"Why do they do that?"

 This entry is a response to the question posed in the title.  First some backstory.

The other day I had a mani-pedi, thanks to a generous Xmas gift (thanks Jennifer S!).  I don't get to treat myself often and I needed to feel feminine, so there I was.  Sitting next to me was a college age blonde getting gel nails re-done or touched up or whatever they do to those.  She was beautiful, even with her hair up in a casual attempt at a bun and no makeup.  The person doing her nails was also college age, and very good at her job.  (Also drop dead gorgeous).  

In any case, as I was sitting right next to them, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation, even being as hard of hearing as I am.  The blonde was talking about how a guy friend invited her to a formal (I assume fraternity) that coming weekend (last weekend.)  She asked in which way was the invitation meant: as friends going or as a "date date" in which "we'd f*ck at the end of the night."  He wanted her to go as a date, as he liked her.  That upset her a bit.  "Why do they do that?" she asked, to which the nail person shook her head and agreed "No idea."

Now, I sat there quietly, and didn't reply despite having the answer she sought.  After all, my listening was an act of nosiness in itself, and I didn't want to be THAT nosy (even though I am by nature: I'm a writer.)

Last week

The simple answer is "he does that because he's gotten to know you, and likes what he sees."  Yes, there's a chance that all he wants is to have sex, but after a guy gets to know you, that becomes less of a possibility.  In other words- he likes you for YOU."

Unfortunately, I learned long ago that young women don't think that way.  I've found that Mike Demone in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" is correct: "a girl decides how far she's gonna let you go in the first five minutes."  Or less.  Either she wants you or it's friend's ladder.  So the whole developing a love interest, it doesn't happen.

A quick sidebar: what happens at a fraternity formal?  Well, it's as close to a junior high dance as college gets.  The guys clump together and get stupid drunk, and, if their date knows other people, she clumps with the girls she knows.  The couple eat dinner together, and may hang out on and off, but, unless they are a couple, that's really about it.  In the 80s, it was a status thing to be invited to a fraternity formal, especially for a sorority girl.  I have no idea if it is still that way.

My fraternity house

"But Sophie- you're a woman!"  Yes, and I was then as well, much as I tried to bury it.  But this is true- young women throw away so many good guys as "friends" who are exactly what they're looking for, but don't immediately get their 'motor running.'  I wrote a whole story about this back in the early 90s called Promises of Heaven.  (If I ever find it, I'll type it into the blog for everyone to ignore.)  The difference between me and them is the lack of functioning feminine genitalia back in the day.

I don't know if she ended up going with him to the formal or not.  A large part of me hopes she did, just to prove my cynical ass wrong.  But I doubt it.

In any case, is this entry fueled by bitterness?  Absolutely.  Should I be over it by now (married almost 30 years)? Absolutely.  Am I? 

Nope.

Be well.

Capacitor for Work

I'm currently fifty six years old and not in great shape.  Today I did the following:

Emptied a book shelf.

After doing so, I felt worn out.  I was coated in sweat, and for a time I felt dizzy.  I told my roomie/bestie Linda that I didn't feel good.  But I'd rented a van, and only had it for a few hours, so we had to get moving.  

You see, dear reader, I'd agreed to take a bookshelf from one of my bosses, as he's moving out of state.  It didn't fit in my car, so I needed a van.  And I needed Linda's help, as it was not only big, but very heavy- good sturdy wood.  Sturdy HEAVY wood. 

 

So off to Port Matilda (a nearby town) with the van, with Linda driving.  We loaded the van with a little help, and drove back as the sun set.  We still had a problem: how to get it out of the van, up a flight of steps, into the apartment and set up.  The shelf is 7 feet tall and heavy!!  

Fortunately a neighbor was home, and helped us carry it.  He refused any form of payment, but agreed to a dram of Glenmorangie with me.  

Then Linda and I moved just a few more things, and I reloaded the one shelf.  I was a sweaty mess.  Again, I felt dizzy and so tired.  So very tired- just loading and unloading a shelf.  I used to do this sort of thing all the time- stocking shelves, moving books around, with no trouble at all.

Now, doing this completely wears me out.  It makes me feel like my ability to work, my ability to be useful, may be coming to an end.  And of course, in a capitalist society, if I can't work then I'm worthless.  Maybe I need a capacitor to help my capacity to work.

