A Glove Story

A Glove Story

Back around 1983, as I was riding my bike, I noticed a nice glove lying in the street.  I stopped to pick it up and saw better that it was indeed a fine glove.  It was leather with a fleece lining and it reached halfway up my forearm.  I supposed that it had been dropped by a motorcyclist.  I looked for, but did not find, its mate.  I did take it home and threw it somewhere in the basement. 

About a year later I chanced to spy a very nice pair of ladies’ dress gloves, made of soft leather.  I took them home and they were immediately integrated into the wardrobe of my wife and daughter.  At that time, I was commuting to work by bike and in the days and weeks that followed I began to notice quite a number of gloves lying in the street.  Eventually I began to pick them up.  At first the intriguing thing was simply the quantity to be found.  Every few days, on a route that I traveled regularly, new gloves would appear.  As time went by, I began to appreciate the diversity of style and function as well as the quantity. After a while the thing began to be addictive.  The more I found the more I was amazed and the more I looked.  What had begun as a casual retrieval of one sturdy glove became interesting, then fascinating, and finally, something of a compulsion.  Before long I found myself looking for gloves in the street even while driving. 

It’s fair to say that all this was becoming a bit of an annoyance to my wife Beth, especially since it is sometimes difficult to make a positive identification of something as small as a glove while driving forty or fifty miles per hour.  Eventually she became resentful of stopping for dried leaves, rags and other flotsam of the gutter.  Nevertheless, I continued, and it was not too long before there evolved a certain ceremonial dance of discovery, complete with “spiking” of newly found gloves.  It was about then that I noticed my children no longer wanted to go places with me. 

In any case about 175 gloves were gathered in the first year and a like amount in the second.  By the end of that year the basement walls were pretty well covered with gloves and the thrill of the hunt was wearing off.  In February of 1986 we set off on a six-month tour of the United States, featuring the Fourth of July in New York City and the reopening of the Statue of Liberty which had been closed for refurbishing for two or three years.   Picking up old gloves was not part of the plan. In Oregon on the morning of the second day, we stopped at a viewpoint to look at some wildlife and as we returned to our motorhome I noticed a glove lying on the ground.   By habit rather than intent I picked it up and tossed it under my seat.  A few days later in San Francisco we found three more.  There was also a nice pair at Yosemite.   

Another focal point of the trip was the Grand Canyon where we hiked to the bottom, camped for a night and climbed out the next day.  As we were breaking camp that morning the wind blew some article of ours into the bushes.  Our daughter, Meredith, went to retrieve it and when she stood up and turned around she was holding what we now call “the Grand Canyon glove”.  At that point gloves became part of the adventure. 

We found gloves in New Mexico, Texas, and in the little town of Start in northern Louisiana.  In New Orleans there were so many gloves littering the streets that it took the fun out of finding them. Biloxi Mississippi had a glove for us, but we found no glove in that little piece of Alabama that touches the Gulf of Mexico.  Florida yielded several as did Georgia.  South and North Carolina would not give up their respective gloves until the last few miles that we were in each state.  Virginia, West Virginia, and Maryland contributed, but six or seven days in the Amish country of Pennsylvania provided no new gloves.  I guess folks there are too tidy.  We left PA and quickly scored in Delaware.  Then the friend whom we were visiting in northern Delaware suggested that we go up and catch a Phillies game.  Certainly a major league ball game was called for in a trip around the United States and to make it even sweeter, in the parking lot outside the stadium, my son found a batting glove - our Pennsylvania glove. In Elizabet New Jersey I found six gloves in one intersection – a personal best.  That brought us to the main objective of the whole trip, the Statue of Liberty. 

We enjoyed a great celebration in New York on the 3rd and 4th of July.  On the 6th when the statute was opened to the public, we went early to stand in line and climb to the top.  There was a great crowd of people waiting for the boat at the Battery and at the statue itself.  It took an hour and a half to move from ground level up to the crown.  From the lady’s feet to the crown there is a wonderful double spiral staircase, one side for climbing the other for descending .  After a laborious climb to the top one crosses a little catwalk peering out the small windows in Liberty’s crown at the skyline and harbor of New York City.  Then it’s the long wind down. 

