painting itself. I would work en plein air. Neighborhood folks would stop by and chat. They would admire my work, inquire about the price. "$6,000? For a painting?" I would quietly smile and say nothing.

Reading: The Essential Knot Book, by Colin Jarman and The Loved One, by Evelyn Waugh

May 18, 1997
Sunday
29th Anniversary of the Release of Tiny Tim's
"Tiptoe Through the Tulips"

My work day was a blend of journal writing and knot tying. Even though nothing happened yesterday, I spent four hours writing about it. Later, while I was talking to Sharon about that, it dawned on me that it took so much time to work on my journal because nothing happened. The few incidents that I jotted down simply served as a spring board. They allowed me to internalize; ramble might even be a better word to describe the writing.

As we continued our discussion, I told Sharon that I can't wait until this project is completed -- "It consumes too much of my day." If I'm not writing, I'm proofreading. Even my thoughts tend to focus on my essays. "Once this is over, I'll continue my journal, but not daily," I tell her. "You won't even have to type the damn thing -- I'll either do it myself or leave it in long hand." She smiles, but I'm sure that she doesn't believe me. What a luxury that will be! "Like, yesterday, my essay took four hours to complete, and nothing happened. I would not have even bothered to pick up a pen." But wait a second. Yesterday's journal entry was, I think, an important one. I just told my wife that once I am no longer doing a daily entry, I would not have even considered putting anything down on paper. Does this mean that yesterday's thoughts would not have been written? Where will the balance be, I wonder. For instance, will I only write about events, or should I occasionally pick up my pen when absolutely nothing happens? Should I force myself to internalize? Whatever direction it takes, though, will surely be easier than what I'm doing now!

After dinner, Sharon and I went over to check out the new Borders. I was wrong about the store still being under construction. Previously, I had thought that the entire building was going to be used for the book shop. I was wrong. Apparently there will be another store going into that large empty space. I hope that it will be something that complements Borders, like a Zany Brainy's or some such thing.

Although Borders - EHT (Egg Harbor Twp.) is as big as Borders - Marlton, the layout down here is different. Significantly. The design of "our" store isn't nearly as nice. Basically the book section follows a "7" design, while the whole center portion of the store is the music department. It feels disjointed. In the Marlton shop you are surrounded by books. You can't even see the music section from most vantage points in the store. You can get lost in the stacks. Not so with the EHT store. Here it looks like a large music shop that has books. It will take some getting used to.

I was really surprised that I didn't recognize a single person in the store. It was busy, about how I imagined it would be on its opening weekend. Once things settle down, I think that it will be a very nice "hangout." The hours are good: 9 a.m. to 11 p.m. on weekdays and Saturday, while Sunday has abbreviated hours -- 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. And that, I think, ought to do it.

I always get a kick out of the "highbrow" music that they play in bookstores. Like, "Geez, we've had a Borders for two days now... so we got culture... yep, uh-huh...that's right." Good grief.

Well, Sharon and I commemorate the opening, each in our own way. She purchased a book, and I took a squirt. Now it's official. I can now consider Borders - EHT to be an old stomping ground.

After our excellent adventure in the stacks was over and we were once again comfortably settled in for the evening, I prepared for my "next excellent adventure." Although I had packed last night for my bike trip, I again went through my mental checklist. "Yep, that's it; I'm ready." Then little sister Judy called. "Did you remember to pack ... ? And how about .... ? And ....?" I gathered up all of the forgotten items and threw them on an ever-increasing stack. "OK, Jude; now I'm ready!" Sharon then asks, "How about thus and such... did you pack that?" "OK, OK, so I'm not ready; so what, I have all day tomorrow, don't I?"

Maxwell really surprised me -- he didn't call.

My photo of the day is demolition work in front of the Caesars parking garage on Atlantic Avenue.

May 19, 1997
Monday

Judy arrived just before 4:00; Maxwell was only minutes behind. By 4:30 pizza was delivered and shortly after we were ready to load up the bikes. As we were crunching Cannondales to a Trek, Sharon pulled in. She advises us to neither accept wooden nickels nor to say anything that even remotely sounds like "no" to any single-toothed bruiser with a shotgun. With our newly acquired knowledge held deeply in our minds, we take off. Syracuse or bust (and preferably a large one, if necessary.)

The trip was long -- 300+ miles. Maxwell slept, Judy did crossword puzzles and I pointed out "ground hogs" to Sharon. She was the smart one -- she was at home.

Although we were making good time up the Northeast Extension, it was getting dark as we approached the last exit. We watched as the hills were lit by the flashes of a distant electrical storm. Soon, however, it was no longer distant. As we were exiting the turnpike, three events occurred: 1) it got dark, 2) we entered into the storm, and 3) I turned on the windshield wipers. Of the three, the worst was the last. As soon as those blades swiped the windshield, that was it -- instant "zero visibility." The bugs, pollen, road grime and salts all stewed together across my line of sight. That was enough to cause a bit of a stir. "Ramp? Does anyone see the ramp? It was on this hairpin turn a second ago!" I love the idea of travel.

For the next half an hour our speed dropped into the forties. I moved my seat forward a few inches and simply followed the lights in front of us.

Five hours into the trip, we stopped for the first time to pee. I can't believe it -- I waited five hours. It has to be some kind of official record.

An hour later (11:15 p.m.) we were pulling into Liverpool, NY. Dave's mom met us at the Super 8. We unloaded the bikes and that was that!

May 20, 1997
Tuesday

When Dave arrived this morning it was 42° with 15 mph winds and gusts reaching 25 mph. Earlier, the weather channel told us that we would be riding in lousy weather and being outside confirmed their report. There's a twenty-nine degree wind chill, for Christ's sake!

We pulled into the Cedar Bay picnic area, in the town of DeWitt, slightly before 11:00. It only took five minutes to collect our gear and our courage to face this awful day. It was cold. Our first sight of the Erie Canal was only a minute away. I break out in song: "Low bridge, everybody down... Hey guys, you're supposed to join along!" "-----," the silent sounds of Maxwell and Q singing. "I can't believe this ... you guys didn't even learn the songs?" This is going to be a long trip.

In 1817 NY Gov. DeWitt Clinton secured $7,000,000 from the State legislature to construct a canal that would, in essence, link the Great Lakes with New York City (via the Hudson.) The ditch was to run from Albany, on the upper Hudson, to the eastern shore of Lake Erie, in Buffalo. The project was completed on time and opened on October 25, 1925. The canal spanned 363 miles and was 40 feet wide by four feet deep. (Later it was expanded to 70 feet by seven feet.) Eighty-two locks were constructed, west of Troy, to overcome the 500 foot gain in elevation between the cities of Albany and Buffalo. An instant success, the canal only took nine years to pay for itself. Additionally, by the time that the tolls were abolished in 1882, enough money had been collected to construct a series of branch canals on the Finger Lakes, Lake Champlain and along the Mohawk River.

Our trip today will be along a 25 mile stretch between the towns of DeWitt and Durhamville. The entire recreational trail continues on for another 11 miles as a part of the Old Erie Canal State Park.

Riding the canal is very much like every other towpath that I've been on. I found the Erie a delightful ride, not so much due to the surrounding woodlands and fields, but because of the sense of history that was attached to this grand-daddy of all US made waterways. I kept picturing what it must have been like 150 years ago. I could envision a young farmboy fishing along the path, waving as a fully loaded mule -drawn barge floats by. The Captain asks, "You pulling anything outta here but water, boy?" The young shoeless lad shakes his head side to side, then shrugs his shoulders.