I made that vase in art class my senior year in high school.

In any case, the one shelf is restocked, and the other will have books and things.  The apartment is small, so having more shelving helps.  

This getting old thing really sucks.

Be well.

Penn State Transgender Day of Remembrance 2023 Speaking notes

 

Trigger warnings: death, suicide, truth.

What does TDoR mean to me?

It's intensely personal.  Each year, I carry a picture with me to TDoR ceremonies I attend.  I carry it because someone very dear to me died of violence in September 2013.  Self-inflicted violence.  That wound will never heal.  That scar will never fade. 

Speaking makeup

This year, there are 69 known dead in the US, and 389 dead worldwide.  Those numbers are less than last year, breaking the long-standing trend of annual increases. 

	World	US	Brazil
2022	389	69	107
2021	472	74	153
Difference	-83	-5	-46
Percent	-18%	-7%	-30%
Percent of total	0	18%	28%

(reference if needed)

Someone I’ve known since a month after my re-awakening in 2008, Maddie Hoffman, is one of these names, shot three times by police officers on a wellness check.  Suicide by cop.  

Lee Mokobe: “now oncoming traffic is embracing more transgender children than parents.”

Who can blame her for having a mental health crisis?  The GOP is demonizing and legislating us out of existence everywhere they can.

How long until we see something like Pink triangles as required adornment for transgender people?  How long until my name is among those read by someone I’ll never meet, or laugh with

In any case, the police weren’t charged.  That’s because, in the eyes of the law and many others, we are not human.  An overwhelming percentage of trans murders are never investigated, never mind solved.  Their only crime was living at the Intersection of identity, race, and othering.   The sentence for our existence is Death or exile.  Court is never adjourned.   But there is hope.

This building we occupy stands for the belief that there is something more to our existence- and that those we honor tonight join the chorus invisible of those we honored last year, and the year before.  We say their names, their loved ones remember and grieve them, and we continue the fight.  We continue until there are no more death sentences, until there are no more exiles from home and friends. 

To those whose names we read tonight, all I can say is: I’m sorry: we failed you.  But we will remember, and pray that somewhere, you have found peace. 

Let us honor them, by the name of:

 (read first 10 names

The Spiritual Center

Falling In

 This past weekend was rather eventful.

I saw Wife and Daughter briefly on Saturday- for around 30 minutes.  Daughter, now 15, had plans with friends about which I was not briefed.  Ok, stuff happens... so after a two and a half hour drive, now what?  I could visit friends (if they returned texts inquiring about that).  I could go to Sly Fox to try their Shepherd's Pie that their chef (a friend) was bragging about (which I did- and it was amazing!).  

There was also a miniature wargaming convention out in Lancaster, PA called Fall In. Back when I worked at Games Workshop, I always went to this.  The sponsor HMGS holds three conventions a year: Cold Wars, Historicon, and Fall In.  Usually they were held in Lancaster or Gettysburg, and most of the GW people who gamed (most of us did) went to play and see friends.  

I hadn't attended one of these since I transitioned, as the miniature wargaming hobby is primarily male and overwhelmingly conservative.  However, several of my old GW friends were now working at Gale Force Nine games, and they were going.  I decided to visit.  

One of the attractions of the convention is seeing the amazing gaming tables some people build.  While some people are, ahem, rather lame in their presentation, others go all-out and their tables are amazing. 

The dealer's area was in a separate building, which I made my way towards, and bumped into a facialbook friend from the Philly area.  We chatted briefly.  Eventually, I found the GF9 booth, and there were three of my old co-workers.  One of them (I'll call him 1) had seen Sophie previously, but not the other two.  I hired one of the other guys (2) for GW all those years ago.  The third (3) was at GW before me, and has transgender son.  All three greeted me warmly, and we caught up.  I learned that one of my favorite people from GW is now involved behind the camera in the adult entertainment industry, which, if you know him, you'd say "yeah, that tracks."  

I then walked around the dealer's area, where I saw many items that, back when I still played, I would've been very interested in buying.  I used to spend a LOT of money I didn't have at these shows, and in the end, ended up selling off all those things to cover bills.  And so, while enjoying the displays, I didn't buy (except one bottle of paint.)

