On the Eve of my daughter's graduation: in which I wax nostalgic, and pray

high school graduation

coming back to town from the 

job that I'd already started 

      (summer camp lifeguard

      isn't that the dream)

we walked in the ceremony

moving tassels from one side

to the other

after awkwardly shaking hands with 

   the principal

   the superintendent

   maybe a coach?

            (it was texas, after all)

and then we left in our cars

up and down the main street

stopping here and there

      houses, parks, stores

somehow I recognized at the time, that the

freedom from adulthood, coupled with a

responsibility to nothing but learning

   born by us middle class high school students

was a vanishing gift

   which we hadn’t fully appreciated

in the morning I left … again

off to new life at camp,

new life at college

***

now I see it from another side

and I hope her memories are good

      her foundation is solid

            her future is full of new life

Ride Down Memory Lane, Part One

The big Fuller Center Spring Bicycle Adventure begins with orientation on Saturday, and we ride out of Nashville toward Jackson on Sunday. In anticipation of spending a few hours on a bike over the course of a week, I started thinking about all the bikes I've ridden.

1) I remember seeing a photo of me on a little (probably red) tricycle, but I don't actually remember that one. I may have had another bike or two when I was very young ~ if so, that's lost to my memory.

2) The next one I remember is a single speed, bmx-style bike with coaster brakes. I rode that one around and around on the gravel road on the property where we lived. On that bike, I learned to ride a wheelie, 'peel out', and lock the brakes in a long skid.

One day, I tried a big jump of a little hill. The jump was great. The landing, however, found me on my butt on a flat slab of rock immediately before the bike found itself on my head. Fifteen stitches later and a few weeks of healing later, I was back at it. I believe the scars are still visible.

I rode that bike from the time it fit me 'til I had extended the saddle too far out of the seat tube that it bent backward. Before long, my butt was only a few inches above the rear wheel ~ before long, it was time for a different bike.

3) I was jealous of my friends who had bikes with gears that they could change. One Christmas, I'm sure after my parents got sick of me incessantly bugging them about it, I came out to find a shiny new 10-speed ready for me to ride. I learned to shift gears, work the brakes with my hands, and manage a much higher center of gravity.

4) I rode that one around for a while, until I outgrew it ~ but I still wanted to ride. I wanted to ride like Connie Carpenter, who had just won the Olympic women's road race. My dad knew a guy who spent a lot of time cycling, and who was willing to sell us a road bike that he had rebuilt. It had good components, was in good condition, and had a very cool paint job. While most bikes are smooth and shiny, this one was textured and painted matte black. Of course, I was a growing teenager and couldn't ride that one forever.

5) I inherited the bike my dad was riding, got geared up with a Campagnolo cycling hat, padded gloves, and cleated shoes. I was big-time, riding miles up and down the country roads. I kept that bike for years, riding it regularly in high school and occasionally in college.

It was on this bike that I began to discover the wonder of the freedom of urban cycling. I rode around San Antonio some, one summer evening listening to a free Stray Cats concert for a while before riding around again on empty downtown streets.

6) I still rode that yellow bike in seminary, but discovered that it was inadequate for singletrack mountain biking. There was a bike shop about a mile from my apartment, though, that was happy to sell me a relatively inexpensive mountain bike. I took a couple months getting that bike set up exactly like I wanted it. It worked well on mountain trails, and it worked well as a commuter bike. The yellow one didn't get much use any more.

Both the mountain bike and the yellow road bike moved with me to California; but neither got much use. After a couple months, we moved from a terrible apartment to a lovely little cottage. However, there was very little room in that cottage for two bikes that didn't get used. I put the yellow bike outside, and within about 5 minutes, it made its way down the street with someone who would get more use out of it than I was at the time.

I rode the mountain bike as a commuter vehicle while we were in Eugene, OR. I rode it to the nursing home where I was a chaplain, and later I rode it to the group home where I worked between internship and my first call as a pastor. And when we moved to Longmont, CO, with only one car, I rode that bike as a commuter vehicle.

That's enough for one blog post ~ I'll put the rest of the bikes up later.

Let the adventure continue.

Amtrak, New Year's Eve

I used to take the train back and forth when I needed to go places. I rode the train from Chicago out to Montana one year for a summer job in the national park, but most often I'd ride the train between Denver and Austin when I was on break from school. The thing is (the train system in western USAmerica being unfunded and therefore inefficient as it is), the route between Denver and Austin went through Chicago. No one would mistake Chicago as being on the way from Austin to Denver, but it worked for me, 'cause I got to lay over in Chicago for a couple days with my folks, who lived there at the time.

