Writers of the Round Table

Writers of the Round Table

The Harriet May Savitz Writers of the Round Table
Our History

In February of 2001, author Harriet May Savitz, at a Senior Citizens meeting, extended an invitation to any interested persons to come together and form a creative writing group. That was all that was necessary. The rest is history.

On February 14, 2001 a group of eight Senior Citizens, namely Rose Cirelli, Milton Edelman, Mildred Koweek, Ann Marzano, George H. Moffett, Elia Reyes, Harriet May Savitz, and Edna Wilkins met for the first time under the enthusiastic leadership of Mrs. Savitz. They decided to name the group, The Writers of the Round Table of Bradley Beach.

Present Information

As the writer’s group continued to meet weekly, a bond formed amongst the members and we knew we were here to stay. So many exciting articles and essays are being written by our group, that we decided to go out on the internet and share them with you.

We are not professionals and we do not pretend to be. We are a group of creative Senior Citizens who are promoting the motto of our organization: “Let’s not look back!  Let’s give back!”

We welcome new members at our weekly meetings on Wednesday at 10:00 A.M. at the Carmen A. Biase Community Center in the Municipal Complex, 719 Main Street, Bradley Beach, N.J. 07720.

OUR WRITING:

COMPLICATIONS 101                                                                                               GaryCrawford                                      

A bulb in the hallway ceiling light has burned out. It did seem a little gloomy in there with only one of two bulbs lit. Easy enough! Off to the dining room for a chair and to the pantry for a new light bulb.

The globe is removed and the bad bulb unscrewed. The light fixture is a little loose, so after getting down and finding a screwdriver, back up on the chair and the screw in the middle of the fixture is tightened. It keeps turning and won’t tighten, and the whole fixture now wants to come down from the ceiling. Down from the chair, watching for the fixture to suddenly fall, but the wires hold it up there. Put the chair away and go get the six-foot step ladder. And a trip to the cellar to turn off the breaker. Now to see what’s going on here.

The wire nuts are removed, the wires separated, and the fixture comes down. The junction box in the ceiling that the fixture attaches to is loose. The box is wiggled, only to find the joist it’s fastened to is rotted. A rotted beam in a dry attic? Off to the attic to investigate.

The area in question is under the floorboards, so a few of the pieces of flooring have to be removed. Now to see what’s wrong. Yes, it sure is rotted. The wood itself is wet. How can it be wet? Nothing else around it is wet. A little more investigation finds a tiny river running across the foil backing of the insulation right to where the light fixture is. Now where is that water coming from?

After removing a few more floorboards, access is gained to where the attic and roof meet. There’s a hole here somewhere that’s letting water in. Finding the culprit, a small opening almost to the edge of the roof is discovered. Now, outside to see what’s going on.

The extension ladder is dragged out and set up partially through the branches of the tree next to the house. There’s a spot where a branch has rubbed against the roof and wore a hole into the shingles and the plywood beneath. So back to the shed for a bow saw and back up the ladder and the offending tree parts are cut away. Then down to the cellar to look for the can of roof cement and a spare shingle to cover up the hole.

That done, the hunt is on for a piece of 2 x 8 to replace the rotted piece in the attic. There are no 2 x 8s in the household inventory, so off to the lumberyard. Maybe four feet of lumber is needed, but the minimum is an eight footer.

Back home and upstairs to measure just how long the 2 x 8 has to be. Then downstairs and outside to cut the board, after finding and setting up the saw horses, dragging out an extension cord, and the circular saw. Then back upstairs to set the new board.

Forgetting to take a saw upstairs to cut out the bad piece, back down to the cellar for a handsaw. The electric saw won’t fit in the cramped space, so good old manual sawing will be required. But the handsaw is too long, so back to the cellar for a short saw. The short saw is AWOL, and the only other candidate for the job is a hacksaw, with its tiny metal-cutting teeth that will be like cutting lumber with a nail file.