From the staircase the inside of the sculpture can be seen.  It is the negative of what all those immigrants saw from the ships that brought them.  Looking carefully one can make out the tablets in Liberty’s left arm, the folds of her gown, her toes, etc.  Periodically there are little platforms adjacent to the staircase where one can step out of line and have a longer look.  Meredith led us down.  I was last and at a point near shoulder level I stepped out onto a platform to look more closely.  There as I stood scrutinizing some new copper pieces that had been installed during the refurbishing I suddenly saw, lying on a girder a few feet before me, an ordinary, slightly tattered, soft brown cotton work glove; a souvenir left for us by a workman, perhaps one of the Frenchmen who had worked on the refurbishing.  After a moment of amazement I called to my wife who had the camera. 

Beth had to push past other descenders to get back up to me.  We stood a few moments smiling and shaking our heads.  Then she took the picture and told me we would put it on the basement wall with a note that read, “On Permanent Loan To The Statue Of Liberty”.  Then it was time to go, but I had trouble leaving.  It was just not possible to depart without making some sort of effort to retrieve that glove.  The girder it lay on supported the platform on which we stood. There was a waist high railing around the platform and between the railing and the platform there was a heavy metal wire mesh that stopped me from just reaching out to grab my target.  With Beth holding the waist band of my pants I leaned over the rail as far as I dared.  The glove was at least fifteen inches from my fingertips.  I contemplated climbing over and out onto the girder.  For several stories below there was very little other than the copper skin of the statue.  Headline visions flashed before Beth’s eyes.  “Seattle Man Falls Through Statue of Liberty”, Millions In Damages”, “Wife Claims He Sought Gove”.  I thought better of it and reached again, this time with a shoe. Still six inches short.    Moments passed in fevered thought searching for a long object or a better idea.  The park rangers had been announcing that the wait to get to the top of the statue was now at least two hours, too long to think of going down, getting a tool and climbing back up.  We had to think of something or be satisfied with the picture.   

After several minutes Beth suggested that I try my belt.  It seemed unlikely to work, but as we had nothing else, I pulled it from my trousers.  I leaned over the rail and extended my arm straight out.  By dangling the belt buckle I could touch the glove.  Gingerly I pulled the buckle over the glove trying to nudge it inward toward us.  Turning the belt so that one edge was toward me stiffened it a little and I  managed to roll the soft cloth over one time.  I tried again – with success.  Then on the third roll the glove slipped from the girder and I watched it fall, down, down into the skirts of Lady Liberty. 

We had found it.  We had photographed it. We had done all we could to retrieve it.  I had watched it fall into the recesses of the statue where I was confident it would remain for a long time.  There was no remorse as we turned and again started down the stairs. 

At the bottom Beth and I parted as she headed for yet another line, this time at the lady’s restroom. On the way she ran into Meredith and still filled with excitement she exclaimed, “Meredith, you will never believe what happened to us.”   

Meredith replied, “You’ll never believe what happened to me.” 

“What happened to you?” asked Beth. 

“Well, I was going down the stairs and just when I got to the bottom of the statue, something hit me on the head.  I thought the whole statue was falling down, but when I looked it was a glove. “ 

“What? A glove hit you on the head?  What did you do with it?” 

“Well I stood there at the bottom of the stairway for a while and, as each person passed, I asked ‘Did you lose a glove? Is this your glove?’  When nobody claimed it, I put it in the backpack.” 

And that is how we got our Statue of Liberty glove. 

Je ne suis pas Charlie

A week or so ago a woman in Idaho thought it was reasonable to take a loaded, unlocked gun in her purse when she took her two year old son to Walmart and then leave the purse within reach of the child.  As we know those decisions resulted in her death from a bullet fired from the gun by the boy.  Upon hearing of this event I failed to find great sympathy in my heart for the woman.  I certainly don't think she deserved it, but her own contribution to her demise was so great that I can't summon much concern. 

