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Storyworth: What Was Your Mother Like When You Were a Child?
When I look back on my mother’s life, at least the part since I was born, I see specific chapters. The first chapter is the time when she was building a family with my father. The second chapter was the time after my father got sick and had to stop working. Then the period after he died.
They were married in June of 1952 and I arrived in May of 1953. So, they got right to it creating a family of three boys and a girl.
My father worked as a machinist at B. F. Goodrich Company. It’s known today as a tire company, but, in those days, they also made sneakers. They eventually sold the sneaker division to Converse. The two top brands were P.F. Flyers and Jack Purcell’s. P.F. Flyers were high tops for kids. Jack Purcell’s were tennis shoes that grownups wore. Every spring, my father would bring home a pair of sneakers from the “seconds” pile at the plant. These were sneakers with imperceptible flaws. He got them for free, which I thought was incredibly cool. One of my “coming of age” moments came when my father brought home the Jack Purcells instead of the P.F. Flyers. I felt that was a sign I was growing up. Back then, that was good news, less so these days. I know I digress and this anecdote should have gone into the chapter about my father, but it came to mind, so I’m sharing it here.
But back to my mother. She was what was known at the time as a “homemaker” or “housewife.” Today, it’s “stay at home Mom.” She didn’t have a job outside the home until after my father died.
Continue ReadingStoryworth: What Was Your First Big Trip?
There were no trips in my family when I was growing up. I can barely recall a cottage we had in Humerock, MA, about 40 minutes south of Boston. I remember it was right on the beach. There is an image of a starfish burned in my deep memory. I think I was probably 5 years old.
Other than that, a vacation was when I stayed over at my cousins’ houses in other neighborhoods of Boston. We were in Roslindale. My mother’s two brothers and a sister had families in Dorchester and Mission Hill. Two of them had eight children, one had seven. There were only four in mine. Each of them had a child near my age and we all were very close. Staying at their house was always fun and involved many adventures.
But that was it. We never went anywhere far enough away that I slept anywhere but my own bed or at my cousins’. We’d go to Wollaston beach for a day. And the more exotic trips were to Nantasket, which had an amusement park next to the beach. But they were always day trips.
Continue ReadingStoryworth: What are some of your childhood memories of your father?
I was named after my father, but I’m not a junior. He was named William Henry Black. I’m just William Black. I’ve always puzzled over why my parents didn’t give me the middle name of Henry. I remember my mother saying they just didn’t like the name Henry. But there has to be more to it. I’ll never know.
My father died when I was 17 years old. I was in full adolescent rebellion and I still grieve over the fact that many of my last conversations with him were contentious. He didn’t deserve that. He was a good man.
My Father and Mother in the Early 50'sBill Black was the guy everyone called to fix things. He was a machinist for B.F. Goodrich, so pretty mechanically inclined. I would often accompany him on his house calls and I hated it. My role was simply to hand him the tools and it bored me to tears. I also recall helping him help people whose car was stuck in snow. My father was a master at wrapping chains around slippery tires.
Before my rebellious years – and after he died – I greatly admired him. He was a handsome man. He had jet black hair and brown eyes. His hairstyle was a flat top. My mother never allowed me to grow enough hair to have a flat top. Her preferred style was the wiffle.
He exuded strength. He served in WWII and landed at Normandy on D-Day Plus One and slept in his truck on the beach for his first week in France. He was 26 years old at the time. His account of that experience is attached at the end of this post.
Continue ReadingStoryworth Book
For Christmas, my daughter gave me a subscription to something called “Storyworth.” It’s an online program that sends out a question about your life every week and you, the subscriber, have to write an answer to the question. At the end of the year, it assembles all the answers into a book.
It was a good gift for me because I find writing therapeutic. That said, in the words of a million famous writers, “I hate writing, but love having written.” So, I need encouragement to find the discipline to write. Frankly, in my retirement, there’s nothing to encourage me to write except to achieve the good feeling from “having written.” Until now. I’m sure I will experience pressure and guilt over the course of the week as I procrastinate after the question from Storyworth arrives each Monday. But I do think it will force me to write about things that might be of interest someday to my grandchild Kieran. Or not. But who cares? I’ll never know.
