Happy Birthday, Epiphanie!

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Q: What one person, thing, moment, or place do you wish you had a photo of?

A: I’m fortunate to have some old family photos, photos from my childhood, and plenty of more recent family photos. But the one thing I’m missing and wish I had is a photo of my first home.

When my twin brother and I (aka Antithesis and Thesis, respectively) were born, my parents had bought their first home, in Carteret, New Jersey, but we only lived there until we were about 4 years old. I remember it, but mostly my memories are pretty vague. I remember that there was no cellar, but there was a half-finished attic and it must have had stairs because I remember being up there with my mom and my brother occasionally. I remember there were three bedrooms, and a back yard. It seems that it was huge, but then, I was very little, so who knows?

But what I remember most, oddly enough, are my brother’s and my little nighttime antics when we were still in cribs. Apparently, my brother figured out at an early age how to climb out of his crib at night, which he did. This drove my mother nuts with worry, and finally she talked to our doctor about it. He said all she could do was pile blankets under Antithesis’s crib so he wouldn’t hurt himself if he fell. Guess that was all she could do, since he kept climbing. Every night. Once he’d escaped his crib, he would just go and sleep in the hallway. Why? Who knows—he’s always been a bit of a free spirit—I don’t call him Antithesis for nothing! Eventually, I followed his lead and starting doing my own nocturnal escape acts. But the hallway wasn’t my destination.

We had a guest bedroom, which my mom called the “spare room,” and which I now realize was meant to be a bedroom for my brother or me when we got older—we shared one room from infanthood until we moved. But I remember the spare room most because after climbing out of my crib I would go in there to sleep on the freshly folded towels that my mother invariably left in there, since, as she once told me, the house had no linen closet. I guess she must have left them on the bed, which must have been low enough for me to climb onto (what little monkeys Antithesis and I must have been!) I don’t really remember those details very clearly. I mainly remember that I liked the texture of the terrycloth towels against my skin, and that’s why I liked sleeping there. (Wouldn’t you think my mom would’ve figured this out and just tried putting a towel in my crib?)

I remember a few other things from that first home: playing with my brother in the living room, in the yard, in the attic. Our miniature dinette set that looked for all the world like my mom and dad’s big dinette, with the same wrought iron frames and upholstered vinyl seats. My dad coming home from his navy deployments; sitting on his lap while he tried to teach me to spell my name. But I mostly remember the feel of that soft terrycloth against my face as I drifted off to sleep in that big spare bed.

Yes, I sure do wish I had a photo or two of that place.

Shared photo book from Judy:

View Project at Shutterfly

Red Sky

Photos from Escambia Bay, Florida, Summer 2008. The focal photo was a summer sky, early morning, the clouds reflecting the light from the rising sun. It reminded me of that old rhyme about the weather: "Red sky in the morning."

Digital scrapping materials from jessicasprague.com and Digital Scrapbook Place

Bookmaking

Well, it's time I gave some much-needed attention to my little blog. Let’s talk about bookmaking.
No, not "Making Book," as in taking bets on the races.
But making books, as in creating covers and pages and binding them together. THAT kind of bookmaking.


I took up bookmaking this past summer, and I found it interesting and rewarding. I love digital photo editing and digital scrapbooking, but what I had been missing in those activities was the tactile dimension—the touchy-feely nature of the actual page, as opposed to the virtual page, which is essentially made up of tricks of electrons and light—the smoke and mirrors of the early 21st century. So I took up once again the art of the actual page, this time as part of actual books, which I would build and bind myself. If this intrigues you, I highly recommend a very handy little book by Esther K. Smith: How to Make Books: Fold, Cut & Stitch Your Way to a One-of-a-Kind Book. I also took a couple of online classes at Big Picture Scrapbooking--extremely nurturing instruction!

So, I learned how to make covers, how to make neat, crisp folds and corners, how to create several different bindings, how to stitch bindings, and how to embellish my pages. What I liked most was, I think, the stitching. I think I could spend a good deal of time sewing book bindings and remain very happy. I found something immensely satisfying in my first stitched binding, a pamphlet stitch. Just three holes and, basically, three stitches, et voila, it’s a book binding! I embellished my first pamphlet-stitch binding with a monogram medallion—just seemed like it could use that to finish it off.


The Japanese stab-stitch binding I like for its artistry—the way the stitches become part of the visual appeal of the cover. My first attempt was just a tiny book made of business-size envelopes cut in half, with cardstock covers, but I like it quite a lot.