Over an hour later, the bad piece is cut out and the new piece put in place, after forgetting to bring along a hammer and nails, requiring yet another trip to the cellar.

The junction box is fastened in place and the floorboards are put back. Tools are gathered from the attic and brought to the cellar. Back to the hallway and the wires are connected and the !light fixture is put back up on the ceiling. The globe is replaced, the ladder taken down, and the power restored to the hallway, after another trip to the cellar and the breaker box.

The wall switch in the hall is flipped, and after all this extra work, the other bulb in the fixture has burned out.

Electrical, carpentry. flooring, tree trimming, roofing, and tool go-fer.

And all I wanted to do was replace a burned-out light bulb.

An Old Picture                                                       Gary Crawford

A forty-year-old photograph. Many more than a thousand words are pictured here.

Everything in this photograph has a special meaning to me.

A great shot of my father, about 39 in this picture; a mentor, a teacher, a disciplinarian, a hard-working man who took care of his family.

There’s our old dog, Snoopy. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but a great dog. To our family, he was just another kid in the house.

There’ our old garage in the back. When my family bought the house and property, a 1951 Chevrolet was parked inside. For an extra 50 bucks, the car was ours. The garage itself, built from old 2x4s and random barn board, was a flimsy shell of a structure that somehow weathered the occasional Atlantic hurricane. Not built anywhere near to today’s building standards, it nonetheless served as our car repair shop, bicycle and lawn mower and yard item and building material storage, and a secluded place for a teenage guy to hang out to cop a smoke or to kiss a girl. It served as headquarters for all those cars we restored, from a ’36 Buick to a ’50 Mercury and a few others.

There’s the chain link fence behind the garage, the barrier between us and the old Neptune City Roosevelt School’s playground.  The constant sounds of basketballs bouncing and other playground activities were a part of the neighborhood. Whether during school hours, after school and weekends, or all summer long, the basketballs bounced behind our garage.

To the left was the Mitchell family’s yard. To the right were the Millers.

Our back yard itself hosted everything from cookouts and picnics, small gardens, hide-and-seek and other games to dirt piles and Matchbox cars and rock and roll band practice. Many times Dad and I, while working on a car on a hot day, or just relaxing afterward, would enjoy seeing what we could do to a twelve-pack of Rolling Rock pony bottles. Dad didn’t mind that I was underage, as long as I wasn’t having a beer away from the house.

Overhead, the clothesline stretched from the back porch to the garage; squeaky pulleys and all. With our bunch, it saw a lot of use. A notched pole would hold the middle of the line aloft when the clothes were wet and heavy.

So many images in the photograph have gone out of focus and faded from view. After we sold the house, the new owners tore the old garage down. The old Roosevelt School is gone, along with the old chain link fence, replaced by a new fence when the school property was turned into a neighborhood park, the basketball hoops once behind the garage replaced by safe playground equipment. The Mitchells to the left have moved away, while to the right, the elderly Millers, like another set of grandparents to us kids, have long since passed.

Good old Snoopy passed away, due to those tumors that seem to infest only the good dogs.

We lost Dad in 2006 as well, a great loss of great man.

And center stage, a unique possession that I finally completed a song about, is also gone, succumbing to various mechanical ailments of old age.

She was a good truck, I want you to know, when I had her, four pickups ago. With her, I had nothing but good luck. I sure miss her, in every way, and I wish I still had her to this very day, my 1949 Studebaker pickup truck.

As the images of those things no longer with us fade away, only two things remain to be seen today: The back yard of the house in Neptune City, and that once-gangly youth of a mere seventeen, me.

Don’t Fence Me In                                                                        Veronica Cullinan Lake

I’m not a fan of fences. In most cases I contend they aren’t needed or mismatched to the house and property they’re attached to.

 On the second floor window of my garage house my eyes travel over five backyards embossed with vines, bushes, odd trees, and one dog house then on to the next street and their front yards. Visually I encompassed the one block and was starting on the next. It was like being in an airplane exploring the neighborhood.