We cycle along. I point out the various birds that cross our path. There are a lot of species: kingbirds, northern orioles, swallows, finches and warblers. "I should have brought my book." We stop occasionally to gawk at something or other -- me for birds, Dave for intersections and Judy for falling down barns. It's a leisurely pace. Of course, we are heading downstream and the wind is at our backs.

Our first real stop, though, is at the Chittenango Landing Canal Museum. Here they have excavated three dry dock bays and are in the process of digging up a sunken canal boat. They also have on display an old tar pot, used to waterseal the seams along the hull. I think that that is the neatest part of their outdoor displays. I photograph the canal boat nearby, then head over to the dry dock. The museum itself is closed to the general public, but there is a slew of elementary school kids scurrying about. No doubt a school field trip.

We cycle on. The canal isn't very crowded today. In fact, in the five-plus hours that we were out there, we only encountered a handful of walkers, one or two bikers and two women on horses. That, however, changed after 5:30 p.m. With work or school behind them, a couple dozen more folks were out canoeing or jogging. A pretty good turnout for a Tuesday afternoon. Besides, the weather really didn't get nice until after 6:00 anyway.

As we continued east, we spotted lots of beaver lodges along the banks of the canal. I'll bet that we saw at least seven poorly constructed "brambles" along the opposite edge of the waterway.

Sixteen or so miles into our ride, we stopped for lunch. The largest town along our way was Canastota. And it was here that we stumbled into the Three Pines for lunch. Their menu lays claim to their renown as "Title Town USA" I ask our waitress why. It seems that this small northern community can boast to be the home of the boxing Hall of Fame.

The town itself was founded in 1807 by Reuben Perkins, who purchased the land from the Oneida Indians. The name Canastota is derived from the two Indian works "kniste" and "stota," meaning "Cluster of Pines by the Still Waters." Three Pines became the symbol of the town. We found the restaurant to be pleasant. Judy had a huge salad with chicken, I ordered a pasta platter and salad, then a fish sandwich. Dave, still not feeling well, wasn't hungry, but ordered a grilled cheese -- just to be safe. The bill -- $21.00. Cheap!

We headed another six miles east until we ran out of towpath. Just outside the town of Durhamville there is a 2.2 mile section of the canal on which you have to detour onto Rte. 41, where it again picks up the canal at Rte. 31. Since our return trip will be uphill the entire way back, plus the 15 mph headwind that we've been so looking forward to riding into, we opted to U-turn back to our car. We had hoped to pedal 50 miles today, but this will knock about five miles off our total trip. Even still, it was too long. Had the weather been nicer and the wind calmer, 50 miles would have (possibly) been fine; but as it turned out, even 45 miles was painful.

Our return trip was pretty much like our ride down. The wind wasn't horrible, but we were well on our way to being totally fatigued. The only thing really different was the attention I paid to finding a damn pileated woodpecker. On the way down Maxwell spotted "Woody." The thing flew directly behind me, landed for a second, then flew across the canal. "James, I've seen two of these birds now and I'm only half your age. You should have at least seen one by now, wouldn't you think?"

A couple of other things that happened on the way back that were different from the first half of the ride were the fox and the snake that Judy saw, the bench that Maxwell tried to ride his Cannondale over and the muskrat lodge that Judy and I stopped to look at. By the time we reached the arched bridge that crossed the Erie Canal to Cedar Bay picnic area, we knew we were in for another nice ride tomorrow.

My impressions of this section of the canal are: 1) there is an awful lot of beaver activity in and around the canal. I expected to see evidence of them along "feeders", but not in the canal itself. 2) The waterway was not really marked well. I thought that there would be a lot more "historical" information posted along the way. 3) There were a lot fewer locks than I would have suspected -- I think we saw two. 4) There were more aqueducts than I had expected. Other than that, the Erie was pretty much as I had envisioned it to be.

After we finished our ride, we drove back to the Super 8 for a really quick shower, then headed over to Dave's mom's for pizza.

May 21, 1997
Wednesday

And for the first two days it was cold and windy. Oh, boy -- here we go again.

After breakfast at Bob Evans (Denny's yesterday) we picked Maxwell up at his mom's place. He was still feeling poorly but opted to ride with us nonetheless. After a quick map check, with the help of "Miss Judy" (Dave's mom baby-sits during the day, so all the kids call her that) we loaded up the car and we were soon heading toward the town of Camillus.

I planned today's ride to take us through a county-maintained portion of the Erie Canal. This is still the "Old Erie" and has been closed to serious navigation since 1917. The New York Canal still thrives, but there are sections of the original canal that have been bypassed when the new network was constructed. Most of the newer waterway is still able to maintain a good bit of powered traffic, but our ride today will take us through a section more suitable for the canoeist than for anyone else.

We begin our ride in the rain. Luckily, however, that is short-lived. We are at the western terminus of the Camillus Erie Canal Park, heading east against a 15 mph wind. This will be another day of hot/cold, hot/cold. The sun comes out and it's warm; the sun ducks behind a cloud and it's instantly cold again. Two days of this nonsense is enough!

The trail is an unimproved dirt/stone surface that runs alongside the Old Erie. Between us and the canal is a one and a half foot wide line of trees. At times the waterway is completely blocked out because of the leaves, but this has a very distinct advantage. Hidden in every other tree along this bank is perched a "yellow bird." Goldfinches, warblers, you name it. If it's yellow, it's here. The sky is just a constant yellow streak. I've never seen so many birds -- this is a real treat for me, but, of course, I didn't bring along a field guide.

About two miles into the ride we spot a single track going into the woods. We are at Culvert #59 cycling through the woods along the Clinton's Ditch Trail (Blue Line Ditch.) We only pedal about half a mile before we are once again brought back out to the canal. Arriving at the Camillus Landing, we find ourselves at the midpoint of the canal: Buffalo is 177 miles west, Albany lies 175 miles in the other direction. The county has been restoring this section and now uses this, the Sim's museum area, as the park's center. They are also about to begin restoration on a large aqueduct at Nine Mile Creek. We had crossed over the "ruins" earlier. When I stopped there for just a second to adjust my gloves, Dave and Judy insisted (begged, actually) for me to snap a couple of photographs. Reluctantly, I acquiesced. "Say cheese!"

Dave comments that he has a greater sense of the history of the canal here than he did on yesterday's ride. The signs, recreations and restoration works really add to the understanding of the importance that this channel once held. It's funny how little is needed to enhance a tour.

A few miles later we exited the county park and continued onto an unimproved portion of the old canal system. Dave is still not feeling well; Judy is suffering from "soft tissue degradation" and I feel fine. The weather all of a sudden is sunny, but the wind is still strong. The trail has now turned into a grassy road. Judy says, "No; it's a stone road! 14,530,000 stones so far." I mutter to myself, "Damn soft tissue gimp!" A little further on we spot a large beaver lodge along the other bank of the canal. We stop to look around. Judy comments, "This looks just like a jungle." She's right, it does.

Dave gets off his bike and wobbles; "I'm dizzy," he says. We continue on for another mile, then turn around. Our return trip is fast -- downhill and downwind. Within two hours we are back at the car and loading it up. Dave sleeps most of the way home, but we were not all that surprised.

A few hours later we hook up with one another again to check out the Carousel Center Mall. Wow, what a place! Three levels of green-tinted glass in a post-modern design. The stores inside are as classy as the architecture on the outside. Sharon gets a ton of catalogs from stores that sell only top of the line items. This mall has those stores: Eddie Bauer, Pottery Barn, Williams-Sonoma, Banana Republic, The Museum Company, Ann Taylor, The Nature Company (a $3,100 two hundred power telescope), NordicTrack and Northern Reflections. That's just a few of the hundred or more shops at this place. We blew into Borders. This two-storied bookstore is the nicest of the four that I've been in. I tell myself, "I could live here!"