In contrast, the post binding does not impress me much. It just seems heavyhanded, especially after the delicate, dancelike sewing of the stitched bindings. On the other hand, I’m very content with the post-bound book I made, especially because it’s Cocoa’s book. The window in the cover allows the bookmaker to highlight a favorite photo, and it was fun making pages out of unexpected materials, like torn corrugated cardboard and a panel from a dog biscuit box, plus throwing in some fibers and tags. Coke thinks it came out great.


A couple of bindings that I hadn’t expected to like turned out to be very adaptable in interesting ways. The fan-fold binding I used to save photos and cards from the Chief’s 60th birthday. I also included some experiments in photo transfer and printing on transparencies. (Photos of this book later, I promise!)

But by far my best effort involved the accordion binding technique, which I never thought I’d like much. I used it to make a book in honor of my relationship with my twin brother, and I called it Dialectic. As any student of rhetoric can tell you, dialectic is a form of argument in which the proposition of a THESIS leads to its opposite, the ANTITHESIS, and the dialogue leads eventually to a third proposition that compounds the two: SYNTHESIS. The dialectic of the Hale twins frames the sister, elder child by “four precious minutes,” as Thesis; the brother, and younger child, as Antithesis; and their relationship itself as elegant Synthesis. Like Eliza and Wilbur, the twins in Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Slapstick, we are like two imperfect halves of one perfect person, and are never so good individually as we are together: “Thus did we give birth to a single genius, which died as quickly as we parted, which was reborn the moment we got together again.” In critical readings of the novel, Eliza and Wilbur represent right brain and left brain. But in my reading, they are simply a brother and sister who cannot live well without each other near, and who are their best selves when they are united: Thesis, Antithesis, Synthesis.

So, to you, dear brother, the other half of my best self, I offer this little book:

Solo Ride with Mom

Beginning mileage: 15,015

This Sunday was the date my mom passed away in 1998, so she’s been gone for nine years. I marked the day in a way that I think Mom would have approved: my first long solo ride on my motorcycle.

Like many women, I had a difficult relationship with my mother. I don’t know that she ever understood me, and it sure took me a long time to understand her. And by the time I thought I did, and was able to have the important heart-to-heart talks with her that I would’ve liked to have, she was in the clutches of Alzheimer’s disease and was struggling just to remember what day it was, never mind her innermost thoughts and feelings about her quirky daughter. In the end, all I could do was try to make her know how much I loved her. I hope that was enough.

This is one of those things that makes me wish I believed in the survival of the soul, life after death, and love everlasting. I don’t, but I can still memorialize people I love who have passed, like Mom.

I memorialized Mom today by taking my first long solo ride. Man, she would’ve loved riding a motorcycle. She had such a wild streak. By the time I came to know her, it had been somewhat tamed, I don’t know whether it was by domesticity or by cultural imperatives or just by her own reticence. But tamed though it was, it was still there, a restless undercurrent in her life, emerging occasionally when she’d had enough of what she clearly felt was a too-mundane life.

I’ve been accustomed to thinking of Mom in connection with convertible cars and long days at the beach—she loved both of those things. I don’t know that riding a motorcycle was ever anything that even approached her radar (though she did ride a nephew’s mini-bike once). But if it had, and if she ever had, she would absolutely have loved it: the speed, the wind, the curves, the on-the-road wildness. She loved being on the road, and this would have been just another dimension of it to love.

So today, I rode alone, but with Mom--hence the title of this post. Follow along on this Gmaps route: Blackwater Ride

I put down the passenger pegs on my bike, and Mom was my invisible passenger as I motored through the live-oak-canopied streets of historic Bagdad (that’s Bagdad, a tiny and very old town in northwest Florida, as distinguished from Baghdad, a large and ancient city in Iraq). From there, I wiggled through the narrow streets of Milton, a somewhat-less-tiny though just as old town, to get to Munson Highway. Finally out in the county, I poured on a little more throttle, zooming past Bob’s Canoes and that cool, deep, sandy-bottomed arm of the Blackwater River. I turned off at Indian Ford Road—what a romantic, evocative name, calling up visions of Native American bands and their traditional river crossings, marked perhaps with trees trained into bent shapes, bound with vines as saplings, so the adult trees would point the way to the place where the water was shallowest, the crossing shortest and easiest.

