a spring celebration of life

Good Morning,

There is a message on my phone I can't erase. it goes...

'this is Bill. just callin' to see what you was doin.' talk to you later." (beeeep)

i don't find it healthy to live in the past but i do believe in giving voice to those that have deeply touched our lives. Bill was my "Fishing Buddy" (nooooo, i don't really fish...) who passed away this time last year (that was essentially the last time we talked).

the best way i could think to celebrate him was to share something i've written about our time together. the below is from the "Monday Morning News" archive. i wrote this as a journal type entry as i was preparing to join Bill and the Old Farts Club for a couple days of fishing at Lake Eire.

hope you enjoy.

happy monday,

amanda

p.s. IF this is too much of a downer. i also have a link here Bill would've enjoyed. i say everyone needs a good fishing buddy to appreciate a good hemorrhoids jingle. the question for the day...how else are you supposed to suffer? the singers want you to not suffer in silence! just be very positive and outspoken with it... at the office: oh boy Kathy do my hemorrhoids hurt!!!

http://www.mwhtc.com/html/spots.html



Breakfast at Stan's


Is it safe for a young woman to take a trip with a group of “guys guys?” I assure you, I am not a woman who wears a tube top and Daisy Dukes and is then surprised when she goes to the frat party and someone pinches her…

What follows is my account of another breakfast at Stan’s Restaurant.


4-3-04

Breakfast with Bill—7:30am, Sat. morning

I always think it’s funny when I arrive at the shop i.e., Bill’s place. He’s always got a hot rod he’s “workin” on…

I’ve come to know them as the “Got MTR” (license plate) yellow car…the black one with the “Get in sit down shut up and hold on” decal/sticker car…etc.

There’s no Bud today. That is Bill’s buddy Bud sometimes he joins us…today Bud’s fishing in Tennessee. Bill thinks it’s too early. He went with them last year. They had a bunch a bad weather. Bill knows it’s not yet fishing season…but it’s always the right season for working on cars.

The yellow car is on the hydraulic lift. “Ooo workin on that one today?” I ask and admire the big fat black tires…that say Hoosier…the painted on flames…and a HUGE engine. This hot rod has a long skinny nose like a dragster… and two smallish motorcycle sized tires in the front…

Got MTR? (Got Motor?)

“What you workin on today?” I ask. “The blower? The fuel gage? Oil change?”

“Naw see that seat over there?”

“Yep.”

“I’m widen it again…my ass is too big.”

We both laugh. Bill’s not a fat man and not too proud to share when life’s shifted on him a bit.

That’s Bill in a nutshell. Right now perhaps who I’d call my best friend or maybe just the person who I feel closest to when life has shifted on me a bit. Life with Bill is simple, it’s not gonna change.

“Where do you want to go?” he asks.

“Stan’s.”

Stans our comfortable routine.

I get in the big truck after only three leg swings today—I always have to hold on and hike it up there (my leg) at 7:30am I’m not too mobile. We laugh about it and Bill makes encouraging comments about the progress of my lifting…

“Can ya get it (my leg) up there?” he asks and offers me an arm. I hold on, then pull with all my arm strength, again--swwiing!--I miss it but just barely.

I grab onto the “Oh Jesus” handle over head and finally …”oh Jesus!” I hoist and I’m in…

“You’re doin real good with that…” Bill cheers and says “next week we’ll have you in in one swing.

************


7:50 am Sittin high, ridin proud, I’m a lady in a truck! A BIG truck…

To get to Stan’s we travel through not so nice parts of town but I always like it in the morning, everything seems fresh and innocent in the quiet of morning…

Even the HUGE water tower…the debris at the bottom, reminds me of a big F-4 tornado…

“Yeah this isn’t such a nice neighborhood” says Bill. Bill’s always my tour guide.

We pass a gravel pit parking lot, an old rundown building…

He points out the “Shark-rod” some guy (I’m assuming male) made a car that looks like a shark. He painted it gray, detailed in a shark face…put …teeth on it. The “Shark car” sits up on blocks, hard to miss.

A yard with a dirty billboard sign…behind it—“that’s where people leave their shopping carts…”

“You mean people just leave the store with them?” I can’t really imagine…

“Yeah people don’t care…”

(well I do…that’s a lot of pushing)

******

The 10min. ride to Stan’s…is my favorite…just time me and Bill, cruisin, movin, mosy-in through the world…no one can get in our way…I’m proud as a peacock…I’m sittin in a truck!

I just hate the conversation where he says “it don’t matter” or “guys just don’t care.”