 I love open spaces. Although I lived in Manhattan I never felt confined, for once you hit the streets laid out in a grid, you could look up or down, right or left as far as you eye could travel. Therefore, I always felt I was in the city and a part of it. There was seldom a wall, fence, or building in the way. Now I’m lucky to live by the ocean so my eyes and spirit get to move out over the water journeying to the horizon. It’s an experience that profoundly alters my soul.  I also believe if you aren’t comfortable with physical space and rush to fill it up, you will be uncomfortable with inner space and constantly deny your soul rest.

Outdoor space is becoming more and more limited so I feel sad when not many of my neighbors actively use their property.  I seldom see them walking around breathing in the fresh air, checking the bird feeders, or sitting in chairs soaking up the sun. On Saturdays I occasionally hear men mowing or weed whacking lawns into postage stamps. Many yards are used solely as backdrops for the house.

Suddenly one weekend last summer a neighbor put up a white vinyl fence, then another one appeared, then another, until every yard looking out from my kitchen window had one. No vines, roses or sturdy bushes to soften the rude affront. What was everyone behind cubicles of shiny white vinyl protecting them from?  Now instead of my eyes gliding over backyards they leap over fences stopping to dig around into pits of space.

In the two months of summer my neighbors eat, drink, and talk in their yards for maybe an hour or two a week. Why did they pen themselves in to eat in the company of a few guests? When does socializing require forced privacy behind a six foot fence!

Are there any children playing in these backyards? No. Is there a small pool for totlers to splash in an out of? No.  Is their a thriving garden with lettuce, ripe tomatoes, and zucchini? No. So what is the purpose of the Home Depot back yards?

Do they know that each ice cube tray of vinyl is filled with the same stuff: patio pavers covering the earth, a glass table, a convoy of chairs, and a mammoth steel gray grill? They have made the out of doors into another room. And all of this furniture is shrouded in silent, black plastic most of the year. Again no vines, roses, or flowering shrubs to soften the affront.

Last week a new couple moved into our neighborhood. Their property extended from one end of the block to the next, minus two houses. This property was bordered on four sides by eleven houses. Their yard consisted of a bramble of trees and bushes, a dilapidated garage house, and the last third of a plain old backyard cornered off with straggly fir trees.

The couple has money and children. Big machines arrived and ripped out the trees, demolished the garage house, leveled the ground and then left. Slowly the curious owners of the eleven houses put on coats, hats, and boots and ventured out. This giant opened space demanded inspection. They circled around rotting tree trunks, falling fences, gaping holes in wire fences, and their moss- covered garages.

Introductions were made, conversations started, questions asked. What were the new couple planning to do with the space, was a fence going up? After two hours the group started to disburse, every one sure of where each and every house began and ended and who was going to get The Fence. By night fall of the following day a formidable and elevated six foot cedar fence enclosed the property and formed identical backyard fences for all of eight houses.

The fence and the space it enclosed became an entity in itself. A boat could have sailed though that trench. Walking through it reminded me of my trip down the Panama Canal.

Every one seems happy with the situation but ….the next hurdle to face becomes what is going to be built in the giant yard behind that long, long fence.

Space, open space, became something to conquer, to come to terms with, and a fence was the solution.

Lost of Identity                                                                           Veronica Cullinan Lake

 I’m sitting  on a balcony over Great Bay on the north end of the town of Phillipsburg on the island of St Martins watching children ages 6 – 10 jumping off the dock into the bay running onto the beach up the ramp and jumping again from the dock hours on end. Barking dogs tied to sea grape trees spreading in their yard scrambled to catch wind blown, crumbled leaves. Unleashed dogs wander down the streets through the town looking very business like. A line of segue- all tires with a giant handle and robot- like drivers ride the entire length of the beach and back. Grey, charcoal, and white clouds billow over the ocean strips of aquamarine, turquoise, and cobalt blue traveling with the breezes chasing one another. Island ladies, with piles of hats perched on their heads, their shoulders and arms stacked with rows of thin, thin cotton dresses scout for customers.