Snapping back to the early 21^st century, I turned my attention to the road itself. This road is short but twisty, with some near-90-degree turns and some fun rollers, swooping down onto narrow, rustic bridges over shady creek bottoms and back up into the leaf-dappled sunlight. There was almost no traffic, which I found odd for a Sunday, but maybe, since it’s a road well used by folks hauling boats to the river, most of the traffic occurred earlier in the day. For whatever reason, the road was only lightly traveled, and I enjoyed the solitude. Mom and I, that is.

At the intersection of Indian Ford and Deaton Bridge Road, I turned right, heading for that pretty little section of Blackwater River State Park. Here, the woods close in, surrounding the road for several miles—nothing but cool, cool green. Then, where the road crosses the Blackwater River, the woods recede briefly to allow vistas of the winding river, with its clear water and white sandbars: the "beaches" of north Santa Rosa County.

Plenty of canoers, kayakers, tubers, and swimmers on this hot, sunny day in May in the Florida panhandle, taking advantage of those river beaches and that cold river water. A very inviting scene, and Coyote, my bike, suggested diving into the river to cool off--
but alas, as the sign warns, "NO JUMPING FROM BRIDGE."

I followed Deaton Bridge Road south, past the little outlying Navy airfield where the helicopter pilots practice—not much going on there today. Pretty soon, Deaton Bridge dumped me out onto Highway 90 at the Harold Store. Harold, Florida is a tiny, tiny town (some would say barely a town at all, but just the proverbial “wide spot in the road”), marked most conspicuously by the Harold Store. On its face, it’s only a convenience store, but it’s also a meeting spot of sorts—for patrons of all sorts. The cycling club that I ride with on Saturday mornings occasionally rides to this store as a halfway point. We get snacks and drinks, hang out at the handy, shaded picnic tables while we fuel up for the 21-mile return ride. That’s one genre of patrons. The other genre was there today: teenagers with beat-up cars and trucks, having slipped the bonds of church and Sunday school, and now apparently looking for other teenagers with cars and trucks, and all of them looking for something to do. I got lots of surreptitious looks and a few bold stares as I got off my bike and grabbed a cold drink. And I think all of them were watching as I motored back out onto the highway. My first thought was “Good grief, get a life!” But as I reflected on myself as a bored teenager, with few resources for combating the boredom but more than these kids probably had, I relented. What the heck—they were just being kids together.

Now, on this ride, after you hit Highway 90, you’re pretty much on your way home. But it’s still a pleasant ride, back over the Blackwater River as it skirts the little town of Milton, through tree-lined Bagdad streets, down Bagdad peninsula, to our little home on the Bay. I could just hear Mom ooh-ing and ahh-ing, laughing and carrying on. Jeez, Mom, I know we didn’t get along a lot of the time, but I wish you could’ve gotten in on this part of my life. You would’ve loved it!

Ending mileage: 15,102

Thunder Beach! Days 2 & 3

Saturday was bright, clear, and hot—a beautiful day for riding but with the promise of more heat to come. I decided to stow my jacket in a saddlebag instead of wearing it. This surprised even me, because I’m usually such an ATGATT girl. But I did wear a long-sleeved shirt—nice light wicking-fabric shirt with a zip neck. People kept asking me wasn’t I hot, but I really felt pretty comfortable—probably something to do with the wicking fabric and the fact that the long sleeves kept the sun from beating directly down on my arms—and shoulders, and belly, and all the other various body parts that were widely on display among the sea of riders.

Seal Guy arrived and we saddled up, having planned to do the Saturday Poker Run, sponsored by ABATE of Florida, White Sands Chapter. I was excited to be doing my first ever poker run, and I knew I’d have fun, regardless of whether I won anything! We started at Edgewater, where we met Blonde Guy. Everyone signed up for the run and drew their first cards. The Chief and I shared a hand, and we started out with a Three of Hearts. Low card, but the Heart made it seem promising.

Next venue was Hammerhead Fred’s, beach bar and grill (t-shirts say “I got hammered at Hammerhead Fred’s”—Blonde Guy couldn’t resist buying one). First thing, we drew our next card, which was a Six of Clubs. OK, that’s a possible straight in the making. Hammerhead Fred’s was a fun sort of place—across the road from the beach, friendly, comfortable, a little crowded but not too, too—so we had lunch there. Excellent crab claws and lots of other good stuff!

After Hammerhead Fred’s, next stop was the Treasure Ship, which is a building that actually looks like an old, sea-worn wooden ship, right on the water. The Chief and I drew a Seven of Diamonds—our straight was still taking shape! Woo-hoo! We had cold drinks, to celebrate and to stave off dehydration, while enjoying the cool breeze off the Gulf of Mexico (see photo, above) and talking to some other riders.