Then I ran into a familiar face, whom I'll call 4.  Back when I worked for Chessex in the early 90s, he owned a game company in the space upstairs in the warehouse, where he made high end wargames.  He had a booth, and I stopped to chat.  He hadn't heard that I'd transitioned, so he was quite surprised.  We chatted for a bit.

After that, I said my goodbyes to the GF9 guys, and drove back to State College, listening to Penn State football crush Indiana on the radio.  

That night, I watched as the Phillies played hard, but lost the World Series in game six.  No one expected the Phils to make the playoffs, never mind go all the way to the World Series, so it was a magical ride.  Still, it was a disappointment.  

The week has drifted by in a haze of insomnia and unease.  The elections weren't the triumph for fascism that the GQP wanted, but enough election-deniers were elected (but they don't trust elections?) to make 2024 a GQP coup.  The worst of the anti-lgbt trolls were easily re-elected and are now seen as presidential timber.  

So, now it's raining outside as the remnants of a hurricane pass directly over us.  A soggy day, to be sure, so, to cheer myself up, I decided to trowel on some makeup before doing errands.

Sometimes it's the little things that keep me going.

Be well.

A Truth

"I wanted all the people I'd met along the way through those experiences to disappear.  I did not want to be who they knew.  Maybe that's a better way to put it.  It wasn't that I wanted everyone else to disappear.  I wanted to make myself disappear"  Laura Jane Grace "Black Me Out" (Part 6)

Right now, that's what I want- to disappear.  I'm just a disgusting blob taking up space.

Bonfires

 Halloween time.  Harvest.  The leaves are turning color as they die and wither.

This weekend was travel and experience.  Friday night, I drove five hours to southern Delaware.  Ended up in a crappy hotel in Lewes, and went to Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner and to watch a bit of Game one of the World Series (go Phils!).  My older brother (OB) joined me at my invitation for a bit.  We were polite to each other.

We were both in southern Delaware for related reasons.  Saturday, right around noon, both of us, my Wife and Daughter, and OB's wife (and hyperactive dog) met at my Dad's place.  The Penn State-Ohio State game was coming on, but that's not why we were there.  We'd come together to scatter the majority of Mum's ashes over the water of Indian River Bay, thus fulfilling part of her post-mortem wishes.  

Dad wanted to save some of the ashes, so I took a sandwich bag, and, with his help, scooped some of the ashes into it.  With its seal, this would keep them from spilling.  We then put the bag into one of mum's favorite little chests (she kept so many), and I inserted the small metal ID cremation tag to the side of it.  Then, we all went outside to the end of the pier.  There was a slight breeze.  I carried the bag with mum's ashes, and when he was ready, dad took the bag, said a few words, and spread the ashes over the water.  I took some time to reflect as the wind and water carried the ashes away.  

Back inside, Dad, Wife, Daughter and I sat and watched some of the Penn State game while dad's dog tried to chew off my foot.  Dad had two tv's going- one in the kitchen, where he normally sits, and the big one in the living room.  That TV, despite being cable, kept showing lines and signs of interference.  Dad said he didn't know why.

I do.  Mum was there with us.  it was a rare moment when both her kids (or her granddaughter) were in the house, and so she wanted to be there.  At one point, I went into the kitchen and that small tv started doing the same thing.  I spoke quietly to her, letting her know that I knew she was there, and that I missed her.

Dad found another of mum's jewelry boxes in a closet- the one I remember from when I was a kid.  My sister in law, Daughter, and I looked through it.  From it, I took a clan hat pin.  I'll come back to that.

Eventually, it was time to go.  I dropped Wife and Daughter back at her car (they drove down separately, and we met in Lewes), and started my long journey back to State College.  It was midafternoon, and I listened to Penn State lose on the radio, then to other music as I drove north then northwest as the sun set.  

As twilight and gloaming set in, I was in the farmlands of north Delaware, southern Pennsylvania, and Amish country.  I noticed that often the countryside was cloudy- hazy- smoky.  Then I saw them.  Bonfires.  Here and there in the fields, bonfires were springing up, small and large.  People were preparing for their Halloween parties.  After all, with Halloween being Monday, the parties would be Saturday night (assuming that the local covens wouldn't have their Samhain fires easily seen from the highway.)   