Early every morning I walked to a grove of palm trees down by the port and read sitting at old wooden picnic tables. Visiting here twenty years ago this area of St. Martins was entirely studded for miles and yards deep with palm trees.

A s the crayoned colored tin- roofed shacks boarded up for the night open slowly like flowers, with tables and chairs brought out to canopied platforms stretched to block the sun, I’d find a restaurant to eat breakfast and watch as small contingent of men carried hundreds of plastic white lounge chairs and red, blue, yellow, and green umbrellas to accommodate visitors parading out from multitier ships in port, four or five of them each morning. When the horns sounded in the late afternoon they’d board to wake up to still another port in the morning. Many passengers spend dock side touring in air-conditioned vans skittling about the island flipping cameras out at every beach stop.

A dramatic island becomes a postcard for lines of people from other places. This island use to be home to people who farmed vegetables, raised chickens, goats, pigs, ate mangoes and coconuts from trees, sewed their own clothing , made their own trinkets , but are now totally dependant on tourist –thousands of  them daily swarming like bees sucking the island of its sweetness. Token fronds of palm trees slap in the breeze and a few red and yellow bougainvilleas are nestled next to guest houses.

More than 80% of the population, on any given day, is not from St. Martin, nor do they reside there any length of time, although the governor as will as the police and teachers are natives. They have a saying on the island that if you see a man from St. Martin and he weighs more than 140 lbs you know he is a politician. The natives of the island are those who are getting little back and giving less to their home island. So slowly the citizens of St Martins will not have a culture of their own.

Workers are from the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, other Caribbean islands, and also Africa.  Holland and France govern the island and own major businesses such as salt mining, utilities, and hotels. It wasn’t clear to me who owned the banks. A bevy of smartly tailored business men from India work the duty free shops, with jewelry and liquor made elsewhere. You see them locking up at night and returning to stroll on the boardwalk with their wives dressed in saris and young children riding tricycles.

There is a small contingent of Chinese manning grocery store and casual restaurants. Almost daily I visited such a store to purchase peanut butter, jam, milk, bread, batteries and aspirin. It was clean, newly trimmed with a vinyl siding and a giant red sign. A third of the store was cordoned off as a restaurant and managed by a middle age Asian woman who appeared everywhere: cooking, waiting on tables, and cleaning. It is too expensive to import Chinese spices and vegetables so she cooks West Indian dishes.  I enjoyed talking to her 20 year old son who managed the store. I remembered to ask him to see a guilder, Dutch money I never connected with, although all workers employed on the Dutch side were paid in guilders, and workers on the French side in Euros. The young son was born on the island and knew every inch of its 27 square miles. His social life consisted of taking his mother to casinos at night or watching TV. He cautioned against being in the deserted streets after 8 and suggested I carry only small amounts of cash as there is a drug problem. I think he was lonely. It must be difficult to maintain his culture here, although I did see an older Asian man at night under a tattered canopy teaching his children Taekwando .   

Because of drug and terrorism the native people can no longer fish in the waters. The coast guard has so many restrictions and permits they can’t pay for so fish is imported from St. Lucia an island governed by different laws. The increasing loss of rainfall in the last ten years, the cementing over of land for parking spaces and hotels, and the cutting of trees to enlarge beaches have eliminated the sources of free fruit. Gone are tiny gardens growing vegetables which are in short supply as they are flown in from other places. Cheap flip flops, clothing, hats and t- shirts are from India, China or expensive designers from the US. Native music has been supplanted by rap or more aggressive forms never heard by visitors.

It is very expensive to live on the island as all produce and manufactured products have to be shipped or flown in. Building supplies from homes, restaurants, businesses, hospitals have no place to go. Alleys, staircases, and vacant lots are filled with chipped blocks of cement and machete limbs of trees.