Now some cartoonists in France have been murdered and I find myself pretty much fresh out of sympathy.  Clearly the cases are not the same.  In the cartoonist case the killing was intentional and there was more of it.  But there was one very important parallel.  The French were practicing the principal of free speech and by so doing affirming and defending this right.  I don't know it for a fact, but I think it is likely, that the woman in Idaho was not in fear for her life that afternoon, but her decision to carry a gun to Walmart was an affirmation of her right to do so. 

Here's what I affirm.  Just because one has a right to do something stupid or offensive doesn't mean that it should be done.  I don't think I've ever seen a Charlie Hebdo cartoon, but the reporting seems universal that their style was aggressive, and insulting to all their targets.  To me insulting religious beliefs is quite different from insulting political thought and behavior or entertainers or other public figures.  I happen to find the evidence for a caring God to be pretty scant and unconvincing.  But I think religious beliefs are beyond proofs and at the same time capable of inspiring wars and great suffering.  For both these reasons we should try hard to tolerate the beliefs of other however misguided they may seem.  Mocking Mohammad, mocking Buddha,  Mocking Jesus Christ should not be done unless there is some VERY  strong reason to think that such mocking will somehow improve something.  Mocking religious beliefs just for the fun of it is STUPID. 

Je ne suis pas Charlie.

Thoughts For My Niece

My very smart and accomplished niece has just come to Seattle from a smaller place to begin her college education.  Today she got a little lost and probably was late to an appointment.  I think it was stressful for her. 

The long run is composed of thousands and thousands and thousands of short runs.  While it is true that those who do well in the long run are those who take care of most all of the short run situations, it is also true that hardly any short run situation by itself is determinate.  So don't sweat the small stuff - too much.

Back Aches - For What It's Worth

From time to time I encounter people who have back problems of one sort or another. Having such a history myself I am inclined to get into a conversation about what might be done.  A few days ago, after such an encounter, I was inspired to write the following so I could just hand it out and save on talking.

 
I once was very free with advice about back aches, thinking what I had learned from my own experiences would be useful to others.  I’m more modest now in this regard because I now think there are many different sorts of back problems so not all advice is applicable.  That said, what follows is the best wisdom gathered from a 15 to 20 year saga of recurring, incapacitating back spasms.  I hated it when my wife said that I had a bad back meaning a back predisposed to injury.  What I think I had was a perfectly normal back that I mistreated often enough that I would have 2 or 3 episodes a year when for several days I was barely able move off the ground or out of bed.  That was roughly between the ages of 25 to 45.  The incidence of trouble started going down in my early 40’s mostly due to my learning what particular acts or activity put me in jeopardy.  Once I learned what not to do or at least how to be careful, the problem went away.  In my early 50’s, for reasons other than my back, I started getting more exercise which strengthened my back so that now at age 75 I can do much more than I could at 25 without hurting myself.  The following can be read as advice, but as stated above, it ain’t necessarily right.

 

In the case of an acute situation my first goal is to end the pain.  My back aches occurred in my lower back where there are many small cooperative muscles.  If one spasmed the pain would cause the adjacent muscles to grow tense and vulnerable and interfere with the recovery of the sore muscle.  Of course stopping the pain was useful in its own right.  For me step one is to take the strongest pain medicine available.    There may also be some body positions that reduce or eliminate pain.  One such position for me was lying on my back on the floor with my lower legs laid over the seat of a side chair.  My thighs were vertical at the hip and my legs bent at the knees so the calves could rest on the seat of the chair.  Once on a trip to Central America I spent a night like that.  In the morning I was ready to go.  Another tip for comfortable sleeping is to sleep on a slippery surface such a nylon sleeping bag wearing some kind of slippery shorts.  Thus bed friction is minimized.  Before I got onto these friction reducing measures I would from time to time exacerbate an injury in my sleep by trying to drag my hips/pelvis to some new position.  After stopping the pain as much as possible step two is to get the right amount of exercise.  The problem of course is knowing what is the right amount.  I do think exercise is therapeutic.  At the same time it is easy, once one is feeling better, to do too much and suffer a setback.  So move and exercise the injured area, but err on the side of too little.