I thought of the fun the idea of the parties implied, and the menace that the Halloween bonfires originally were intended to ward off.  The idea of people partying and dancing in costumes as the bonfire warded off the chill and the evil spirits.  The magic of fellowship and spirits liquid and ethereal.  What spells and connections would be forged as strangers like myself sped by in the night?  

Fires leave ashes and memories, and may be scattered on wind and water.  Or forgotten as love.

I arrived back at State College around 8, long after the night settled.  Many RVs were still in the tailgating areas, and yes, small fires burned in the night.  My back hurt from the drive as I settled on the couch with the pin I took and my old tam.  I bought the tam back in 1990 at some Scottish games.  It's the colors of my clan: MacIntosh.  I rarely wear it today, but keep it on the hat stand in case I want to.  I attached mum's pin to it, so now it's a proper tam.

In any case, Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain.  May it be safe, and your bonfire keep you warm.

White Out and Sundry

This past weekend was Homecoming at Penn State, and, unlike last year, Homecoming was the "White Out" game.  That means a LOT of people, a night game, and a definite electricity all week on campus.  Homecoming week is usually special, but adding White Out makes it more.  Add to that the beautiful weather and the trees reaching peak colors... one couldn't ask for anything more.

I didn't have tickets (I couldn't afford them), but I knew that my fraternity was having an alumni tailgate.  Last year I couldn't find it, and felt deceived.  This year, should I bother even trying?  I could stay at the apartment and do nothing (aside from the Halloween decoration project I was working on.  I wrote about that HERE.)  

I've wallowing in self pity, Imposter syndrome, and self-hate for weeks (years?) and not doing anything.  Immobilized.  So I started working on old projects and such to try to do ANYTHING.  So, I decided to shower, shave (first time for either since Tuesday), get out the fucking door, and go to the tailgate, where people probably wouldn't care if I showed up anyway.  However, I brought a bucket of Fireball shot bottles, so at least I would feel like I contributed SOMETHING.  The house supplied a buffet.

So it was that I boarded a bus to campus, so I didn't have to walk the whole way.  I still ended up walking a couple of miles that day, but not two plus miles each way.  I hoped to get lots of pictures, and I did.  I walked through the rich folks tailgating area next to the stadium, wondering at the huge spreads and elaborate RVs.  While searching for the Alumni RV, I encountered the people I met last year (but didn't write about), and they remembered me!  That felt good.  I found the fraternity tailgate easily enough- it was mostly people from the late 70s and early 80, but one from my time, as well as several undergrads.  It was mellow-ish.  One of the recent grads misgendered me so I returned the favor by calling him "Pledge", which he didn't like, but he got the hint after a couple of times.

I ended up doing seven of those fireball shots with various people and drank 3 beers (plus food and water), so I was feeling fairly good as I left the tailgate.  The sun was setting, and the crowd was flowing toward the stadium as I walked the opposite way toward the bus stop, taking more photos.  On the bus ride back, a college girl was passed out cold on the seat across from me.  I knew she was alive as I saw her breathing.  In any case, as we approached one of the apartments near mine, she woke with a start, and exited at the stop.  

After arriving back at the lair, I had a little more to eat and a LOT of water.  Linda and I watched the game, ate pizza, and flipped to the Phillies game during time outs and the half.  The Phillies won, and would win the pennant the next night, so they're going to the World Series.

Monday night was a strange night here on campus.  One of the MAGA student groups invited the founder of the Proud Boys and another fascist to come speak (recruit), so there was a large student protest.  (I was ready to attend, but fell asleep attempting to read PhD stuff and missed it.) In any case, the Proud Boys body slammed a woman, then fired pepper spray at students and police.  After that, the event was cancelled.  Gee, Proud boys becoming violent/  Who woulda thunk it?  Eyeroll.  Still, the fascists got their money and publicity, and blamed antifa for the violence.  (Hint: antifa wasn't there.)  

In any case, I've been sick as a dog the past few days.  Sleeping a lot.  It's not covid (I did a test.)  So I've continued to be useless.  Go figure.

Be well.