As a further incentive, it will force me to produce content for this blog, the readership for which sometimes reaches into the high single digits. But it does provide some needed pressure and an outlet for therapeutic writing.
So, here I go. Most recent post coming up then chronological going back.
Me and My Favorite Park Ranger
Recently, I had an encounter with a park ranger, my third one with the same guy in a week. It didn’t go well.
I’m always trying to avoid them when I walk Rozzie because the rule is that dogs must be leashed in Rock Creek Park. I simply can’t bring myself to keep Rozzie on a leash in the park. The sight of her gallivanting with unbounded joy through the woods is just too appealing. How can I deny her that experience? So, I make some effort to look ahead on the trails when I’m walking so I can hook her up if anybody is coming towards me, not just park rangers, anybody.
A few weeks ago, I was walking into the trail at the intersection of Beach Drive and Military Road. It’s the trail heading up to the nature center. Since I was just entering the trail, I had Rozzie on a leash. A very nice young man, a park ranger, probably in his 30’s, with long frizzy hair was coming down the path from the other way. He greeted me very enthusiastically and I think even complimented me on the fact that I had Rozzie on a leash. I felt good about it, especially knowing that, had I run into him 5 minutes later, Rozzie would have been off the leash, gallivanting. A bullet dodged, I thought.
So, Rozzie and I walked up the hill to the nature center and then came down to the creek, most of the way unleashed. We came down to the creek and walked the mile or so along the creek back towards Military Road. Just as I was turning the corner on the last stretch, who comes around the bend, but the same park ranger. And Rozzie is running free. Uh oh.
He was so very disappointed in me and told me so. Gave me a little lecture about “predators” like Rozzie and their relationship with horses. He said, plaintively, “But you had her on the leash just a little while ago!” As if to say, “You used to be such a good person. Now look at you.” It was said more in sadness than in anger. And it really blew my day. I had been basking in his undeserved goodwill from our previous encounter. And then, I let him down. I felt like such a failure.
In time, I got over it and continued my daily walks in the woods with Rozzie mostly off-leash. Yes, I’m a recidivist. But I had a plan. I decided that I needed to walk earlier, before this park ranger got out of bed. And I need to stay away from Beach Drive and Military Road.
So, about a week later, I started my walk at 7:30 am and stayed clear of Military Road. At about 8:45 am, I was going over a hill toward Oregon Avenue, probably a mile away from my previous busts. When I got to the top and looked ahead, guess who was standing at the bottom looking up at me? Yup, my nemesis, the same park ranger. I immediately hooked Rozzie up and kept walking. Why I didn’t turn around and go the other way, I don’t know. I guess I subconsciously felt I needed to take my medicine like a man.
Another lecture. Again, more in sadness than anger. I’d let him down yet again. He didn’t say, “This is the second time, I’ve caught you!” He didn’t say, “You know, I could fine you $200.” He didn’t say (as one park ranger once said to me), “I could arrest you and put you in jail!”
No, just another weary lecture. He didn’t give me the slightest reason to be mad at him. He was totally in the right and I was totally wrong. I am such a bad person.
This time, I learned my lesson. I need to go out at 7.
Tuesday, Venice Beach, Final Ride
Now that I’m in the groove, got my bike legs, rides are shorter and flatter, the weather has been spectacular (except for a lot of fog near the beach) and even my gear shifter is working better.
So, time to quit.
Actually, I have to be on Cape Cod for the celebration of life for my sister-in-law, so I had to leave at this point. But it is a nice way to end the ride.
Here’s the trip from Oxnard to Venice Beach.
We stayed at St. Mark’s Catholic Church in Venice. It was not quite what I expected. I used to work for the congresswoman from Venice and I remember it as a funky place with interesting people. I never thought of it as unsafe. But, St. Mark’s is like a fortress. Heavy fencing all around. The very nice pastor greeted us warmly. He’s a Dutch man of about 55 years old or so, ordained only a few years ago. He was named pastor two weeks ago. He told me that his previous post was in South Central LA, often considered among the most dangerous neighborhoods in America. He said he never felt threatened there.