On the way out, we pass a jewelry store on the second level. I see a guy, wearing a suit, on his knees in front of a cute lookin' babe. ("Oh, the poor booby," I think.) A few seconds later the dozen or so people in the store start to applaud. I suspect that she said "yes." Oh well!

Leaving the mall, we drive up to the town of Clay to pick up "Miss Judy." We have been invited to dinner. David's stepdad, Dan, has arranged a "comp" for us at Turning Stone Casino. The casino is owned by the Oneida Indian Nation, about 40 minutes east of Syracuse. Dan (37) has worked at the casino for about three years now, and is the Director of Cage Operations.

When we arrived I was impressed by the not-yet-opened hotel that is just about completed. Only housing around 200 units, the four-story building sweeps the landscape. It's very stunning -- very "Indian-like" I think.

The casino is unbelievable. There are two major differences here from where I work: no coin and no alcohol. Both are improvements over Atlantic City. The most unusual aspect here is the silence. There is no coin noise -- all you can hear is the gaming chips clacking. And people do play with their chips, so the sound fills the room. After dinner (we had a $60 limit, each) we walked around for a few minutes before we headed home.

May 22, 1997
Thursday

When we stopped to pick up our gear at "Miss Judy's" place, we learned that Dave was going to stay close to home. His cold has him pretty well drained of energy, so he's decided to skip our ride today.

Judy and I loaded up our bikes, then headed toward Rochester NY, an hour away. We drove through the town of Palmyra at 10:45 and we started looking for the trail head. As we pulled into the parking lot of Lock 29, we instantly noted the sign: Trail Closed -- Construction Ahead. The lock keeper told us that we should drive down to Lock 30, three miles further west, and pick up the towpath there.

Before we headed out, however, we took a look around. Neither of us had seen a lock before and we were curious to see one work. Judy told me that we just missed seeing the operation because she saw a boat in the lock as we were pulling in. Lock 29 raises, or lowers, the elevation of the canal from 430 feet eastbound to 446 feet westbound, a difference of 16 feet.

A few minutes later we arrived at Lock 30, in the town of Macedon. Our timing was a bit better this time -- the pleasure craft "Ajay Jewell" had just entered the lock and was waiting to be lifted 16.4 feet. The elevation change from east to west is 446 feet to 462.4 feet above sea level. The whole process takes a little less than 15 minutes. Bernie, the lockmaster, told us that the trail here is also under construction, but we shouldn't have any problems cycling the six miles to where the work stops. Well, we unloaded our bikes and took off, literally, across the lock. The trail has just been bulldozed, so we are riding a hard packed dirt (mostly hard mud) surface. There are ruts from dump trucks and ripples from the treaded dozers that have been working this section of the trail. About three quarters of a mile down trail, we ran into a construction worker who tells us that this section, too, is closed. "We've got a lot of equipment further down -- you won't be able to get by." He tells us that we will need to drive six miles east -- "to Lock 32 in Fairport. There," he says, "all construction is completed and the trail will be nice. Again we loaded up the car and took off. Judy left on her helmet for the entire 15 minute ride. Cool!

As we drove along Rte. 31 we come into the town of Fairport. Greeting us there is a huge red and cream colored Gothic church -- the First Baptist Church of Fairport. Its large steeple tilts to the right, like the leaning tower of Pisa. We make a right at the corner of Rte. 21 and noticed that a church sits at each corner of the intersection. This is small town America!

For the second time today our bikes are offloaded. This time, however, we find the trail to be inviting. The wind is bad, 15 mph, and we are not only heading into it, but we are also pedaling "upstream." Three days in a row we've been battling the wind. At least the temperature is a bit higher. Also, the trail has a well-packed surface. After yesterday's ride, it feel like we are riding on the road.

The trail here is the Erie Canal Heritage Trail, which runs along the present day Erie Canal between Lockport and Palmyra (over 70 miles in length.) As much as I liked the Old Erie Canal's towpath, this trail is much nicer. What I mean by that is that the Old Erie represents yesterday. As you cycle the trail you come across historic structures and not much else. No one uses the waterway except for beavers and canoeists. It's a park. On the trail today we are riding on a part of the New York State Canalway. A very active waterway with towns, houses, and personal docks and moorings. The towns along the way recognize the canal for what it is: a tourist and sportsman's Mecca. Boaters, bikers, fishermen, joggers...you name it...use the trail. And the businesses that have sprung up along the way reflect the needs of the trail users. Very good!

As we rode, Judy and I found that parts of the path have been paved. In fact, the reason that the first nine miles of the trail have been closed was because of the paving work. I'm not sure if they are planning on resurfacing the entire 70 miles, but if they do, these towns are really going to find a boost in their tourist business. Not only will they attract mountain bikers, but "roadies" will show up in droves.

Just before we stopped at Lock E32 at Pittsford (elevation 487.5 to 462.4 feet) we slowed to take a look at the town. Here you can either hire a private barge to navigate the waterway yourself, or jump on board a commercial boat and let the captain shuttle you around. I can picture spending a couple of days up here, on this section of the canal. Bike for five hours, then spend the night at a local B&B. Get up and cycle the next day until you get tired, then stop and spend the night there. Meanwhile, make plans to have a barge take you back to your starting point. Figure out when you get there which way you will cycle. Whichever way the wind is blowing will determine where you cycle. Sounds great, doesn't it.

This morning we told Dave to expect us back by 2:00. Judy and I haven't even turned around yet and it's already that time. "Let's go up to the next lock, Judy, then head back."

The next lock, our last one, is E33 (512.9 to 486.5, 25.4 feet) located in the town of Henrietta. Now having seen five locks, I know the official NY Canal colors: blue and white for the structures and blue and yellow (gold) for the locks. I think that's neat. It probably has something to do with some politician's son owning an only three-color paint store more than anything else, but I think it's nice nonetheless.

We U-turn and head back to Pittsford. Judy wants to check out the bike shop and I need to eat. The bike shop there was massive. The repair department was as big as ProPedal's entire store. Bikes were hung everywhere. All top-end stuff. Very impressive. Judy told me that the clothes "sucked." The only thing that I was interested in was their book section. Borders didn't have anything in their local interest section on biking the Erie Canal, so I was hoping to find something here. They had three books: Round Lake Ontario, Round Lake Erie, and finally I connected: Erie Canal Bicyclist and Hiker Route Guide, by Harvey Botzman. $22.95 plus tax, and in New York that made it a whole lot more! But anyway I'm happy.

On our way back I mentioned again that I can't wait until this year's journal project is completed. It's hard enough doing these trips, but then, when the day's over, you have to sit down and write about it. And that usually takes hours. Judy responded, "James, Dave and I took a vote and we can't wait until your are done with your journal, either! We've been photo-of-the-day victims for just about a year now, and we're getting mighty tired of it!" Then she added, "Do you remember that Dave said that when his mother comes down to New Jersey in August he will be stopping over to your place so he can show her your journal?" "Yeah, Judy; that was at dinner last night, what about it?" Judy slows her pace, looks at me and says, "if you show that nice Christian woman Volume 2, I'll never speak to you again." "Hmm," I think, "I wonder what that's all about. Volume 2? Hmm!"

We ended our ride after about two and a quarter hours, having logged about 23 miles. I was glad the day's ride was over, I was just a little tired and a little sore.