Scitman

Back in summer 1982, so much was changing in my world.  I was fifteen, with sixteen (and a driver's license) so tantalizingly close.  Some of my friends already were driving, and I envied their freedom.  They could leave this town and go to exotic places like MALLS and such without their parents.  It was the summer before my junior year in high school.  Local cable started carrying MTV which was brash, bold, and new at the time.  I was in my first summer of working at Burger King: a job which would define my high school 'social life' such as it was.  

And I was cross-dressing.  Whenever my parents went to the house down in Delaware, I stole chances to be feminine.  I'd ordered clothes from the Sears catalogue and used water balloons for boobs.  I felt what I was doing was absolutely wrong, and I didn't understand the compulsion.  I knew it was dangerous, and that the consequences for being caught would be extreme.

Still, I had a small group of friends- kind of two.  One group was the "D&D group" which consisted of Dr2Dave and another guy (who is now an MD), as well as "R".  I'm still friends with two of them.  The other group was among a group who orbited around a rather large baby faced guy we called Scitman.

Scitman was tall and very strong.  He was a lineman on the school football team, an outdoor sports enthusiast, and a genuinely nice guy.  However, among this particular group, Scitman was best known for his ability to belch, loud and long.  He could belch the entire alphabet at one go.  Childish, I know, but we were in our early teens.  

Occasionally joining us (usually on the basketball court) was a girl I'll call Pam.  Pam was tall, athletic (varsity girl's basketball) and incredibly smart.  In fact she was one of the top three of our class in GPA.  I think she had a crush on another guy in the group, who I'll call Bill.  Bill was also an outdoor enthusiast, loved basketball and bad jokes.  In any case, usually the group was me, Bill, and Scitman.  

Original Page One pencils

Back then, I really wanted to be a comic writer/artist.  I was also very much into D&D (go figure.)  In addition, I REALLY wanted people to like me, despite me being undersized and, well, different.  After all, I had this dark secret: cross dressing!  (Ominous crash of thunder).  I'd done a few short subject comics in ninth grade for my friends, and was published in the local newspaper for a while.  One day I bought a hardcover sketchbook and decided to fill it with a comic- a D&D comic, but one that people would like (D&D wasn't popular then.)  

And so Scitman the Barbarian was born.  I'd draw two or three pages at a time, usually while watching MTV.  On days that I wasn't working, I'd walk over the bridge to Royersford (where Scitman and the others lived, and try to find them- which I usually did, at the basketball courts.  There I'd show them the new pages, hoping to get laughs.  Sometimes I did- sometimes I didn't.  In any case, I enjoyed doing it, and saw the book as practice for my hopeful career. 

Page One Inked

Some of the poses I blatantly stole from Frank Miller's Daredevil, in both books I and II.  Also, some of the scenes have graphic violence, which was a way for me to release all the anger and frustration, as well as helplessness I felt.  Unfortunately, a few characters late in book I (a little in book II as well) are crude stereotypes that my 15 year old small town mind found amusing.  Looking at them now, I cringe.  Still, I'll ink them as drawn, and note that it was inappropriate then and now (like they do on Looney Tunes cartoon compilations.)  In any case, it's not like anyone will see them, as I don't intend to publish them.  This is an exercise in completion for me.

I finished the first book on July 29, 1982.  98 pages of cartoons- all in artists pencils.  My little circle loved it.  I bought another sketchbook and started on a sequel, imaginatively titled Scitman the Barbarian Book II.  

All Three Scitman books

I was a junior in high school.  Burger King had become my social life.  I was writing to various colleges for information (this was pre-internet) as I knew college was my only hope of escaping the small town where I was trapped.  People heard about Scitman, and the book was passed around the school.  In addition, I was practicing art and developing a portfolio.  Consequently, Scitman II had some new characters, again based on people I knew, new monsters and character types, and better artwork.  Looking back now at the two finished books, I could see the progression of my art as I did my best to improve my anatomical art and other aspects.  I finished Scitman II on April 22, 1983.  Would I continue?  Of course!  

This time, I couldn't find a sketchbook of similar size, so I bought a bigger one.  I decided that Scitman III would be inked and in color, but quickly abandoned that thought.  In this book, there were some new characters and villains, these taken from my BK friends among others.  I finished 56 pages of that book before stopping.  I'd fallen into deep depression after deciding to stop that cross-dressing foolishness and be a man.  In addition, I started training to be an Emergency Medical Technician.  And so, the Scitman saga ended.