Now, I've never ponied up for a sleeper car, always hoping for an empty seat next to my coach accommodations, so I could stretch out just a little bit more. But most of the time, especially as the skies darkened, I found myself in the club car. Often, I'd spend the time reading books I brought along ~ once in a while, I'd end up talking with whoever else was also on the train and not sleeping.

One year, on the way from Chicago to Denver, I had set my book down in favor of a conversation with the other people in the club car ~ one or two other Americans and a couple of Australians. The two Australians were spending a couple months exploring the US countryside traveling by rail. They'd been hither and yon, back and forth, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their travels. They told me they'd met some surprising and interesting people almost everywhere they went. We talked into the night about theology and philosophy and travel and culture and who knows what else.

At some point in the evening, someone looked at their watch and wondered aloud if it was really 12:15 in the morning ~ which triggered for all of us the realization that as we rumbled across the middle of Nebraska, the new year had caught up with us without giving notification.

It didn't take long for our new Australian friends to open up their cooler and crack open a bottle of celebratory sparkling wine. We toasted the new year and new temporary friendships with shared wine drunk from scavenged paper cups, and promptly fell back into the conversation that had been interrupted by a page turn on the calendar.

I don't remember if, after we wandered off to our respective coach seats for a couple uncomfortable hours of sleep, I ran into them again on the train, or if we parted ways without noticing. What I do remember is one unique and interesting new years eve on a train.

Political Awareness; A Moment in Time

We were on the deck, taking a break from summer camp staff training, when we heard the news. Pouring over the newspaper, my friend made the announcement, and everyone who was there got angry or sad or frustrated or all of those combined. I, however, stood there dumbstruck, not understanding how the 1989 events at Tiananmen Square had any impact on my life.

I still don't understand very well the politics leading up to this incident, and I certainly didn't at the time. What I do remember is being rather startled that people my age were so concerned about what was happening on the other side of the world ~ and my confusion was exacerbated by the fact that we'd just spent a week or more at staff training, almost completely isolated what was happening in the world around us.

Today I follow as closely as possible to what's happening in Washington, the Occupy movement, Tahrir Square and across the middle east, the Mexican border ~ but that day, on the deck, was the first time I began to realize that I should pay attention to what's going on in the world. It's the first time that I internalized the importance of having an opinion, and that my opinion be deeply rooted in my faith. Thanks, fellow summer camp staff, for sharing that piece of your selves.

$0.02

Stop Light

It was after I got a bike ~ a real bike, that would travel quickly down the road a long distance, not just a kid-riding-around-bike ~ that I saw something notable as I was riding as a passenger in a car. 

The first bike I had was a single speed, bmx-style, coaster brake equipped bike that I loved riding around the gravel and dirt where I grew up.  But eventually I began to covet other bikes ~ 10-speed bikes, with more than one gear, and brakes on the handlebars.  One year I got one, which was very exciting.  Before long, I was watching Connie Carpenter and the 7-Eleven cycling team on tv.  And I wanted to start cycling.

I upgraded from the department store special to a real road bike ~ lighter and sleeker, with a phenomenally understated paint job.  I got cycling gloves and cycling shorts, a cycling jersey and a campagnolo cycling hat; and I started spending time on the two-lane country road at the end of our quarter-mile gravel driveway.

Of course, once I started riding, I started noticing other cyclists on the roads.  One day, as I was observing cyclists, I saw in front of us in the left-turn lane, a notable guy on a bike.  The light was red, traffic was stopped, and so was he.  But his feet were still on the pedals ~ and knowing what I had recently learned about toe clips, I could see upon closer inspection that he hadn't even bothered to loosen the straps.  His feet were tightly affixed to the pedals as he stood still, balancing behind one car and ahead of the one I rode in.

When the light moved to green, off he went, leaving us behind, stuck in traffic. 

That was 25 years ago; but I hope that guy is still riding through Austin traffic, trackstanding his way into some other teenager's imagination.

unmistakable aroma

sweet smell punctuated by
chemical overtones;
it's an aroma that permeates
the whole parking lot,
the entire courtyard,
and especially
the elementary school
cafeteria

all it takes is
one little plastic packet
red sauce oozing out of
that white, one-ounce
red-tomato-decorated tube
proclaiming 'ketchup'
(or, perhaps, 'catsup')
for the whole world to see

but if it's been spilled,
even a little bit,
and left to dry, un-cleaned-up
a skin forming as it seems to
shrink in size overnight
we don't need the word on the label
the aroma gives it away

Diesel in the morning

Walking through the parking lot this morning, I heard that distinctive rumble and I was reminded that nothing smells like a diesel engine. I'm sure there are probably lots of people around who think they're loud and stinky; I'm sure there are lots of people who associate diesel engines with pollution, interstate truck stops, and loading docks. But whenever I hear, and especially when I smell, a diesel engine, I'm immediately a teenager again.