The drive home was long --- about six hours, plus the hour from Rochester to Syracuse. Judy figures that Maxwell was awake for about 20 minutes, off and on, throughout the whole trip. God, that boy can sleep!

Our total mileage, excluding bicycling, topped 1,030 miles.

Great vacation! One of the neatest things about the upstate area is the trains. There is an awful log of rail activity up here. It would be interesting to do some spotting up here. That's something for another trip, though.

May 23, 1997
Friday

My brother Wayne called this morning to tell me that while I was out playing in upstate New York, he was lying in the hospital with congestive heart failure. Wayne's heart is bad. He had a massive heart attack about eight years ago, and has had major complications since that time. This week's episode is just another example of the progression of his disease. He told me he couldn't breathe. His lungs filled up with fluid and he took off for the emergency room. The cardiologist isn't too thrilled by this latest development. He suggested several courses of action and then said, "...or we can just sit back and see what happens." Wayne is kind of getting tired of being poked, so he told them to take the "let's see" approach this time.

I spent most of the day doing chores. Car inspection, hair cut, dry cleaners, laundry, Butterhof's for bird seed, then finally, Borders. I spent about two hours writing there this afternoon. That, coupled with the hour that I spent writing at the Eatery when I stopped there for breakfast, pretty well has me caught up. With one more hour of writing yesterday's entry, my journal is now current.

My picture of the day is of the coffee shop at my Borders.

Reading: Erie Canal Bicyclist and Hiker Route Guide, by Harvey Botzman

May 24, 1997
Saturday

When things settled down at work this afternoon, I was able to get out onto the boardwalk for a few minutes. Even though it was windy, the sun was shining brightly in the cloudless sky. You could tell that "the season" had started by the small airplane flying down beach towing a huge banner advertising something or other. The banners that these planes drag along are incredible. There is so much wind resistance that it's a wonder that the airplanes don't crash. The engine will be screaming, while the plane will look almost stationary in the sky. This scene will continue now until Labor Day, when all beach life ends.

Speaking of beach life, there were at least ten bikini-clad goddesses frolicking about on the sand in front of the Plaza. I should have taken my camera out with me. I'll not make that mistake tomorrow!

Most of my day was divided between knots and planning my next mini-bike trip. I worked on the sliding figures of eight, the double sheet bend and the clove hitch. Once I got those down, I began my review of the other six knots that I've been working on for the past two weeks.
After work Sharon and I stopped at a new farm and garden supply store that just opened in Hammonton. I can't believe this, but they had a bunch of mango-colored lawn mowers and tractors. Mango, mango.

I'm really happy that this new store has opened. I will never go back into Butterhof's again. I can't stand those smug people in that damn store. I had to put up with them before because they were the only "game" in town. Well, now they're not!

When we got home I saw a bird hopping around in our side woodlot. It looked like an oriole, so I slowly walked toward it. The bird turned out to be a very young northern oriole that had just fallen out of its nest. Not yet able to fly, it was extending its wings out fully and scurrying along the ground. If this poor thing isn't able to fly by tomorrow, it doesn't stand much of a chance of survival.

My photo of the day is of deep blue Siberian iris. Sharon planted these a few years ago in the fan-shaped bed in our side yard.

Reading: At Home in Mitford, by Jan Karon

May 25, 1997
Sunday
Ralph Waldo Emerson's Birthday - 1803

When I walked outside this morning at 6:15, the weather didn't seem to be all that nice. It was warm enough, but it looked as though it was about to rain at any second. Throughout the day I kept looking outside to check on the "rain." Nothing; well, until I pulled my truck out of the parking lot.

At first it was just a trickle. The closer that I got to my house, though, the harder it rained. That pretty much set the tone for tonight's activities. I had thought that it would be nice to walk the Batona Trail for a few hours, but those thoughts were quickly altered.

What I did do when I got home was take a nap. It wasn't until around 5:00 that I was conscious again. I fired up some pasta and a salad, then wolfed down a banana for dessert. Sharon was watching a Nastassja Kinski movie called "Harem," so I kept a half-eye opened for skinny girl flesh. God, that woman is gorgeous. In fact, she may be the single most beautiful woman on film. She certainly has my vote!

Later Sharon and I went down to the "hell hole" to change the tires on my bicycle. I've been running with a real knobby off-road tire for the winter. During the cold weather most of my trips were in the woods, where an aggressive tire was necessary. Now that the weather is warmer and the ticks are in full swing, most of my rides will be either on rail/trails, canal towpaths or on the back roads of the Pine Barrens. The slicks that I put on my Trek 7000 will be a lot better for this kind of riding.

May 26, 1997
Monday

For a holiday weekend, Atlantic City wasn't all that busy. I have to admit that I was a bit surprised, more delighted than anything else, though. I was able, therefore, to spend most of my workday reading.

When I got home I noticed that the cherry tree out front had a broken limb. I wasn't aware that the wind last night was that strong. But it must have been because the break in the branch looks like it snapped off a healthy-looking section. I'll have to get up there and cut it back. Thinking that this might be an interesting photo of the day, I snapped the picture. While I was looking through the viewfinder, though, I realized that this is going to be an awful photograph. Too late!

A few hours later and bored absolutely out of my wits, I asked Sharon if she would like to join me at Borders. She agreed, but insisted that I buy her a cappuccino. I figured that it was a pretty good trade-off, so I agreed. Although I've only been there a few times now, Borders is beginning to feel comfortable. No longer do I notice the "disjointedness" of the place. I would rather the shop be set up like the two stories in Syracuse, but you rarely get what you consider to be the best!

The greatest thing about the store, though, is that it is Atlantic County's largest cop-free zone. Borders isn't noted for making a habit out of giving away donuts to cops, nor are there any cops in Atlantic County that would read anything that they couldn't steal out of the "nudie" section of a magazine rack. So, all can breathe a bit easier knowing that the likelihood of a cop stumbling in here is as close to zero as it gets. After a 40 minute search for the world's perfect book, Sharon and I found a table in the "Café Express" (Borders coffee-shop's name) and sucked down a couple of cups of mud. Sharon reminded me that she had to go to work in the morning, so as soon as we finished our drinks -- we were off.

Once we settled in for the night, I switched on the TV to see if there was a Braves baseball game on. At 10:05, when I turned the set on, I recognized the voice of one of the Braves's TV broadcasters. Atlanta was playing the Padres in California, so I kicked up my feet and wiggled deeper into my chair.

The game was exciting, but by the end of the second inning, I had switched the TV off; it was time for bed. In that short period of time the Braves had scored four runs on seven hits and San Diego had also scored four runs on five hits. A pretty good beginning; too bad I could only stand a couple of innings.

May 27, 1997
Tuesday
Golden Gate Bridge Opened (to Pedestrians Only) - 1937

So there we were, just a couple of dancing fools sashaying and scurrying across the floor. One, two, short-short -- yep, we're doing the fox-trot. "Easy isn't it, my dear? Ah, excuse me Miss Gilbert, but what happens when you run out of floor?" One, two, short-short. "Of course, how foolish of me." Naturally, you would side, step, short-short. Side, step, short-short.

Next, on to the waltz: ba da, ba da, ba da da da, ba da, ba da, ba da da da... One, two, three, one, two, three. "You stay in your space and I'll stay in mine." Laura, ŕ la Dirty Dancing, makes a square gesture with her hands. I think, "Oh, yeah, baby -- I'll get into your space -- just wait ... step, step, crunch!" Well, the waltz is cool; again, we're dancing fools. The big problem, though, is the music. First they started off with Sam Cooke and then switched to a rumba. How can you be expected to waltz to a rumba? One, two, three, one, two, three. Sharon looks good; I look good. Then Laura puts us together. Laura looks good -- Sharon and me, well, not so good. One, two, three, one, two, three.