From Scitman II

For my 10th high school reunion in 1995, I managed to photocopy (poorly) Scitman I, and gave copies to a few of the friends who appeared in it.  I didn't go to art school and wasn't a comic book writer artist.  I was selling toy soldiers for Games Workshop.  I dreamed of inking the books and somehow scanning them into a computer someday.  

Maybe five years ago, I bought artists pens from the book store where I worked.  I started inking Scitman, as I noticed the pencils were fading away after years in storage.  I didn't get far.  Recently, I broke out the pens again, and have been working on it again.  I'm more than 1/4 way through inking Scitman I now.  

From Scitman III

Time and transition has separated me from those friends.  All of them graduated from college and have lives and families.  At least one, Chuck, is dead.  I intend to finish inking at least book 1, and scan it in to the computer.  If I can finish both I and II, I'll then send the books to Scitman, whom I haven't spoken to in decades.  I think he'd still get a kick out of them.  After all, that was the point.  

Reading these books, I still see the kid craving attention, scared of what the future may hold.  In some ways, I'm still that kid- desperate to please others and craving acceptance.  However, I know now that acceptance will take more than me scribbling pictures- I'm just not that good at it.  I gave up on achieving acceptance long ago, as I never will.  Now, I just want peace.

In any case, in some universe somewhere, Scitman the Barbarian lives on, even if not from my pen.

(Addendum: I finished inking book 1 on Oct 31, 2022, over 40 years after I finished the pencil work.)

Be well.

From Scitman II

Spookiness Season

We've all made it to October, people.  The hated month of September (at least it is for me) is over, and now autumn rots into place.  Here in the mountains, the leaves are changing, and the air is crisp. (For how long, remains to be seen.)  It's harvest time, or, as I prefer, the season of Death.  

And Halloween.

Yes, my few long time readers know how much I LOVE Halloween.  It used to be the only time I could be myself with no consequences.  Before my "re-discovery" in 2008, Halloween was the time when I could be anything else in the world except my hated asshole self.  Also- parties!  Seeing what my friends, co-workers, whatever, concocted as their alter-ego for the night always made the party special.  Back in college, the annual Halloween party was a huge affair (how could it not be with a fraternity called Skull?) with a combine party with SAE, Chi-O, and Tri Delt.  SAE was another top house, while Chi-O and Tri Delt were top sororities.  It's funny- of the four houses that comprised those parties, only mine remains active at PSU.  The other three have been kicked off.  In any case, the Halloween party was one of the few times in school that I actually stood a chance of hooking up, as I dressed in a tuxedo shirt, bow tie, and Vampire cape.  I looked pretty sharp, I do say so myself!

Halloween 1988.  Chi O pledge.  No idea who she was.

For a few years in a row, I helped organize and decorate for a party at my friend/co-worker/savior Cat's place.  I did my best to make the parties memorable, from making Halloween themed CDs (not played too loud- they were never dance parties) to décor to themed foods.  Of course, the help from others always made it more special.  These parties were mostly for my book store peeps, but I expanded the guest list to others I knew (and that others knew.)  Several times after 2008, I thought about inviting friends from my transgender life, but I decided that would be dangerous- especially since I attended a few of these parties in dresses! (Like THIS ONE) (And THIS one).  And that's not counting the huge annual Henri David Ball on Halloween night!

Henri David '09

One of the non-book store people who attended was Michelle.  I met Michelle in the early 90s, when I worked for Chessex Game Distributors.  She ran (if not by title, then definitely by function) Total Confusion, a game convention in Massachusetts, along with her then husband.  She was the person who handled vendors, and I was there selling Chessex dice and such.  We hit it off and have been friends since.  In any case, she is a talented chef, especially with lasagna (but not bacon), and she helped make incredible food and added her delightful personality to the mix.  Also, she has a thick Bahstin accent, for which I tease her endlessly.  By sheer coincidence (yeah right), I'm typing this on her birthday, October 10.  Happy birthday, Michelle!  Hope it's wikid fun!