Said it again…dang…I hate it when he says people don’t care…some do I care!

“Hear about my son?”

“Which one?”

“Billy.”

“No what happened?”

“He was in that fire.”

Billy is a fireman. Relieved, I learn he has done something heroic. Bill has four adult sons…that range from heroic to…hopeless (I said “hey Bill what does Kevin your youngest do?” He said “Kevin? Kevin sleeps”).

We talk about…well…

Bill says “I wake up every 2 hours for urination…(I know he’s been to the doctor’s. Bill would say pee not urination) since my prostrates all swelled up pushin on it.”

Bill’s Prostate cancer is doing well right now. His bad number is low which is very good. I honestly don’t know (nor I imagine does he) how much time is left on the clock…What’s the prognosis?…long term…not good….so, I like to check to make sure he’s takin his medication and getting his shots. Them female hormones…is what Bill calls them.

(I figure he’ll talk if/when he wants to talk about it).

8:02am
At the restaurant, I’m delivered to the front door like a queen so I can hang on to the gumball machine where I wait until Bill parks the truck. At 8:02am there’s still a fight going on between me and my walkin muscles.

What I like about Stan’s…

There’s plastic food on the wall—an egg, piece of bacon and a piece a toast. They’re not wall clocks…I always try to check the time on the egg…then the bacon…thinking surely they have numbers on them…nope that’s just an egg, bacon and a piece of toast.

I’m also very fond of Bill and Bud’s (and now my) favorite waitress…named “Squirrel.” (It’s a nickname, I know that now…I always look to Bill is it Hazel nut? Hickery bean? What is it?)

She was patient while I learned the syrup…”Excuse me yes, uh, Squirrel can I have the syrup?”

“You already do.”

“What?”

“It’s on your table.”

Where? I’m sure I looked around like a crotchety old man…someone’s stolen my food!

Oooh syrup comes in ready to go little packets, like the jam, like ketchup…just open and pour…

“I can’t believe you eat a pancake like that.”

Bill laughs as I open up a little wedged shaped area…there’s a method, a strategy for keeping the pancake fresh and cake-like not soggy.

I explain, but not too much I know he doesn’t care and has bad hearing. I like to save my talk and his ears for the important things like

(Bill eats grits, French Toast and bacon…sometimes eggs)

“I’m going to come fishing in May!”

Bill, smiles stops…”Are you?” he seems very pleased. “You’ll have fun.”

Oh, I’m not so sure, but the cast has been set

Just a thought to squirrel away…

*****
8:47am --The drive home

Bill says “You don’t wanna park your car out on this street”

“Why not?”

“Every car parks on this street gets hit?”

“They drunk?” I can’t imagine a street with drivers that bad.

“Yeah if they’s smart, people live here they’d park in the yard or up on the sidewalk.”

Uh my brain…yep, not too concerned about appearances here. I find it liberating re-freshing.

Bill continues…“Lady I knew parked her car on this street she came back and the backend was all smashed in on it…wadn’t a note on it or nothin…drunk people don’t care.”

I do. I care…

How he gave his ex-mother-in-law’s dog a haircut…how his dog Max, a schnauzer, played fetch with rubber hoses and hung out in the shop. I can tell how much Bill liked him…He says”Max was a good dog. Liked to take showers. loved em. would take two a week.”…I CARE how he made sure the water temp was just right so the dog didn’t get scalded.

*****
9:03am
Back at the garage to hang out.

Nature calls…Bill has to have a certain kind a surgery folks would rather not say…

“I took those two little pills last night thought I was bound up…”

(My heart goes out to him) he dances around makes a quick exit, but first hands me the remote to the BIG screen TV every programmed channel leads to a fishing show.

9:22am
Bob the black guy comes over. Bill says “he’s a real good guy just born the wrong color…”

Bill lives in a bad neighborhood, down the corner from a bar. The patrons are largely black, largely poor. The owner is running a shady business on the side. This is why I’m only allowed to come over on Saturday mornings. The rest of the time Bill stays locked in his apartment. He doesn’t like the seedy characters, coming and going at all hours, but oh well that’s the way it is.

He’s never had a night’s peace,..loud music, guys runnin’ their cars, trash in the street…Bill sleeps each night, with a metal baseball bat next to the door… one day he might have to use it.

Bill likes Bob the black guy. He’s helping Bob build his first hot rod.


When Bill says “he’s the only black I let in here…”

I let it slide.

I suppose if life were different. I might talk this way too.

Mom I'm Bored...

