Who Needs a Sports Car to Feel Young Again?

A couple weeks ago I woke up at 4:30 am and a Thought was there to say good morning to me. "Hi Barb," the Thought said. "How much do you pay to park your car when you go to work?"

"Huh?" I said, still wiping the sleep from my eyes.

"Dollars. Moolah. How much do you pay?"

I thought for a minute. Two dollars and twenty five cents times five. "$12.50 per week," I said.

"How much is that a month?"

"Come on it is 4:30 in the morning!" I whined.  "Ok, about $50."

"How much gas money do you spend driving those 3 miles to the office?"

"Uh, well let's see..." and I did the math. About thirty cents per mile. Not including wear and tear. So almost two dollars a day. Times five days a week. Times....you get the point.

The Thought continued.  "So how many hours in a month do you work simply to pay for driving and parking your car on the city street three miles from your house."

I knew where this was going.

Thought said very simply, "Get a bike".

A bike. Like bicycle. Why didn't I think of that. Oh wait, I did. Brilliant!

I used to ride a bike when I was a kid. I loved bikes. What kid didn't? I had a stingray with a banana seat after my tricycle.  I had a blue ten speed with white tape on the handlebars. I promptly stripped the bike down, painted it a metallic copper/gold color, and wrapped buckskin around the handle bars, lacing them with leather. My friends and I rode miles and miles and miles.

That was decades ago. Bikes are a bit different now. More fancy. More expensive. So I talked to some friends in the know. What should I look for? What should I avoid?

I hopped on Craig's list and quickly found the bike I was looking for. A 1977 Schwinn Suburban, new tires and seat, excellent condition. Scored it for $100.  Ebay has them for $900. This was fun.

Next was the helmet. Of course looks are everything, then comfort. I found both. I look patriotic. A blue bike, helmet with a red streak. Stylin'.

I hopped on Old Blue and off I rode down the street, arms wiggling trying to get used to the handle bars that feel like I am pushing a wheel barrel. Soon it was a smooth ride. Then it hit me.

I was free!

Free like an Eagle soaring across the sky! I experienced that complete exhilaration I remembered as a kid, the moment I was no longer a bipedal humanoid but new creature with round legs that gave infinite motion. Oh my lord, I was a kid again.

I have been hankering for a sports car or an old pickup truck lately, something from my younger days. But not anymore. I am reliving my youth riding Old Blue down to the Capitol every morning. Each trip is a new adventure. "Mom, will you pack my lunch? Pickles and peanut butter sandwich please, with sour cream and green onion chips! Don't forget the cookies!" I can hear myself say.

I take the river trail most of the way, greeting the ducks and rabbits and birds that are already going about their day. My wheels squish ripe mulberries on the boardwalk, little puddles of purple dotting the wooden rails. I stop if I feel like it and fill my mouth with summer bliss. I think of Grandma Bell, making me a mulberry pie from the pale full that I picked for her one summer day in the early 1970's. My blue mouth smiles and on I go. I pass the homeless people having their breakfast on the shore of the river. "Morning!" I say. They smile and respond. My smile never leaves.

I have walked to work and I have driven. But I never learned about the topography until I rode my bike. Wheels reveal secrets. I never knew it was mostly downhill to the Capitol, except for the last little jog.  My legs told me it was uphill most of the way back today, my first day of commuting by bike. I felt so good when I got to work, and even better when I got home.  Who else gets to go out and play before they go to the office?

I must have been a sight!  I had a pink bandana tied around my right ankle to keep my pant leg from getting greasy. I had a guitar strapped on my back with a bright orange MDOT vest wrapped around that, as we had band rehearsal today at lunch.  When I tried to stop and scoot off the seat, the guitar was behind it and prevented me from moving forward far enough. That first stop was hilarious as I was trying to look so cool to the passing motorists.  I can hear them now. "Look a that old lady with a guitar on her back riding that 1977 Blue Schwinn Suburban!"

Eat my dust!

The Wren and the Bumblebee

One of my favorite memories of Grandma's home is the song of the house wren. She always had a nest box tacked to the clothesline pole, and each spring the house wrens would return, singing their delightful songs.

The first year I moved into my house a wren nested in the clay pot bird house I had made. I watched their comings and goings from my kitchen window, as I had hung the pot on the front porch directly in front of it. It was wonderfully healing, helping me feel close to my Grandma who had passed the year before.

I haven't seen any wrens at my house since then. Last year a chickadee family claimed the clay pot home and successfully fledged their young. I left the pot hanging over the winter without removing the old nest, thinking I would get around to it in the spring.

A couple of days ago I heard a wren. My heart was filled with joy! I ran out back where the pot was now hanging and quickly took it down so as to clean out the old nest.  I disassembled the pot and took off the bottom tray, only to find a large Bumblebee buzzing out of the nest! I placed the nest on the ground as the disoriented Bumblebee flew around. My mind only on the wren, I took the bird house to the hose and cleaned it out spic and span. I quickly reassembled the clay pieces and hung it on the front porch. I waited.

The Bumblebee didn't leave. I watched as it flew around the back door, obviously searching for its home. She didn't give up.  Finally, the Bumblebee flew closer to the ground and found her nest. She disappeared under the fluffy ball.

Shit.

I went to the front porch where I had hung the clay pot bird house, which was now a Bumblebee house.  I took it down and walked back to the Bumblebee nest. Was she still there? She was not at all happy with what I had done, in fact she had me trapped in the garage for a good ten minutes. My nose pressed to the glass, I watched as she tried to get in to the garage through the clear window pane, obviously wanting to give me a taste of her mighty stinger. I couldn't blame her.

I cautiously approached the nest. No Bumblebee. I quickly put the nest back on the clay dish, inverted the pot to cover it, put a cork in the opening (just in case she was still there) and screwed the whole thing back together.  As I walked into the backyard to rehang the pot from the patio roof behind the garage, I saw the Bumblebee flying around the spot where her nest used to be.  I took a deep breath and spoke to her gently. "I am sorry Bumblebee. I did not know this was your nest. I have put it all back together so let me hang it back up and you can have you nice, cozy home back. Just hold on for a few seconds, OK? No stingy me, OK?"  She backed up and let me hang her nest.  As soon as it was up she flew inside. Home sweet home.

Later that day I was watching the news and saw a clip of Governor Chris Christy proudly smashing a Spider that had crawled onto a table in classroom he was visiting. The children cheered. Tears welled up in my eyes for that Spider, who was doing nothing more than walking through its home. Tears also formed for the children, whose hearts were already hardened to the sacredness of life - on that day the life of the smallest creature.

How can we be so different? It is no wonder we are killing this planet when we have taught our children to revel in the death of one so small.