On to the rumba. The rumba is kind of like a backward waltzie sort of thing only with a twist. One, slide, two, three. "Yep, that's it guys; now, put it together for me."

After our first dancing lesson (ballroom) at the "Shall We Dance Studio" in Northfield, Sharon asked me, "OK, what was the difference between dancing with me and dancing with Laura? Maybe I could incorporate that difference into my steps." "Well, Sharon," I say after considerable thought, "she's taller, so you'll just have to grow." What I didn't say, of course, was, "And she knows what she is doing!" But I have no room to talk. During our short half hour lesson, I did manage to stomp on both of their feet!

Later while sitting around watching the movie "Cold Comfort Farm" (I didn't see the last hour of it, though) Sharon occasionally would get up to dance to the music on the screen. One, two, three, one, two, three. She's so cute and boy, she can really dance.

We started our evening off at dinner at the East Bay Crab House in Cardiff. Earlier we had arranged to meet in Absecon, where I would drive us to dinner, then to our lesson. Supper was interesting. We talked about the role of philosophy in the post-post-modern era. I really can't seem to understand how one can simply be a philosopher today. How can you discuss philosophical anthropology unless you are an expert in biology, or ethics without being a lawyer or physician? Philosophy is so linked now to science, that it would be impossible to address the issues using pure reason alone. Granted, science has always played a part in philosophy; look at Aristotle, the father of modern scientific method.

My thoughts turn back to the basics: metaphysics. Can you look at the order or the design of the universe without becoming intimately involved in physics? I think not. So what is the role of philosophy today? I've no idea! Perhaps I need to look at the "art" side of philosophy: language, aesthetics, leisure. Maybe philosophy can no longer stand on its own with the hard science fields, and therefore, must focus exclusively on the softer issues of the day.

May 28, 1997
Wednesday

Judy called me at 8:00 a.m. "We're leaving now, so we'll see you at Washington's Crossing in a couple of hours." I load up my bike, still caked with Erie Canal mud, and head north. The trip up to the D&R Canal was uneventful -- taking only one hour and 20 minutes.

I knew when I left the house that I would beat Judy and her husband Bill by at least 20 minutes. This, according to plan, allowed me a little quiet time to work on my journal. Using the hood of my truck as a desktop, I "tidied up" a few loose ends. The work went well, but my concentration was soon interrupted. Judy and Bill arrived a few minutes earlier than I had expected. I offloaded my bicycle and we were soon pedaling toward Lambertville on the D&R Canal.

The weather was perfect for bicycling: warm (about 70°), sunny and best of all, with just a slight wind blowing from the southwest. I asked Judy (seriously) if this was her first "wind-less" ride of the year and she cackled, then said, "Yep!" Judy's mango bike glistened in the sunlight; it was a sight of beauty. "Oh, Cannondale, may your light shineth on..." (Hey, I'm writing this -- if you think it's crap t hen you write something every day for a year and let's see what kind of trite shit you come up with! Just kidding.)

When we arrived at Lambertville, I commented about the number of cyclists that had crossed our path so far -- every one of them a grand-something. I also noticed that each bike was equipped with bar ends. Now, that's not all that unusual. But everyone of those old folks had them sticking straight up on the handle bars. I guess that they use the bar ends as a kind of extension device. Thus, while riding, they can sit in a more upright fashion.

One block off Main, we cut over to the west side of the canal. Although the towpath is officially closed along this section, it is less dangerous than bicycling along the Rte. 29 detour. Within 10 minutes, though, we are "official" once again. When we arrive in Stockton, I suggest that we ride to the Sergeantsville Covered Bridge. Bill told me that he has never seen the bridge and is willing to follow. We turn off the towpath and soon connect with Lower Creek Road.

This part of New Jersey I hate (and I mean, really hate) to admit, is very pretty. It looks just like a western Pennsylvania plateau. We follow a shallow "trout" stream whose small river rock basin is bordered on either side by hemlocks. A white-tail deer carefully picks its way across the toad-back like surface. It's a beautiful scene. As Judy, Bill and I continue on, I tell myself, "If I had to, I could live here." Then I add, "It's a shame this isn't on the other side of the river." When we finally reach the covered bridge, we stop for a 10 minute break.

Throughout the ride we have been encountering a lot of different kinds of wildflowers. My favorite, the Queen Anne's Lace, was in bloom but I only saw a couple of plants. The most prolific flowering plant was a tall multiple-flower job in three different colors. Judy swipes a specimen. "We're out of the park now; I can pick them here." (Later Sharon and I tried to identify these pretty wildflowers, but we couldn't find them in our field guide.)

Well rested, we head back toward the park. The riding is easy; it's mostly downhill until we reach Rte. 29. Within minutes we "T-boned" onto our road. The park lies about a quarter of a mile south of here. Soon I pull into the park's entrance -- a right hand turn. I holler back, "Watch your transition!" and continue on into the stone driveway. About 20 feet in, I hear a crash. Judy tells me the first thing she said was "Shit!" followed by "Mother fuck!" When she was turning, her bike was angled too much and her front tire slid along the two-inch curb. First she hit the ground and then she slid. Inertia is not body-friendly! Badly scraped, burned and cut, she remounted her bike and basically didn't mention her wounds again.

On our return trip, we stopped in Lambertville in order to cross the bridge over the Delaware River. Because bicyclists have to walk their bikes across, the crossing took a while. I think the bridge is close to a third of a mile across. Once we entered Pennsylvania, I bellowed my usual cry: "Ahh, freedom!"

Within a few minutes we were eating at Odette's Restaurant, which is world-famous, not for its food, but because it was the site where TV newscaster Jessica Savitch, her boyfriend (name unknown to me) and her dog "Chewie" drowned. During a rainy night, after dinner, the trio were leaving Odette's when the boyfriend mistakenly drove into the canal. All drowned. I scanned the menu for a "Jessica Burger" or a "Chewie Chowder," but found nothing. God, these people have class. After an hour or so, we head back out onto the trail. Back on the NJ side, we again pedal south.

At one of the small wooden bridges that cross over the canal, we pass what looks like a tiny flying saucer mounted on a bright orange tripod. I stop to look. Mike, from the engineering firm of Van Schief, tells me that he's tracking satellites. "Six right now; we can monitor up to eight at a time, though." "Interesting," I say, "but why?" Well, it turns out that the Van Schief Company uses these satellites for GPS studies. Surveying. They have three units set up today; this will allow them to triangulate their exact positions on earth.

This is interesting. If, after 40,000 years on earth, man can't pinpoint his exact position on earth without the use of a satellite, then how is it that after only 40 years we know the exact positions of these orbiting objects? If we don't know where we are here, how do we know where they are out there? Hmmm.

Once we hit Washington's Crossing, we decide to continue on to Scudder's Falls. I am anxious to see if there are any kayakers gamboling about. Scudder's Falls is their favorite hangout.

Years ago the State built a retaining structure that has been breached. An eddy has been formed along the bank, but above that is a really challenging run. These guys fight the upstream currents here to get "inside" a small trough. Once inside, they can literally sit there, motionless. All the while the water rushes by. A skilled pilot can adjust his position simply by scooting his bum around in the bottom of the boat. Using their paddle, they can perform major adjustments or exit the water.

Today not only did we see the boaters, but we also saw kids surfing (yes, with boards) in this trough. Can you imagine -- surfing a river. My decision for picture of the day was easy. Yo, dude...