Good Morning,

It was the first day of Spring!...a cold and snowy weekend here. The kind that makes me appreciate Natalie Merchant's songs about maidenly women gone crazy on the prairie and mourning widowers renouncing life...

so...

I was working quietly at my desk when I heard this (the commercial for the Shoedini...shoe + Houdini)

https://www.tryshoedini.com/

Here's what happens when one is trapped inside on a snow day with cable TV and some creativity. I'm calling it the Canetini (a cane with a teeny tiny assistive attachment on the end : )

Shoedini meets the Canetini from Amanda Vallo on Vimeo.

Happy Monday,

Amanda

cringe moment

Good Morning,

Every Spring I look forward to the day when i can step outside without the "cringe moment." That brief second when the cold wind hits your skin and you hunker down inside your jacket and yell out IT'S COOOOOLD!!!...

There's also a different kind of "cringe moment." According to "This American Life" host Ira Glass, some stories are capable of forcing a physical reaction out of us...For example, when we hear tales of personal humiliation, romance gone wrong, and people who profoundly misjudge how they're perceived by others.

I'd like to share with you a cringe moment from last week.

I am a HUGE fan of the Audio Dharma. Talks given on various topics by speakers at the Insight Meditation Center in Red Woods City, CA.

http://www.audiodharma.org/

i collect these talks regarding each speaker like "Buddha Idol"

Anushka Fernandopulle, Andrea Fella, Ines Freedman...I have my favorites!

Occasionally, a new name will slip into the mix. Carolyn Dille?

http://www.carolyndille.com/Welcome.html

or

Carolyn Dille? (I Googled her. She must be the one on the far right : )


This was a poem given at the conclusion of Carolyn's talk on wisdom to a group of beginning meditators. I cringed with or for her when I realized 1. she penned this poem and 2. it was supposed to start a vibrant concluding discussion...

If this clip were longer you'd here confused awkward silence and Response #1 "I didn't understand the poem at all..." and Response #2 "I didn't understand the poem either!"

cringe moment from Amanda Vallo on Vimeo.

may this be your only cringe moment this week.

Have a Terrific Tuesday,

Amanda
Bodhisattva in Training...

p.s. this is the text if you'd like to print it out for your desk.

Home
Home full of emptiness
Conjugate the happiness you’ve gleaned
The Pineciscan’s table is set upside down
On the Birch
What color of dolor stains every eye?
Your daughter feeds the neighbors with bread she’s baked of Dust, and light, and dew...
The body’s spool unwinds true as a worm
Here is the door you open to cries of…surprise!
Hear the rest

my first bicycle...the Cactus Rose

Good Morning,

It was a beautiful Spring weekend around these parts. I thought you might enjoy a story about my first bicycle. The Cactus Rose...

The Cactus Rose

A common theme in men’s magazines goes like this.

A boy’s bicycle is sacred
A boy’s bicycle defines him
Riding your bicycle for the first time (not a miniature, learner-bicycle and not with training wheels) is comparable to taking a spin in the family car when you finally get your driver's license.

Perhaps I don’t need to point out here my brother’s first solo ride ended with a forehead plant into the neighbor’s mailbox and a trip to emergency care for stitches.

This is a story of a girls’ bike. The Cactus Rose. (My first love and first real possession)

One Sunday during brunch, my mom came a across a sale in the circular ads. Mom said it was time for me to have a bike. I was five and to mom’s credit she’d noticed me coveting my older brother’s bike, a yellow Huffy with black cruiser seat large enough for doubling and the befuddling bar down the middle that made it a boys’ bike.

I held onto my doughnut waiting for my good fortune to vanish. It was not my birthday. Not even close. Still, somehow that very next week I found myself in the Gold Circle Department Store clinging to the wrinkled newspaper clipping narrowing down the purchase. Mom held my hand as we stood before the double-tiered rack piled thick with choices. These were boys’ bikes each equipped with chunky tires and BMX racer padding.
What would my bike look like I wondered? A girls’ bike did not sound hopeful. The only two models on the sales floor…promised purple with flowers and a basket…

Mom placed the order. The Cactus Rose, the hot item, was not on the shelf.

The Cactus Rose arrived in a box. The scourge to father’s who work in banks (and very rarely with tools) everywhere she arrived “partially assembled.” My dad soon discovered why my lady was so cheap. She had parts and directions that didn’t fit. She was at best loose and unwieldy at his first blushing sweat stained efforts. It was a day of nerves the day of her operation. I prayed and held my breath through each “son of a brick!” and frustrated “well hells bells!” I sat rocking on the shaky-legged picnic table. By the time Dad was standing her up and giving her the walk around I could care less about where her awkward handgrips finally rested (molded finger grooves pointing skyward) I just wanted to sit on her!