The Caribbean islands are no longer self-sufficient clusters enjoying their own culture. The inhabitants are no longer slaves to cane sugar, but perpetual vacationers. – a turnover of human beings to whom there is no time to enjoy a conversation, to become friends, or form a professional relationship. They meet to sell them something quick – a necklace, rum, flip-flops, lunch. Signs on the beach read: for rent – one hour, one beach chair with umbrella, 2 beers, and a towel, $5.

The good news is the beaches, coves and bays are startling beautiful and the soft colors not found in other parts of the world. And there are movements to counter the islands lost of identity with the formation of Caribbean organizations. Writers, artists, and governors of the Caribbean meet regularly to fortify their culture. They publish a daily newspaper available on the islands which use to be limited solely to the Miami Herald and stateside news. Recognizing the lost of individuality the islands are actively moving toward solidifying a bigger idea of themselves which will help them to direct and improve their own future

Miracle Cures From Nature                                                                                      Kalinka Shumanov     

   Every Day we hear about disasters, new diseases and world epidemics like the bird flu.  We don’t hear enough about new discoveries that will cure or prevent many of these human afflictions in the future.  Did you know that scientists are finding that some of the most poisonous creatures on this earth contain compounds in their venom which can cure some of mans deadly diseases.  Toxin from a snail known as the Cone Shell have been found to be an excellent pain killer and is in clinical trials for epilepsy and other disorders.  Australia is famous for having some of the most venomous animals, and also for its medical research.  The venom extracted from Tarantulas, Scorpions, Snakes and Centipedes are being studied as possible medicines for man’s ailments.

   Scientists hope biopharmaceutical research on these venoms will produce new more effective treatments for Cancer, Arthritis and Heart Disease Compounds found in the venom of Scorpions and Tarantulas are already being used in trials to treat Cancer and Heart Disease.  Scorpion venom can also be beneficial for glaucoma sufferers and Centipedes can be milked to produce Arthritis remedies.  Another miracle drug being derived from Spider venom is being studied to limit Stroke damage.

   Research is being done on the venom of some of the most deadly Snakes.  One such compound has been shown to be effective in preventing growth of Cancerous tumors.  Dozens of diagnostic tests and drugs are derived from Snakes venom.  Did you know that ACE inhibitors, a class of drugs to treat high blood pressure and other cardiovascular disorders were developed from the venom of a Brazilian snake?

   The ugly Puffer Fish, a delicacy in many countries which people pay big bucks to eat kill about 100 daring diners each year.  Skillful hands can remove the toxin from the fish rendering the meal harmless.  This chemical is 3,000time stronger than Morphine, but doctors find small amounts could kill pain without being habit forming.

   A type of frog known as Grants Frog show pain killing promise.  The compound derived from the venom of this frog is 200 times more potent than Morphine.  Scientists believe this research is just beginning.  Let us work together for the benefit of the world and not its destruction.

     The Easter Parade on the Asbury Park Boardwalk                                         Kalinka Shumanov  

  Many years ago a friend’s family bought a summer house in Bradley Beach, N.J. about one mile from the famous Asbury Park.  I came to visit with my two young children and two nephews.  I didn’t know much about the Jersey Shore since we lived in the Bronx, New York for the past 5 years, and only recently moved to the New Brunswick, N.J. area where I got a job in the Hospital Laboratory. 

    It was a beautiful Easter Sunday and my family was anxious to celebrate and enjoy the Holiday on the Atlantic Ocean which we only knew about from movies and television.

    My friend Gina and her two daughters were happy to see my family and anxious to show us Asbury Park without mentioning the Easter Parade scheduled on the Boardwalk.  We had to walk from Bradley Beach to Asbury Park.  There were many boats on a beautiful ocean and the boardwalk was colorfully decorated. Suddenly we saw the hundreds of people and children and their pets dressed in the most colorful cloths and fantastic hats designed to take your breath away.