“If you’re a white man in South Central,” he said, “You’re either a cop or a priest and they leave you alone. Here, on the other hand, they’re crazy. Nobody’s safe.”
Nice.
As I prepared to snuggle into my sleeping bag for the night in preparation for an early departure at LAX, the team leader invited me to a “circular up” with the other riders for a good by. I got my sticker for this ride, but was also presented with a sticker reflecting my lifetime fundraising achievement of $20,000. That was unexpected. I didn’t know they kept track. A testament more to my generous donors than to me.
And that was that.
THE END.
Monday – In the Groove
It usually takes about a week to fully integrate into the rhythm of a Fuller ride. And today, that’s how it feels. I’ve finally got my bike legs. That, combined with a relatively short (50 miles) flat ride made today a breeze.
Here’s the ride from Santa Barbara to Oxnard.
https://www.relive.cc/view/vQvx1Z9VW9O
One problem that persisted on the ride was my gear shifting. I often found myself in the wrong gear with no way to get out of it. Not a big deal when you’re going downhill but sucks when you’re going up.
This ride also afforded me the opportunity of riding with the pack, at least for a while. I can keep up on the flats.
We stayed at All Saints Episcopal Church in Oxnard and I snared the perfect sleeping area. In a corner next to an electrical outlet. Heaven.
Sunday – Rock and Roll Pastor, Plumbing Problems and a Photo Excursion
The Sunday service at St. Michael’s Church outside Santa Barbara could not have been a greater contrast from the previous Sunday’s service at St. John’s Armenian Church in San Francisco. Frankly, it’s one of the coolest aspects of Fuller Center rides is experiencing the variety of ways Americans worship. That said, what struck me most is that the two pastors we actually so much alike. Both handsome young men in their 30’s. Both avid bikers. Both very much men of the 21st century in their private lives. But they were very different when they took to their respective altars.
The priest at St. John’s wore ancient vestments and conducted the service in Armenian. As noted before, it was an extremely formal ceremony, probably conducted the same way it was in the 15th century. It was so formal that I don’t have a picture. I tried to sneak a picture, but it didn’t come out.
Thing were different at St. Mike’s.
At St. Mike’s we had access to two toilets and one shower for 20 people. We were warned when we arrived that drainage was a problem, so showers had to be spaced 15 minutes apart. Notwithstanding our compliance with that rule, one of the toilets backed up. Fortunately, our team leader, Tim, stepped into the breach and spent the whole day dealing with the crisis. Either up to his elbows in toilet water or on the phone with various plumbing companies. He was promised a service call in 30 minutes, three hours later, nothing. Finally, one of the riders, a tough talking 80 year old commercial real estate agent (that’s right, 80 years old!) called a buddy in New Jersey who “knew a guy.” A plumber finally showed up, snaked the pipes and fixed it.
I spent the afternoon on a photo excursion to Devereaux Slough, a marshy area about a mile from the church. Got some good pictures of egrets and the seashore. Still trying to process the photos so will post later.
Saturday Service Project Near Santa Barbara
In addition to biking, the Fuller Center ride seeks opportunities for service projects along the ride. For the weekend in Santa Barbara we did some landscaping work for a camp in the mountains that serves at-risk foster kids. We cleared leaves at the entrance of the camp using rakes and blowers. It was a welcome break from cycling, though I have to admit, I hate yard work.
Lunch on Saturday was memorable. We went to a funky barbecue place near the camp on the side of the mountain. It was a former stagecoach stop with a tavern and looked it. The road was steep and winding. We marveled at the ability of a team of horses to make it over the mountain. Then we marveled even more with the ability of a drunken stagecoach driver to get down the hill after a stop at the tavern.
Our team leader used the occasion to say goodby to one of extraordinary support people. Her departure was particularly tragic for us beer drinkers as she was the one mentioned in an earlier post who would do periodic beer runs.