My Cactus, she was a looker! Silky cream frame and a slender banana seat, she had lipstick red handle bar grips and racy red fenders. Dad adjusted the seat just so and before the water could dry off the driveway from multiple car washings we hit the road pedaling!

Cactus Rose road steady and true to my push and laid down just enough rubber to announce my arrival when I applied the brakes. Looking back now I can say she was a 1970’s Huffy coaster bike.

From a man’s (or boy’s) perspective a first bicycle is about independence, joy, and freedom. It’s about the wheeling the bike out from behind the Christmas tree to cries of SURPRISE!

When I saw the Cactus Rose fully assembled for the first time, I felt relief. No tassels from the handle bars. No basket or bells.

A girls’ bike is more complex. It’s about partnership and imagination.

Regardless of perspective what we all share is this: imagination figured into our bike riding. It’s what fuels our memories.

I jumped on the Cactus Rose and pedaled the three doors down to my best friend Lora’s house to see if she wanted to ride bikes. To “ride bikes” required no further destination. No plans. It meant to hit the road with nothing but the wind in your hair and jelly shoes (a girly plastic mold slipper Lora favored) on your feet.
We were CHiPs on patrol! Side-by-side we looked out for roller skating thieves robbing banks or punks breaking into cars. Never minding that “the beat” we had to patrol ended with the STOP sign at the end of the block.

The Cactus Rose transformed into a speeding Supercycle or cruising patrol motorcycle as the dispatcher put out the call…

http://images.chips-tv.com/redir.cgi/Sounds/CHiPsgas.wav

“Attention all San Diego freeway units we have an 1180 involving a gas tanker Southbound San Diego Freeway. All responding units identify…”

“L.A. Seven Mary 3 and 4 responding.”

“10-4 Seven Mary…”

RRRRRRmmm Rmmmmm

(cue 70’s disco music)

The late 70’s television offered the promises of CHiPs! (California Highway Patrol)

What does a young girl learn from watching Officer Poncherello?

I learned to pull into the garage and say “my motor needs repairs!”

I learned when to call it a day…

The Cactus Rose with her arms wide and outspread flipped easily and exposed her underside. She provided a gentle teacher to my wrenching. (Wrenching, when a rider provides their own maintenance and repair). Eventually, the Cactus Rose moved to the corner of the garage then retired to the attic for the glamour of my first 10 speed. I lost the desire to wrench. I’d discovered just enough mechanical ability to take this bike, a maroon Schwinn, apart…but none of the vigor and excitement for putting it back together.

This bike snickered at popping wheelies, riding down the steps to the L.A. Coliseum (i.e., descending the neighbors steep rocky driveway). I could find freedom and discipline but none of the fun and imagination. I took no pride in my ride.

Freeze frame flashes through the 70’s and 80’s I can see pictures of Dykes on Bikes, women who have organized around the ideals of empowerment and supporting public philanthropy. Often seen leading the parade at gay PRIDE events these riders embody the spirit of the Cactus Rose. Her legacy is power and giving.

Today, I celebrate bikes from a far. My world has taken a different spin and left me the challenge of finding the pleasure in stationary cycling. The lightness and imagination I conjure up as I pedal is the Cactus Rose’s greatest gift.

Happy Monday,

Amanda "Officer Alo Baker"

the art of Chinese yo-yo

Good Morning,

Every week I aim to provide a thought, story, or news item of interest and entertainment. If i'm lucky, it also prompts musings on diversity. This morning I may have just out done myself…did you know it’s National Yo Yo and Skill Toys Week?

Of course every day around here is “yo yo” day (true dat and word to your mother). But, I declare that TODAY is Yo yo Day! A day to celebrate a simpler time when a knot in your yo-yo string was perhaps the most complex and significant worry...


This weekend I took in the contemporary art at the KC Art Museum...If a big brown blob of paint can be considered high art, then I feel comfortable sharing that I believe this footage encapsulates the thought:

This is the beauty of life. Life is never one thing...

In it you will see my friend and Master Chinese Yo Yo teacher Jen and her young "brave" tutee as he practices his art for the first time. You will also hear chanting. We were at an honest to goodness Native American Pow Wow.



may life bring you peace, happiness, and if necessary comfort in the whirling yo-yo of change...

Happy Monday.

word up!

amanda