With 32 miles in a little over three hours behind us, we called it a day.

May 29, 1997
Thursday

I couldn't have asked for an easier day today. Basically, I spent the entire day reading. The only interruption to my routine was lunch. The book that I am reading, At Home in Mitford, is delightful. There are now three more books in this series, so I'll be with this author for a good bit of the summer.

When I got home I cut the grass, then took Sharon into Egg Harbor for Chinese take out. She wasn't feeling well -- "...a blood sugar crash," she told me. "I knew I was bad when I realized that I wanted to rip out your throat!" "Nice, hon," I tell her as I feel around my car seat for the mace. Yikes!

The rest of my night was spent organizing my Erie Canal photos, putting pictures in Volume 6 and then writing in my journal. Only 26 days to go!

May 30, 1997
Friday
The Real Memorial Day

It's a damn good thing that I was at work today, otherwise I could have been arrested for stalking Judy. First we were on the bill changer pick-up together; next the coin drop. When that was done, we went into hard count. This was followed by soft count. Basically the only time that we weren't together was when we went to lunch (which was, by the way, at the same time.) It's interesting -- we spent most of our work day together, but I don't think we said more than a couple of dozen words to each other. I was working much, much too hard for conversation. Reading took a lot out of me, so midway through the day, I switched over to my knot work. I really don't want to burn myself out, so I have to keep switching my activities around. This can sometimes be a difficult challenge!

Judy tells me that her cuts aren't too bad, but her shoulders and neck are very sore from her sudden impact with the ground.

After work I stopped at the house to make up a grocery list. Having finished that, I drove down to Starne's in Absecon to shop. It was an interesting order -- lots of neat stuff like pistachios, cherries, cantaloupe and strawberries. I also found a really nice silver Cross pen. It looks good, but I'll have to buy a black, fine point ink cartridge for it. This was a great find; it more than made up for the time that I lost a really nice pen.

While shopping, I did something unusual. I picked up a couple of toys for the cats. A three-pack of mice (my picture of the day) and a box of catnip that you put inside of a small yellow ball.

As I was driving home, I thought about this purchase. Hmmm! Even though the mice look pretty damn close to the real ones that the cats have been catching down in the hell hole, I have to admit that I wonder if they will even bother with the toys. I picture a dead mouse lying on my livingroom carpet. The cats just let it lie there. Once it was dead, it didn't move and they quickly lost interest. What makes me think that they'll bother playing with pre-dead mice? Oh great, why didn't I think about this before I bought these stupid things.

When I got home I opened the package of mice, filled the ball with catnip and tried to entice the cats into play. The mice were a roaring failure. Snapper picked up one in her mouth but soon let it fall. And how about the catnip ball? Nada. I have to admit that I'm surprised by this. Mouse and Snapper both sniffed around the ball, but that was about it. Another $4 down the drain.

May 31, 1997
Saturday
Walt Whitman's Birthday - 1892
Nancy's Birthday

As slow as work was yesterday, it was just the opposite today. Basically there were the same chores yesterday as today, only everything took longer. Still, I was able to do some more knot work and I spent a little time reading my novel.

On the way home from work I stopped in Pomona to photograph the Blue Diamond Diner. The BD is a real diner -- one of the stainless steel trailer-type jobs from my childhood. There aren't a whole lot of these left. I saw a PBS special on TV a few years ago that was really fascinating. It was about the diners of Pennsylvania. I followed the special up by reading the companion book. I was surprised by the fact that I actually had been in the majority of the diners featured in the TV program. I also learned that most of these silver coffee shops of the night were made here in New Jersey. I believe they said that there were about three different companies that built these mobile units. Once sold, they were then trucked to their locations and many were opened within days. Most of the original trailers are now buried deep inside additions built around, alongside and atop the old bullet-like structures.

My boyhood diners included Dick's (in Murrysville), Serro's (Irwin) and Serro's II (in Greensburg.) Of the three, Sharon has been in all but the Irwin Diner. It is my understanding that that old trailer has recently been moved and is being restored and will reopen as a "living" museum.

When Dave and I went into the diner at Jim Thorpe, we discovered that there is a tabloid-like quarterly that is the newsletter of a diner memorabilia group. I've read two editions of that journal and decided not to subscribe. It wasn't an easy decision, but a necessary one. I only have so much time!

June 1, 1997
Sunday
Marilyn Monroe's Birthday - 1926

Today was an interesting "animal" day. It started with a big ol' 'coon sitting on top of one of my birdfeeders out back. And it ended with four flying squirrels hopping out of the nest that I have tacked to the cherry tree outside my front door.

The raccoon was cool. He was on top of the roof of my feeder hanging upside down. I can only guess how many sunflower seeds this thing chomped down. I got Sharon out of bed to check it out. After a few minutes I called out, "Are you confused, pumpkin? Do you think you're a bird?" With that, the animal climbed down and sauntered back into the woods. It didn't take me to be much of a threat, though, because I noted that it stopped only a few dozen yards into the woods.

The ride into work was like riding through "Bunnyville." Rabbits, rabbits, everywhere. I also drove by a feeding groundhog, a couple of squirrels and a cat.

Later, much later, like after dinner, I opened the door to the library and saw a pre-dead mouse toy and a just-dead real one. This was followed by the four flying squirrels. This is only the second time, Sharon's third, that I've seen Little Critter outside of its nest. Each time one jumped from the nest, another flying squirrel would pop its head out of the hole. Man, are these animals fast. No sooner than your eye could focus on its first move, it would be in its next phase. Nest roof...glide...tree branch...up! Then the next animal would repeat the sequence. Then, as if that weren't enough, I saw my first lightning bug of the year. Like I said, today was an interesting animal day.

At work I bumped into the woman who had lost her Cross pen at the grocery store the other day. She is now reunited with her favorite pen. How strange; but I'm used to strange. This kind of thing isn't all that unusual for me; it has happened before and I suspect that it will happen again.

When I got home from work, I found that Sharon had left me a note: "Went to the Herb & Botanical Alliance to buy flowers; be back soon." At about 4:15 she pulls in with $166 worth of flowers for the baskets out back. She was excited. "I'll just plant for half an hour, then I'll get ready for dinner." Maxwell is meeting us here; we're going to Columbia II for supper. Sharon played with her plants for another 50 minutes before I called her inside.

Dave was doing well, fully recovered from his "New York Flu." After a rundown of photographs and journal entries for the Erie Canal trip, we were on our way.

Dinner was spent discussing (Sharon would disagree with the word discuss) Dave's uncertain future. I know how I feel about my careerlessness and am trying to get Dave to "sense" my (and a lot of my co-workers') frustration at not knowing, and never even coming close to knowing, what "I want to be when I grow up."

It's easy to put yourself in Dave's position and say, "I know what I would do if I were he." But, of course, I don't have a fucking clue what I would do if I were me! I keep pointing out my traps to Dave, but I don't see any of his traps. The truth is, of course, that neither of us really has a trap. We could both design and follow a workable course of action if we weren't too ________ (fill in the blank.)

June 2, 1997
Monday

Earlier last week Sharon put in for a vacation day so we could hang out together. Our plan was to drive up to Bordentown, have breakfast with Susan, then head up to the D&R Canal to bicycle. Well, it started to rain last night; Sharon's knee pain flared up. Next, she took a pill for her pain then laid awake all night, reacting to the pill that she took. Right, we didn't ride the canal. And Sharon didn't get to christen her new one piece bicycle outfit. Worse still, it rained all day.