    There was no age limit, from children in baby carriages to senior citizens anxious to show the spirit of the holiday and welcome spring on the Asbury Park boardwalk.  The view was unforgettable.  This wonderful tradition is still alive and people are enjoying it as they have for 77 years.  The spirit of Asbury Park is here to stay and attract thousands of visitors each year.

A NEW BEGINNING                    Ruth J. Abramowitz

`    I retired at age sixty-two. My parents needed care and I felt it was time for me to move closer to them.  Mom had two heart attacks and the doctor said another could end her life. She needed supervision and I decided to be her life support. I went to classes and learned to be a nurse’s aide and home health caretaker. I found this very satisfying. Under my care mom lived longer than expected and I found helping and caring for others added a feeling of satisfaction to my life.

      When mom passed into the land beyond, I continued to work as a home health aide until my husband insisted I stop looking after others and pay more attention to him. He was retired and wanted to travel or start a part-time business. Having entered our seventies; we needed to make changes that could give more meaning to our lives. My son was living in California and we hadn’t seen him for over a year. Seymour and I decided it was time to take a cross-country trip. We hadn’t seen our son’s new home and wanted to meet his live-in girlfriend. This trip would give us the opportunity to see the country and learn more about our hobby.

     A couple of years after retirement, my husband and I started to buy and sell articles and collectibles at Flea Markets and County Fairs.  This hobby gave us extra cash and the opportunity to travel from town to town. We became acquainted with other elderly couples and individuals, who felt retirement, did not mean playing golf or lounging around. It could be profitable, enjoyable and you set your own time limits. On our trip to California we saw many markets and fairs that helped us achieve a good balance in our hobby. We learned the value of the words “Someone else’s trash is another’s treasure.”

     In my mid-eighties I became a window.                                       Now in my nineties, life continues to be rewarding and enjoyable. My activities and memberships in three charitable organizations have kept my body moving and my mind alert. The essays, opinions and poetry, I write continue to be published in newspapers, magazines and on the Web.

     For me retirement has become a new beginning.

LONGEVITY                                                                      Ruth J. Abramowitz

Recently at a meeting someone ask me how I stay so fit and active. My answer “Your attitude and what you put into your mouth.” 

            I find no matter what the weather, time or day; my thought is it will be a good one if I make it so.  The mind is our control center.  What we think dictates our actions for the day.

Food is what sustains us.  What we put into our mouths is what gives us energy.

My mind tells me to eat at least three balanced meals a day to keep me healthy, content and ready to face whatever the day brings. No-one has the power to give me a good or bad day.  It is the choices made that will dictate my actions during the time allotted.  On bad days I find ways to cope with what I can’t change.  For me trusting in God, gives me the answers I seek in strange ways.

            Time is something I try not to waste.  Putting off what I should do today for tomorrow, could be a mistake.  Tomorrow may not come.  In fact there is no tomorrow, at midnight it becomes today. 

             Volunteering is another way I spend my days. Through my membership in charitable organizations, I am helping thousands of people in need. 

             As a writer I find it rewarding to see my essays or opinions in newspapers and on the web.  I have one published book and am hoping to complete another this year.

            These are a few of the ways I have prolonged my life.  I know the number of years given and those to come are not under my control.

              God will decide when to call my name.  I ask HE allow me enough time to complete the projects and goals I have set for this year.