 

There are two or three things to do that could be thought of as long run strategies.  One is to think very hard about any particular back incident that may occur.  What was the immediate cause and was there any lead up to the immediate cause?  For example I could shovel dirt or snow all day without incident, but then, on the next day, I might easily incur a back spasm by picking up a sock.   The muscles, tired from the shoveling, were vulnerable to the slightest stress.  Eventually I learned to be careful on days following shoveling.  As is well known, improving one’s fitness, especially core strength, can pay off in fewer back problems.  For reasons unrelated to my back, in my fifties I became much more fit.  Now at age 75 I can stress my back much more than I could at age 25 without suffering bad consequences.  And finally recalling my first advice for an acute attack, i.e. stop the pain, I always retain any pain medicine that is prescribed for me, but which I don’t initially need.  It can come in handy.

The Longest Life - A specculation

I've just awakened from a dream in which I briefly saw and spoke with my father-in-law who passed away about 40 years ago.  He was delivering some groceries to our kitchen.  It must have been summer with the door open so he could walk right into the house and announce himself with the family whistle.  I believe my mother-in-law was along, but I woke up before she made her appearance.  It was a very pleasant dream.

It won't be too much longer until all who knew Rodge will be gone and he will not even appear in a dream.  Puccini on the other hand is different.  About a year ago I went to La Boehme.  When it was over I thought with some amazement that Mr. Puccini, now dead for some long time, was still thrilling audiences, myself included.  Of course he had a lot of help.  Those who invented the musical form, and the instruments.  Those who made themselves able to perform what Puccini created.  Those who care to listen to his music.When there are none of these then I suppose Mr P will at last be effectively gone as well.  But it's a nice run he's having.

Such thoughts of course lead to the question of who will live the longest in the sense of being remembered and relevant.  I wonder if Thomas Edison is as well known in the rest of the world as he is in the U.S.  The electric light is a pretty big deal I think.  But do young people today, even in the U.S., know of him.  I'll have to ask a few.  There are the political inventors and creators.  T. Jefferson and friends come to mind along with Hobbs and Locke, etc.  Their work seems like it will impact people for a long time to come.  But I guess it is the religious guys who take the cake and among those is there any older than Abraham?  More than 4,00 years and people still find solace and hope and rapture and hate and reasons to kill one another as a result of his work.  I guess that's the record.

Karma Among Some Antiquities

I suppose it was because I turned down his money that he offered an eight inch stack of vinals topped by Crosby, Stills and Nash.  Someone had given them to him and he didn't really have a use.  I didn't either.  I had to think if we still had a turntable or if we had given it to the Goodwill.  They were sitting there in the trunk of his 70's something muscle car when he opened it to get out his bike rack which he needed to carry home the late 40's girls Schwin that I had just returned to him though I had never seen him prior to his arrival at my door ten minutes earlier.

It was quite a cool bike, with its fat tires and coaster brake.  Of course the chain and wheel rims were still pretty rusty.  I hadn't cleaned them in the six or ten months or whatever since the afternoon I had pedaled past it standing somewhat forlornly on that curb in Wallingford, next to a recycle bin, waiting, I surmised, for a trip the next day to some scrap metal melting pot on the industrial side of  town.  I'm sure I would never have stopped to beg for its life had the woman not been standing right there doing something to her lawn.  Well, that's putting a little edge on it.  All I did really, was ask.  The woman was happy to give it up along with a little, slightly prideful, mention of its history at Burning Man  http://www.burningman.com/whatisburningman/.  The corroded chrome on the handlebars  and squiggly hand painted markings on the fenders lent credibility to her claim.  I reflected, a little sadly, on what the passing of a few years and living in a nice bungalow in a yuppie neighborhood could do to a one time sojourner in the Nevada desert in late August.  But who am I to judge.  My first trip to Burning Man still lies before me.  So I went back later with my minivan and fetched the bike home. 