We did, however, drive up to Bordentown to join Sue for breakfast. She has a new puppy, "Lily", a yellow lab, so she's all excited. After we ate, we drove over to her place to check out the dog. Lily is cute, but as we were driving back home ( the windows of the truck closed because of the rain) I commented to Sharon, "I smell like a puppy." Sharon replies, "I was just thinking that...!"

Later I stopped at the bike shop to get a new handle bar for my Trek. It's called a Downhill Maniac, by Profile. The bar allows me to elevate my grip by about two inches. This, of course, brings my back into a more upright position. I'm hoping that I'll feel less fatigued when riding long distances.

Sharon opted to stay home and continue her planting. When I got there she was just putting the finishing touches on the porch planters. Yesterday she had purchased just enough flowers to fill all of her pots. How did she do that? How can she go to a nursery and pick out just enough greenery to fill the pots she has? Not only that, but she knew what went where when she was planting. Amazing things, women!

June 3, 1997
Tuesday

I woke up this morning to the sounds of my furnace kicking on. I can't believe this weather; only 17 days until summer and the temperature is still in the 50's. When I looked out the window, I found that it was not only raining, but the wind was outrageous as well.

My plan was to ride the D&R Canal with Ed Brna (of Caesars) but he called me last night to cancel. Since I was going to be solo, I figured that I might as well just cycle around here instead of driving an hour and a half. I got a new set of handle bars yesterday, so I was eager to try them out. The new bars will, I hope, do two things: they will raise my grip upward by two inches and at the same time shorten my reach by at least an inch.

By 10:30 I was ready for my test ride. Taking my own safety advice, I stopped at the end of my driveway and looked in both directions. Since nothing was approaching, I pulled out, turning left. I recently read that more fatal bicycle accidents occur just a few feet from the "victim's" house than any other location. Their advice: stop at the end of the driveway before pulling out onto the road.

The ride was a good one. The winds were awfully weird, though. Strong but non-directional. There were fierce gusts blowing from everywhere. One second I would be gliding along effortlessly and then the next I would find myself being dragged toward the center of the road. I'd correct my position, only to find that my bike was being pushed in some other direction. I couldn't keep a "line" to save my soul. I did this for an hour and 15 minutes. After 19 miles of this nonsense, I found that I had had enough.

I think that the new bars are a success. I'll have to check them out one more time, though, to be sure. About half way through my ride I noticed that my eyes were burning. Tears flowed like I had just lost a chance of bopping Elle McPherson. The further along I got, the worse the pain. By the time that I got home, I was in agony. I ran into the bathroom and washed them out. Now, not only did they burn and water, but they also felt like they were full of grit. I washed them out again. The only thing that helped was having them closed. So I did the obvious -- I went to bed. After an hour or so I woke up feeling much better. My eyes still felt irritated, but not horrible.

Sharon was due home at 6:00. That gave me a couple of hours to iron. I popped in a video and set to work. I ironed enough to get me through this week and some of next. This means that I'll need to spend another day at this, my favorite chore. I always put off ironing until I find that I don't have a single shirt left in my closet, then I feel as though I have to iron everything in sight. (Which normally I do.) Then I'll once again open my closet and notice -- "Hey, I've only got one shirt left!" Then the whole process starts again.

Sharon arrived home on time and "wolfed" down something to eat. She only had 20 minutes before we had to leave. This is the night of our second dance class. We have to be in Northfield at the "Shall We Dance" studio by 7:00.

We arrived there about 15 minutes early and watched the other dancers working on the cha-cha. Laura, our instructor, tells us to pay attention: "You'll be working on that one tonight, as well!" The cha-cha looks complicated. I soon find out that it is not. Sam Cooke's song is playing in the background, and everyone is looking at MY feet. One, two, cha-cha-cha; forward, back, cha-cha-cha. Hey, I can dance.

Next comes the tango and then the swing. I find that the beginning steps to the tango are easy. The classic tango song comes on and "Oh...my...."

When we got home, we tried to cha-cha to the music. Yeah, right! Cooke's song is just too damn fast for me, but Sharon -- wow -- look at that girl go. Cha-cha-cha.

We have Sam Cooke's CD on; it's the same one that they have at the studio. It's a killer album -- his greatest hits (like he recorded a song that wasn't.) I put on his song "Wonderful World", my favorite. "Don't know much about history. Don't know much biology. Don't know much about science books. Don't know much about the French I took. But I do know that I love you and if you know..." (God, goosebump city.) "They" used that song in a movie entitled "Witness." Kelly McGillis, as an Amish widow, and Harrison Ford, a Philadelphia cop, are together in central Pennsylvania. Ford turns on the radio of his car (a beat-up old VW bug) and the song comes on. He starts to dance with Kelly (actually she more or less just watches) and Ford is badly singing along. There is a quarter of a second's pause. Everything hangs on this moment. You can feel the sexual tension. Does he pull her close and seal this relationship, or does he hide, stopping right there and denying the feelings which are hanging there? No, he does neither. He postpones the decision; he continues on, "But I do know that I love you...and if you..." He goes on without skipping either a word or a beat. Man, what a powerful piece of writing. This scene is one of the most memorable moments that I've ever seen on the big screen. There are only a few others (or perhaps only one other) that can even come close to this work. And since then, this song has become even more moving for me. (Except, of course, for the Herman's Hermits' version.)

Just before bedtime I found Snapper playing with a not-yet-dead field mouse. I intervened. With a gloved hand I caught the beast and was preparing to chuck his little ass outside when I noticed that this tiny rodent was chomping down on my finger. Now that's defiance with a capital "D".

Movie: Extreme Measures

June 4, 1997
Wednesday

Sharon and I pulled into Borders parking lot shortly before 7:00. Entering the store through the Espresso Café's doors, we quickly staked out our territory for tonight. Once we got settled, Sharon headed over to the counter for coffee and I sauntered over to the travel section to pull out a book on bicycling the Hudson Valley. Well, who did I bump into -- yep, Judy Quackenbush. "Hey, Jude; what brings you out? Oh, is that right, a bi-weekly coffee klatsch? Neat idea!" She walks me back to the café and we join Sharon. Next Dave cruises by our window, and we silently greet each other. "My, I wonder who's that babe bouncing and swaying alongside that boy?" Actually Dave told me earlier that he would be bringing along his girlfriend, Marisol Cruz (of Elwood.) You never know when you might need one -- so I guess you should always have one handy.

So, by 7:10 p.m. the first session of the every-other-Wednesday Borders coffee klatsch got underway. All charter members are present and accounted for... Since I was responsible for making sure that this inaugural meeting was well-documented, I loaded up with enough film to properly carry out my duties. Furthermore, since Judy was my official "photo victim of the day," I had to make sure that she would be nicely represented. In other words, I was being a pain in the ass with my camera. Maxwell decided that his best defense was to raise his middle finger on each occasion that my camera was lifted off the table top.

Coffee for all and a cookie for Dave -- $10. This isn't going to be a cheap hangout.

Our conversation pretty much focused on upcoming bike rides, neat crash stories and cycling equipment. I was a little surprised that Marisol was hearing most of this stuff for the first time. Dave didn't tell her about the rattlesnake at Jim Thorpe or the "header" down the Wagon Train Road. Wow! What, I wonder, do they talk about?

Since none of us had met Marisol before, our conversations with her were geared more to things that we have recently heard about her. The wedding that she and Dave attended last week, for instance, helped us to break the ice. "So, how did Dave look in his tuxedo? And why didn't he stop over so I could photograph the boy?"