The fourth stop on our route was Dusty’s—and it WAS dusty. Dusty, small, and incredibly crowded, so we just drew our card then headed out: a Five of Clubs! Our little straight was so close I could taste it. I couldn’t wait to get to the next stop to draw what I was sure would be a Four of Something.

Which, of course, it was not. *sniff* At the last venue, the Sandpiper Beacon Beach Resort Tiki Bar (what a mouthful!), I drew *drum roll, please* a……nother…..Five. Rats Rats Rats! So we ended up with a pair of Fives. Oh well, it WAS for ABATE, which is a good cause. And we did end up at another cool, friendly beach bar-and-grill, where there was a band and dancing and lots of friendly bikers to get to know. Also a crowd, some heat, and some wildness among the dancing group—but that goes with the territory. LOL Here are the guys at the Tiki Bar. That good-looking silver fox in the middle is the Chief--hubba hubba!

BTW, Seal Guy and Mrs. Seal run Leatherwood Cottages, a mountain resort of vacation cottages in beautiful Maggie Valley, North Carolina, "in the Heart of the Great Smoky Mountains." It's a great, friendly place to stay if you're ever passing through that area.

After the fun wore off a little, I wasn’t too surprised to find that I was pretty hot, but what did surprise me was how tired I felt. So I headed back to the condo, leaving the guys to just be guys together for a while. I got a chance to relax in the ac and regroup. I love the crowds and hot, noisy fun for a while, but I also need my downtime.

After everyone straggled back to the condo and got cleaned up and rested up, we went to a little local Italian place for dinner. Seal Guy’s headlight was dimming, so he and the Chief rode off to find an auto parts store before dark, which left Blonde Guy and me to deal with the wine and hors d’oeuvres we’d ordered—hey, someone had to do it. The Chief and Seal Guy returned with both headlights blazing not too much later.

We had our dinner outside on the little porch, watching and hearing the constant stream of biker traffic up and down Beach Road. Several other biker groups stopped where we were for dinner, and we had a good time chatting with them about the day’s events. One woman was riding a gorgeous V-Star, and I practically salivated over the thing when she let me sit on it. Very nice! Might be my next bike.

We lingered pretty long over dinner, what with the headlight incident, then the entrees, then dessert, then swapping stories with other bikers. Finally, to my surprise, everyone was ready to call it a day. I’d expected those guys to motor off toward the action further to the east, but instead we all dragged our tired selves “home” for the night. Well, except for Seal Guy, who decided to go all the way home that night instead of waiting until next morning. We tried to dissuade him, but it was not to be done. We saw him off with many exhortations to take care and to call us when he arrived.

* * *

Sunday, the remaining three of us said good-bye to Panama City Beach, Sunnyside, and Thunder Beach. The weather cooperated all the way home—a little overcast, but mostly dry and warm, just like Saturday. This weather was a minor miracle because storms had been forecast for the entire weekend, but we never saw one of them. A few clouds appeared from time to time, but no rain and certainly no storms. PC Beach—and most of the northern Gulf beaches—can be like that though—it can be rainy and yucky in town, but out at the beach, it’s a lovely day. Not two hours after we returned home, the skies opened up—which made us glad we’d gotten an early start.

Afterthoughts:

While doing all that stop-and-go riding on Friday, I had mentally sworn off bike rallies, if this was what they were going to be like. I hated the traffic and the heat. But as so often happens, when the events were recollected in tranquility, I reconsidered. Sure it was a little hot, sure there was lots of traffic—but that’s pretty much what it’s all about. After all, it’s only a bike RALLY if there are lots of bikers, right? OK, though I still don’t see myself doing Bike Week in Daytona Beach, I MAY return to Thunder Beach in the fall. Hope it’s a little cooler then.

Also regarding all that stop-and-go riding, I surprised myself with my skill at it. Not that I don’t still have a lot to learn, but I did just fine with all the clutching, braking, and shifting, while maintaining a reasonably tight formation with the others. And I did well on the other unfamiliar roads as well. All things considered, I was pretty satisfied with my riding during the weekend. Yay!!!

So there it is: a novice looks at Thunder Beach. It was fun, hot, crowded, interesting, educational (yes, educational!), hot, and fun. Can’t wait for the one in October!

Ending mileage: 14,935