When I was in high school, I spent my summers driving around in circles on a tractor. Many times, we'd leave the equipment in the field where we stopped working at night, and my boss would drop me off in the morning to start where I'd left off.

Now before we fired up the tractor, there was always preventative maintenance to take care of. The equipment had to be tended to, and it took a few minutes. During those few minutes there might have been a little dew on the grass. During those few minutes I sometimes heard birds or coyotes. During those few minutes, as I went about my tasks, I felt the serenity of anticipating hard work; and it was good.

Before long, I was done getting things ready. I'd look around, climb onto the tractor, and hesitate for a moment, recognizing that as soon as I started the engine, everything would change. The calm would be gone, and the work would be started. I would always hesitate, savoring that small moment before I'd begin again to spiral toward the center of the field.

This morning in the parking lot, I was back where diesel engines always take me. Not to the central Texas heat; not to the flies that swarmed down in the bottom where the breeze didn't move; not to the fire ants that you hoped you didn't park on when the equipment broke down. I was back for a moment in the calm, cool stillness of a summer morning in a half-cut hay pasture.

Cycling Shoes

I have a pair of cycling shoes in my garage. They're made of thin leather attached to a stiff sole. Screwed onto the sole, there's a cleat that makes walking difficult by raising my toe above the level of my heel. But the cleat made it much easier to ride a bicycle. See, there's a slot in cleat that fit perfectly into part of a quill pedal before the whole foot is cinched onto the pedal with a leather strap.

These were my first pair of cycling shoes, which I acquired not too long before clipless pedals became quite so ubiquitous. I remember specifically (though my memory may be faulty) that my parents questioned the wisdom of me buying these shoes. They were kind of expensive for something so specialized, or for something that I'd only be able to use for one very specific activity. They asked whether I intended to continue cycling, or whether it would be something I moved on from before long.

It was a valid question, which I dangerously answered 'yes' ... how could I really know what I'd be doing in the future?

The last time I wore those shoes was for the first triathlon I ever did. It was a winter race, and the stages were started individually, which meant that there was plenty of time to change clothes between swim and bike, and between bike and run. I cinched my shoes onto my pedals at the start of the bike leg while everyone else simply clipped in.

But that day was the renewal of my love of cycling. I'd spent a couple years away from riding much at all, but that day I felt again the thrill of working hard to go fast. That day I also understood the need (need?) to purchase new cycling shoes that fit new clipless pedals.

Were those leather shoes a good purchase? I'm happy to say that my dangerous 'yes' was accurate. I now have others that work much better; but I still keep those original shoes hanging in my garage ... just for me.

The First Time I Ate Jalapeños

It was lunchtime at the Junior High school, and I chose nachos. Of course I chose nachos, 'cause why wouldn't I? Crispy rounds of ground corn covered with a creamy orange cheese-like sauce. Obviously it wasn't the best choice, but you can't blame middle school students for exploring eating independence.

I don't remember exactly ~ maybe he was in the lunch line with me, or maybe the challenge came before I stepped into the line ~ but one of the older students dared me to eat jalapeños on my nachos. It doesn't sound like a big deal now, but at the time my culinary experience went from bland to potatoes. Cocktail sauce on my shrimp and yellow mustard on my sandwich was about as adventurous as I got.

I have to admit that I had been curious before that day. I'd wondered what the fuss was. I knew they were spicy, but had no reference for what spicy tasted like on the tongue. Was it something that would cause me to suffer? Would the jalapeños stick around on my palate for hours, their spiciness a day-long reminder of a bad choice at lunchtime? Sure, other people ate them, but what about me?

And then my challenger, the older student who dared me to eat jalapeños on my nachos, put three slices of that pickled pepper in his mouth without even a chip. He chomped them down alone, with nothing to temper the spiciness. That did it. If he could eat them by themselves, I would surely survive the common gustatory experience of chip and cheese with pepper on top.

I waited 'til he'd gone. I waited 'til I was by myself so that my reaction, good or bad, would be mine alone. And they were delicious. The flavor infused my mouth; surprising spicy, but also sweet and tangy.

My recollection, many years later, is that lunch that day was a more expansive encounter with flavor than I had experienced before. It's dangerous to read too much into what happened long ago, but today I relish the opportunity to expand my gustatory horizons.