Friday, Another 70 Miler to Santa Barbara
https://www.relive.cc/view/vLqe4NQY4R6
For each day’s ride, two bikers volunteer to be “sweeps,” which means they always stay behind the last rider to make sure he or she has help if they have a problem. For me, I’ve always been a bit annoyed by the sweeps, whoever the are. I’m often that last rider and I always feel pressure when I see the sweeps in my rear view mirror. It reminds me how slow I am and discourages me from stopping to take a picture. The best sweeps try to stay out of sight, but, when you’re the last rider, you always know they are there, even if I you can’t see them.
On the other hand, and in reality, the sweeps are the most self-less riders on any given day. They have offered to give up a part of their enjoyment of the ride in support of the team. They help riders with flats and other mechanical problems. Since they are prohibited from getting in front of any rider, they will wait (mostly patiently) until a riders problem is resolved and they are on their way before they proceed. And, even then, they wait a while longer so as not to pressure the rider. Finally, and maybe most significantly, they are, by definition, the last riders into the church, so their sleeping spot is whatever is leftover after ALL the riders have chosen theirs. In a big church, that may not be a problem, but in the smaller church, they could end up sleeping the middle of the floor with no access to electricity (my nightmare scenario).
That is why, when the ride leaders calls for volunteers to be sweeps when we gather in the morning, there is ALWAYS a long silent pause. Eventually, someone will say dejectedly “Aw well, I’ll sweep.”
I have managed to avoid being the sweep for the five Fuller rides I’ve been on, generally because I always feel like a relative rookie and because I like to at least have the option to jump off the ride and ride the van, if I choose. Something you can’t do as a sweep. But my streak ended today and I was recruited to be a sweep. It was considered a modest ride, 70 miles, 3,000 feet of climb. Same mileage and only a little more climbing than yesterday, so no physical excuse to decline. Fortunately, the other sweeper, who actually volunteered, is the best conversationalist on the ride. A true wit. So, I knew I would be entertained.
The ride itself had its challenges. Chief among them was mechanical. My gear shifting mechanism was misbehaving. At the end of yesterday’s ride, I was unable to get into the lowest gear. That’s a problem because low gear is my favorite gear. I have enough trouble getting up these damned hills. Having to do so in a higher than necessary gear is not fun, to say the least. The ride’s unofficial mechanic tried to help and he did improve the situation. The gear would shift eventually. But I still had to struggle to get into low gear. It was hit or miss. Most of the time it would eventually work with a lot of fiddling and diddling with the gear shift levers. At one point while I was fiddling, I drifted over the rumble strip on a highway. Not ideal, but there was little traffic. When you’re in a car, driving over a rumble strip creates a slight jostle and a buzzing sound. When you drive over a rumble strip on a bike, it rattles your teeth and it’s all you can do to remain upright. What it also does is jangle the chain and sprocket so it can help you get to low gear. It worked once. As the ride progressed, when all else failed, I tried deliberately driving over the rumble strip to switch gears. It never worked again.
One of the ways we stay on our route is that the front drivers and the support vehicles will stop and use chalk to write directions on the pavement in advance of turns. They will write an arrow to indicate which way you should go. After a very long 30 mile climb this morning, we reach the top of a hill and began our rapid descent. After a mile or so speeding down a winding road on the side of the mountain, I came around a curve with about a thousand foot drop on the right. I noticed a chalk mark with the Fuller Center initials pointing to the right….over the cliff. There’s a lot of joking around on this ride and occasionally funny messages chalked on the road. But I thought this was unfunny and possibly the most dangerous joke I’d ever seen. It wasn’t until I came around the bend that I saw the rest stop in a little clearing on the right side of the road. OK, so it was pointing to a rest stop, but still…
We’re staying at St. Michael’s Church in Santa Barbara, right next to the UC Santa Barbara campus. Clearly a totally “woke” church. Big rainbow flag and Black Lives Matter banner outside. Coolest pastor ever. More later.