A SIMPLE GAME OF CHECKERS                             Irene Maran

I was having a one-on-one afternoon with my grandson when he
challenged me to a game of checkers. “I can handle this, I thought,
and this is one game I know I can win.” The board game and checkers
instantly appeared on the table as if by magic. I picked the red
color and Scott the black. “OK grandma, let’s make this game
interesting”, the ten year old said. He followed that by adding, “The
winner will have to buy the loser a hot fudge ice cream Sundae from
that famous ice cream shop, Days, in Ocean Grove!” Whatever the
outcome, we’d both get to enjoy a refreshing bowl of ice cream on this
blistering summer day. Under these circumstances, there is no loser.
Our strategy was in play as we concentrated on every move. Scott was
much better than I thought as he quickly racked up three kings to my
one. I began to sweat under the pressure and was looking forward to
that cold ice cream Sundae. I played this game as a kid, much longer
than Scott, and didn’t want to lose to a ten year old. Any
grandmother would have gladly let her grandson win, except me. I am
as competitive in old age as I was in my youth. “You’re cheating
grandma!, Scott yelled. “You can’t go backwards without a king.”
“Did I do that? ” I sprang back. “I really didn’t mean to.” I
couldn’t believe that I had subconsciously resorted to cheating in a
simple game of checkers I imagined I could win with my eyes closed.
“It was a slip of the hand, Scott, sorry” I said. With a nervous
reaction and the perspiration running off my hands, I must have moved
backwards instead of forward.
I was upset at my behavior and after the fast win by Scott, I was
ready to grab my purse and head for the ice cream parlor. “Hey
grandma,” he called. “How about two out of three and an extra scoop
of ice cream for the winner? ” Right then I knew my grandson had
conned me into playing checkers, which I lost, and outwitted me by
doubling up on ice cream. Scott had a lot of wisdom for a child so
young, outplaying and outsmarting his know-it-all grandma.
 

Too Many Gears                                                            Irene Maran

My fiancé Art rode up to my house on his new streamlined bicycle. I
barely recognized him decked out in a tight black latex stretch
outfit, fiery red and yellow helmet, dark sunglasses and bicycle
riding shoes. Who is this masked man, I wondered? Looking over the
bike with its complex gears and mounted contraptions, I told Art his
bike was “cool” and wished I could have one like it. I was joking, of
course.
I have an old pink Barbie bike in the garage left there by my
granddaughter. It’s the perfect fit for me and my infrequent spins
around the neighborhood. Since I hadn’t planned on training or
registering for the Tour de France, I am content riding my Barbie
bike.
A week later the girl version of Arts bicycle was delivered to my
doorstep. “Are you sure you have the right address?” I asked
questioning the delivery man, but knowing he had. Once again I opened
my mouth without thinking, and like a genie, Art granted my wish.
Art returned on his cool bike an hour later. “Isn’t it great?
Don’t you just love it? Let’s take it for a ride,” he babbled while
salivating over my bike. Shying away from anything mechanical, I knew
this innovative bike was out of my league and I’d never learn to ride
it.
When I first climbed on the seat, my derriere was hoisted way up in
the air, like a circus performer riding a unicycle. The seat was
moved to its lowest position while my feet struggled to reach the
pedals. While descending from the bike, the cross bar came up well
into my crotch, an unexpected painful experience. “This isn’t
working,” I mumbled to myself since the seat was still too high, the
pedals too low. I was uncomfortable just sitting on the bike and
hadn’t left the garage.
When most of the problems were solved, I put on my helmet, and rode
up the street very slowly. It was hard enough balancing on the
awkward seat and pedaling without thinking about which gear to shift
into. “I need a smaller bike, or a child’s model as this one is too
sophisticated for me,” I remarked. Art shook his head and said that
the bike could use a few more adjustments. I think he meant that I
needed the adjustments.
Art, who I nicknamed “Blaze” sped away on his “cool” bike telling me
to “Practice more and you’ll get it!” I never got it.
Climbing onto a high speed bike as a senior is a far cry from being
that dare- devil I was at twenty. Sitting on the idle bike I had
instantly lost my thrill for excitement and death crept into my
thoughts, death by being hit by a car or crashing into a wall.
This fancy 21 gear bicycle is not gathering dust as I would have
expected. My forty year old daughter-in-law has resurrected it and
rides it like a pro. Unlike me, she’s young and a fast learner. My
granddaughter rides behind her and I am third in line, lagging in the
rear on my comfortable Barbie bike. Some things should never be
changed, except for a flat tire or a bicycle route.