No one, however, mentioned her occupation. I mean, what do you say: "Yo, babe; great tits! I bet that they really add a little something to your show." However, we used the wedding to take us a little closer to the topic. "So, how did Dave do at the wedding? Dancing, that is...?" From there we introduced our new pastime -- ballroom dancing lessons. Judy's tap was mentioned and then I reminisced about my high school dances: "Yeah, all the chicks were out on the floor dancing while all of the guys (except four) walked around the outside wall of the gym. Why is it that they taught the girls how to dance in gym class yet the guys were left to themselves? And how, exactly, did those four guys learn how to dance, anyway?"

Around 9:00 Dave declares, "I'm hungry!" I pipe in with, "Pizza!" But it's too late for us; Judy has been up since 3:00 a.m. and Sharon and I both have work tomorrow. But before they go, Marisol jumps up and says, "I've got to buy a Cosmo." Where she was sitting tonight was in a direct line with the "fashion" magazine rack. She apparently had been scanning the covers for the past two hours. Her resistance had been beaten down and the need heightened to an unbearable degree. Within seconds she's scanning the pages of "Vogue" and "Vanity Fair." Then it happened. "Oh God, Maxwell! You're in a world of shit, boy!" Marisol is slowly browsing the pages of "Bride." Sharon and Judy look and they find her absorbed in the magazine. "This is too much, Dave!" The women start to laugh. They're fighting back their cackles, but tears well up. Marisol sees us looking and she, too, is fighting back her laughter. Only Dave and I are sober, or is it somber? "You're fucked, Maxwell; you hear me -- fucked." Now it gets worse; she brings the magazine back to our table to show Dave a dress. "Oh, it's nice, hon!" Poor booby...

After the youngsters leave (did she buy that magazine?), the three old folks -- Sharon, Judy and me -- continue our discussion. Yes, Marisol is nice; yes, she has a body that could stop a nuclear attack; and boy, if this gets serious, how is "Miss Judy" going to handle this? Judy then adds, "Hell, how is Dave's little brother -- you know, the smart one...Kevin -- going to handle this!" My reply is simple: "He'll love her; he'll end up at the library taking out books on the manatee!"

Sharon wonders how, or I guess what, Marisol thinks about her job. "I wanted to ask her, but I was uncertain about how she would react to being asked." My thoughts, which I expressed, were, "Well, she dances, doesn't she? She's a dancer...you are, essentially, what you do." Judy looks at me and laughs. "If that's the case, you are in deep shit, dude."

But I mean it. We are shaped, and decidedly so, by our jobs (or career, if you're lucky enough to have one.) Judy hates her job, but she is shaped by it. She argues, "I am not what I do!" Well, if you aren't who you are when you sleep, and if you aren't who you are on your job, then that only leaves eight or fewer hours to demonstrate just who you are. And let's deduct a couple of hours getting ready for work -- so now we're down to six... When do you find time, then, to be the "who" that you are? Ah, philosophy...!

Our grand night out is just about over; we're all getting tired. I comment on our first official night out. "And the best part was when Marisol went over to the magazine rack. 'Bride,' for godsake." Judy jumps in with, "Yeah, but she was just at a wedding on Saturday..." Sharon adds, "And she's just a kid..."

Sharon then asks Judy about her wedding. "Is this number two or three, Judy?" "Two." "And were they big ones, or were they more like ours -- just family?" Judy went into her weddings by telling us that they were small ones. "I couldn't stand the idea of a big wedding; I never, ever wanted one -- I didn't want to have to dance with my father, that jerk!" That just about says it all.

June 5, 1997
Thursday

When I got up, the furnace was again on. I looked outside and it looked nice. "We might actually have a half-decent day today," I think to myself. The sky is clear, the sun is poking out, and...what's that...? Christ, that raccoon has the roof of my feeder knocked upwards again. All of the seed I put in there last night is gone. This has to stop. Oh, great; now there's a squirrel out there, too.

My drive into work was uneventful except for one thing. As I drove by one of the horse farms along Moss Mill Road, I noticed that a horse was along the fence line near the road. As I drove by, the horse slightly lifted his head and flared [his/hers(?)] its nostrils. a column of vapor poured out of each side. Very Hollywood. I was waiting to hear an eagle crying in the background. It was a powerful image, one that I'll keep for a while.

Work was uneventful; I worked on some knots and read for a while. When I got tired of that, I jotted down a few notes for my journal.

After work, I drove up toward Rte. 206 near the Hammonton Airport. A few days ago I thought that a great picture of the day might be the 40 or so bee hive boxes in a farm field. So today I had enough time to explore. When I got there I looked around and tried to determine who might own this field, but there isn't any house nearby. So I parked my truck along the side of the road and started walking to the corner of the field. As I approached, I began to wonder if the hives were active or whether the farmer simply was storing the nest boxes here. Well, first I saw, and then I heard them. Bees, everywhere. I cautiously approached. I can't imagine how many bees must occupy this space. 43 boxes, six layers high -- wow. I zipped up my jacket, pulled the collar up and walked closer to the nests. "Say cheese, boys."

Later, around 9:00, I walked outside to look around. Just as I stepped outside, one of the flying squirrels was getting ready to jump from its nest over to the adjoining branch. My presence altered its immediate plan. After a quick evaluation -- nope, no threat -- the rodent jumped up onto its roof, then glided across to the next branch. Pop, out comes its mate, then baby #1 and finally, baby #2. Number 2 isn't quite as brave. With its head jutting out of the nest, it watches as I get closer, and closer. I'm directly underneath its nest. I call up, "Hey, little pumpkin -- don't you know that you're supposed to be afraid?" I banter on for a little while longer, then decide to back away. Enough trauma, or is that drama, for one day.

June 6, 1997
Friday
D Day - 1944

The World's Fair Casino in Atlantic City will no doubt join its predecessors and end up being the third casino to fold in this building. Playboy hung on, but it had the bunnies. The Atlantis had only the bad architecture. The public was willing to contend with the lousy design just to be a part of the Playboy myth. Don Trump had the right idea when he purchased the building. He saw the place as a cheap way to get a hold of hotel rooms without having to construct anything. Someone, somewhere along the line, gave him really bad advice. "Hey, let's open a low-end casino and pack them in." It isn't working. We've had a low-end casino in here before. It failed. What Trump needs to do is open Atlantic City's first smoke-free casino. If he doesn't he is going to end up closing this place down.

I spent six hours reading today. That's good for me, but awfully bad for the "house." I can't believe that with all of the great minds that are supposed to be on his staff, that they can't come up with a better marketing program. As I was getting ready to leave work this afternoon, my truck wouldn't start. Christ, I left the lights on again. This has to be the seventh time now. I'm generally not that stupid. I'm not saying that I've never left my lights on, or that I haven't locked keys inside a vehicle, but never to this degree of regularity.
I'm not too concerned, though; I'm parked on the roof. All I have to do is push my truck over to the ramp and "bump start" it. Down I go. I shift into third gear and pop the clutch. Nothing. OK; I'll try second gear. Again nothing. I coast down the entire ramp in gear, yet the engine won't kick over. I can't believe this. Then I remember that Ford has installed a device that won't allow the engine to start unless the clutch is depressed. You can't bump start an engine if your clutch is on the floorboards; it doesn't work. Again, this goes to show that high tech does indeed suck. "Hello, security? Send someone 'round, will you? Thanks." And since I have my hood open anyway, I might as well just photograph the old bird.
When I finally got home I grabbed something to eat, then headed over to Borders. Although I didn't buy anything (I didn't have any money) I did manage to pick out six books for future consideration. Again, I saw no one that I knew.

Reading: Brideshead Revisited, by Evelyn Waugh