I can't recall if my ultimate use for it was already formed in my mind or if I was just grabbing a somewhat classic velocipede.  In any case I did use it, along with a couple like models, to advertise a condominium we wanted to sell.  Now, the condo itself is a classic.  Built in 1929, it features leaded stained glass windows, coved ceilings, and a sweet faux fireplace with colored glass coals shimmering on a grate over an electric bulb. Distaining the services of professional realtors, I created a website describing the property, and on my vintage bicycles I placed signage inviting interested passers by to the website.  Then I put the bikes out on the street and in some parks where I thought there might be potential buyers.  Every few days I moved them around.

That's where he saw it - the beloved conveyance he had taken to Burning Man six times and planned to take a seventh, until his landlady, thinking it was worn out, put it out for the recycle guys.  That irretrievably hopeless loss months prior was suddenly standing there beside his route with a sign on it - Oh how convenient! - telling how to contact the guy with the key to the lock thereon.  And so he called this PM and offered money for his bike.  And the final lovely coincidence is that just four days earlier we had signed the purchase and sale agreement for the condo, that brought to an end the brief, but successful advertising career of a certain late forties, blue girls' Schwin.

I think I'll go put on a little Crosby, Stills and Nash, eat some brownies and try to remember 1972.  It's legal now in Washington you know,

25th Anniversary Ride: A Cycling Memoir

.Reader Warning: The paragraphs below set a new high in self indulgence in a blog that is chock-a-block full of boasting and ill edited blather.  I hope you will read them, but I'm sure you have better things to do.  This post is mostly for my great grandchildren should there be any.

Twenty five years ago I marked my 50th birthday by joining some 2,000 others in a bike ride from Seattle to Portland OR.  At the time I thought 50 was an advanced age for riding such a distance, although there were, even then, some who had done the ride at ages into their 70's.  I  think it is now more or less routine to have 70 year olds.  Anyway, I thought I was kind of old.  What I didn't know was that I was just getting started as a somewhat serious bike rider.  In the years since, I have done the ride 5 more times,  so this year will by my 7th, if I complete it.  I have also done a couple of multi-week rides in the U.S., ridden in Europe, Hawaii, New York City, and California, led thematic rides around Seattle, ridden around Mt. Rainier (The Ramrod) and used a bike as my most common means of travel around Seattle. The rudest thing I've done on a bike is ride naked in the Fremont neighborhood Solstice Day Parade.   This weekend about 10,000 people will do the STP (Seattle to Portland).  About 20% of them will do the 200 miles in one day.  I suspect I will be the only one  carrying a snail in a jar dangling in front of me as a pace setter.  While most STP riders take the event rather seriously, riding as fast as they can on the best machines they can afford, I've always chosen to be a bit silly.

This time I'll be riding the same 5 speed, mid seventies, Schwinn, girls bike that I rode that first year.  It was given to me when it failed to sell at a garage sale.  There is attached to the sides the same cardboard cutout of a dinosaur.  Dino has been resting for the last 2 and 1/2 decades in my attic, awaiting his comeback appearance.  This is it.  My second STP was begun on a three wheeled rowing machine, though that proved to be too slow so the second day I resorted to the Schwinn again.  I did get my picture on the front page of the Seattle Times sports section that year.  The next two outings, a few years later, were done on a 1963 collapsible bike (an early Alex Moulton, for any cognoscenti, who may be reading) that I bought in a mountain town in Guatemala.  It was equipped with a three speed hub.  The second of those years I dressed as a sailor and carried signage advertising  a production of Gilbert and Sullivan's H.M.S. Pinafore.  In 1997 I did the ride wearing a tuxedo and pulling a mannequin dressed in a formal gown on a trailer bike. I called that "Styling To Portland." My last time, in 2001, I wore cowboy boots, and a neckerchief.  A horse skull was mounted on  the handle bars and a tail swung behind the seat, which incidentally, earnest bike enthusiasts always call a saddle.  That year I did the ride in one day. 

If all goes well, in two days I will roll into Portland in time for dinner.  If I'm lucky my sister-in-law and riding companion will sing to me for the last ten miles.