Halloween at Cat's 2010

So now I'm back at PSU, and have been for a few years.  Last year, I attended Rocky Horror Picture Show at the State Theater with Linda.  I dressed up a little for that.  This year, I won't be attending, as the showing is over the weekend before Halloween.

That weekend, I'll be heading south to Delaware, where my dad, Older Brother, his wife, and my Wife and daughter will scatter my Mums ashes over the water, as she wished.  Two- thirds of them anyway.  One third of them are in my apartment, awaiting either shipment or to be carried over to Scotland, where they will be spread in a memorial garden with her parents and sister.  My overall plan was to do that scattering today.  You see, October 10 is also my Mum's birthday- she would've been 83 had she not died in January.  I wanted so much to have her home for her birthday, but I failed her.  Shipping ashes to the UK is expensive, as it must be done by courier.  It's actually cheaper to fly over with Mum's ashes in my lap!  Money is always tight, so it didn't happen.  I'll keep saving, and doing my best to get her there.  

In any case, it's October.  The Veil between worlds is thinning.  Soon the dead will silently skulk around us.  Maybe even break dancing, who knows?

Be well!

Tentative post: Bike on a Hill

One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

In any case, I write about dreams often.  I even have a "dream journal" I keep next to my bed, so that if a particularly vivid dream hits, I can write it down before it fades from memory.  [Insert bit about dreams being portents and signs and such.]  Last night, a dream re-visited, however briefly, an incident from my childhood that, while I haven't forgotten it (and have a scar to remind me), I haven't thought about it in a long time.  

I learned to ride a two wheel bike fairly early in life- first or second grade.  My older brother (OB) taught me.  His bike had no training wheels, so he'd push me down a hill in a parking lot, and, at the base of the hill (where there was sediment gravel near a drain) is where I'd intentionally ditch the bike, as it was too big for my feet to touch the ground.  Crash!  Scrape!  Minor road rash.  "I wanna do it again!"  After a few trips down the hill, I'd mastered the necessary balance, and went into the house dirty, bloody, and happy.  Within a day or three, my dad (on a rare day off) removed the training wheels from my smaller bike, and off I went with my new found freedom!  

From an ad- the bike I had.

Maybe a year or two later, my parents got me a bigger kid's bike from K-Mart for my birthday.  That's the vehicle upon which this tale concerning Newton's Second Law of Motion takes place.  This bike, like all bikes of that type, had coaster brakes, which means if you pedal backwards, that would slam on the brakes, and you'd come to a quick-ish stop.  And if you did this as a skid, you'd look "BOSS!"  (Yeah, that was a thing in the 70s).  The weakness of coaster brakes was that the bike chain needed to be on to work.  Bike sprockets back then would bend if you crashed enough, which meant the chain could "pop" off.  An easy fix if one is stopped.  I think you can see where this is going.  

As I've written before, the street where I grew up was on a steep hill.  Hall street was about three blocks long.  West to east, the first block was flat, the second block was a steep-ish hill (and was closed after snow storms for sledding), and third block, upon which I lived, was far steeper with a slight bend to northeast.  At the bottom of my block was Main St, and across from that, the foundry and a driveway leading to the creek.  

 

In that order.

Current USGS Topographic Map

Using google maps and equations I looked up (hey- physics class was almost 40 years ago!), the second block descended at an angle of 350 degrees (slope -0.167) and my block was 338 deg, slope -0.4.  QED.

One summer's afternoon, I decided to walk my bike to the top of the hill and ride to Church Street (top of my part of the street) for a quick thrill.  After all, it was summer, I had a bike, and why not?  ZOOM!  SKIIIIIID!  Maybe do it again.  Hey!  Maybe if I practiced skidding enough, I'd do it cool enough that the older kids on the block would be impressed and pick on me less for being girly!  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Still with me?

So up I went, uphill, barefoot, (shoes in the summer?  Oh please!) to the top of the hill.  Of course, I'd be pedaling as well down the hill to reach maximum speed so the skid would have maximum coolness!  And... they're off!  In my mind I was pursuing an enemy plane, and catching up for the kill!  Nearing the bottom by the police station, I decided to slow a bit before doing the spectacular skid, and...

The chain popped.  No brakes!

The trip

I zoomed through stop sign and intersection fast enough that I didn't want to ditch.  Preacher's yard?  No I'd hit the curb and wreck.  Now the steeper hill... no brakes!  Mounted the sidewalk using a driveway about half way down...Zoomed past my house doing 0.5 past light speed.  At this point, I had the brilliant idea of slowing by dragging my left foot on the pavement!  I forgot- no shoes!  Scrape!  Owwww!

Angle into the fire house parking lot, maybe ditch there?  No going too fast... oh shit!  I'll run straight out onto Main Street into traffic!  I'll be crushed!  

Lower hill.  The red X is where I put down my foot

By the time I reached Main street, I was easily doing warp 9.7.  Leaned into turning to the right, hoping not to flip and... into the street!  Fortunately, no cars were coming.  Main street was flattish, so the bike eventually slowed after a couple of blocks, and I put my feet down to stop and OUCH!  I left a bloody footprint from my left foot.  I ended up stopping next to a yard, hauled my bike onto the sidewalk and turned it over to fix the chain.  Then I lay on the grass, my left foot finally sending signals of intense pain.  

Don't cry- only babies cry... only girls cry...

I don't remember riding back to my house or dressing the wound (my mum probably did that with mercurochrome- the red-orange cure all that stung like crazy!)  In any case, this dressing made me don sneakers for at least a month to avoid infecting the injury, which of course happened anyway, and left me limping, which made me useless for what few games I'd be invited to join by the neighborhood kids.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Speaking of those kids- no one saw my epic death-defying stunt.  At all.  So obviously, it never happened.  If a bike crashes on the street and no one sees it...  OB knew I was hurt, knew it was bike related, and, being an older brother, made fun of me.  (As I would've had the positions been reversed.)  

In any case, said infection led eventually to a Planter's wart (how??) and in either case left the third visible scar on my body (after the Arrow-Chisel Affair and the Bat-rope Rusty Nail Episode.)

Right- so the Dream.  This dream was unusual in that I didn't have to be somewhere and by going, end up further from my destination.  Also, I wasn't being attacked by someone who I couldn't hurt.  Nor was I being abandoned by a loved one.  No, in this case, I was driving in "Spring City", the dream version of which is older, rotting, and hillier than reality.  I stopped at the intersection of Hall and Church Streets, facing south, when I saw my young self zoom by on the bike, barefoot and yowling like Slim Pickens riding the bomb at the end of Dr. Strangelove.  (I don't remember saying or yelling anything on my escapade.)  I knew that I had to cross the intersection in my car quickly, as that bike was on an endless loop, with each lap increasing speed until... I don't know... I actually get hit?  In the dream, I crossed the intersection, and in the rear view mirror, saw young me on the bike whip past again, face distorted like I was in a 10G dive.  Part of me wanted to stop, and, when I zipped by again, try to grab me from the bike and roll into the preacher's yard.  But- I (older me) was in a dress, and that wouldn't be lady-like, and what if the neighborhood kids saw me in a dress?  I'd get beaten up for sure and they'd tell my parents and...

I woke up.  

Went to the bathroom.  3 am.  Back to bed.  No more dreams for me tonight, thanks, I'm driving!

Looking back now- remembering how I felt careening out of control on that bike- I don't remember being really scared of being killed or maimed or such.  I was scared of getting in trouble for breaking the bike.

Some things never change.

FYI: Out of curiosity, I enlisted a Physics PhD candidate to help me figure out how fast I was going, and impact force had I hit a car on Main St.  By taking measurements on Google earth, and approximate heights from a topographic map, using my approximate weight at the time (plus bike), constant of friction from air and from bike tire on asphalt, he whipped out equations, calculations, and eventually determined that, depending upon certain factors such as how I was sitting on the bike for wind resistance, and tire pressure, by the time I reached Main street I was going somewhere between 40-60 mph, probably on the lower side of that range.  In a car, 35 mph is lethal upon impact, so (checks the numbers in Tefft, 2013), I had a 75-100% chance of serious injury, and a 50-90% chance of death... depending upon various factors.  So me not hitting something at the bottom of the hill was damn lucky.

Be well. 

Tefft, B. C. (2013). Impact speed and a pedestrian's risk of severe injury or death. Accident Analysis & Prevention, 50, 871-878.