While I'm on bicycle accident stories- here's the velveteen rabbit story. A warning- while I think this story is funny & uplifting, there is one gruesome passage. this story takes place rather a while ago, when I first got my first "adult" bike, in Boston. He was a 1960's Peugeot road bike, named Squirrel.
For Yom Kippor, instead of fasting, I decided i was going to go on a very long bike ride, all by myself. I started from Massart, and rode all the way to the end of the minutman trail, and then kept going to that funny little petting zoo/ icecream stand out in new bedford somewhere? I don't know. Then i went swimming at a little lake near Walden Pond. Then I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark, and I considered just staying there, but it's not really an isolated location, and I didn't have a well hidden spot, so, I got ready to start home. I had a cheap little plastic flashlight in my bag, but no headlight, so I taped the flashlight onto my handlebars with medical tape. Technically, the bike path is closed after dark, but I didn't know any other way home, so I went back to it and started down it. At the very first road crossing, my flashlight fell off, and was promptly run over by the only car i saw the whole night. Still, things were going well- the moon was out and lit the path in silver, like some sort of magical route that would lead me to the Last Homely House. The only obstructions were ballards. The ballards at that end of the path are formidable- made of cast cement and topped with the sharp remnants of cast bronze bike seats; but the ballards are at street crossings, which are well lit. Except for this one set at a driveway. It turns out that, the way these ballards are spaced, a bike will just about fit between them- but not the rider. So I hit them, and flew through the air for a bit. No doubt, I yelled. Then I laid quietly on the ground, and thought about what hurt. Only two spots- something on my back, and something on my right leg. I felt my back- no big deal, a little raw, probably hit a pedal. I felt my leg. There was a gap. There was definitely no flesh in a place where there should be. And remember- I had no light. So I stood up, rolled my pants down over the spot, picked up my bike and, in the scariest moment of this whole story, knocked on the door of the house whose driveway this was and asked to use the bathroom. They gave me a lecture about proper headlights on a bicycle, which pretty much set me at ease that they were ok people, and let me in. Once in the privacy of their well lit bathroom, I took a look. Sure enough, there was a big chunk of leg missing, and a 1inch by 2 inch section of bone showing, but it was the front of the shin, and wasn't bleeding much at all. Still, I put some gauze over it, and taped it up. I rolled my pants back down, thanked the folks, and walked out. There is a separate, and also very nice, story about my getting a ride, but this one's already too long, so suffice to say that I made it back to the city and got stitched up.
That night, I dreamed that my piece of leg, with bunny ears, was hopping around the trail, free and happy as could be. The image still makes me smile. And while there are many bunnies on that path, and thus I am quite certain it is coincidence, every single time I use that trail, I always see a bunny right at that point on the trail. I like to think the bunny is my liberated chunk of leg.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
the twenty first story
I haven't been writing up stories- I have been too busy making them in copper. So here's the pie story:
First, context. A few years back, I signed up for the Downtown Crossing Holiday Market. It was insane- seven days a week, outside in Boston in December, and the thing was open for something absurd like 11 hours a day. I was set up across from a farm stand staffed by a delightful young fellow who made the whole thing bearable. Also, I had good boots, and it was close enough to home that I could ride my bike back and forth. I rather ended up enjoying myself.
The day in question, the lad over at the farm stand unpacked fresh baked pies in the morning. As he was unpacking them, he announced to us what they were. Pumpkin, Pecan, Apple, and one blackberry. I think I squealed. It's possible. I love blackberry pie. He asked if I wanted it, and I said I'd have to see how the day went. I talked to eighty bazillion people that day, and he talked to a least three times as many as I did, and i forgot that conversation. Towards the end of the day, he came back over and asked how my day had gone. I made a sour face, but someone walked into my booth before I answered. Appleman went back to his booth, picked up the pie, carried it back over, lifted a corner of my tablecloth, and slid it underneath, with his finger over his lips in the universal symbol for "we shall never mention this". I smiled very big.
Now, the pie had to come home with me.I was on my fixie- no rack, no basket, mustache bars are terrible to balance anything on, and my riding position is leaned so far forward that putting the pie in my bag was not even an option. So I tucked it under my left arm and road home. We lived in Somerville, and it was not a long commute- perhaps four miles? Certainly less than six. The bridge was an adventure, what with the wind, and the large flat box, but I made it all the way to my street with no real problem. I turned into my street, and hit an enormous pothole that had been there all winter and which i knew all about. I flipped over, landed with one leg through the frame, my bag tangled on the seat, my arm, still holding the pie box, stretched out in front of me. I was entangled in the bike, and unable to get up, but I was just able to reach the box and open the corner.
The pie was right side up, and uninjured. Life is awesome.
First, context. A few years back, I signed up for the Downtown Crossing Holiday Market. It was insane- seven days a week, outside in Boston in December, and the thing was open for something absurd like 11 hours a day. I was set up across from a farm stand staffed by a delightful young fellow who made the whole thing bearable. Also, I had good boots, and it was close enough to home that I could ride my bike back and forth. I rather ended up enjoying myself.
The day in question, the lad over at the farm stand unpacked fresh baked pies in the morning. As he was unpacking them, he announced to us what they were. Pumpkin, Pecan, Apple, and one blackberry. I think I squealed. It's possible. I love blackberry pie. He asked if I wanted it, and I said I'd have to see how the day went. I talked to eighty bazillion people that day, and he talked to a least three times as many as I did, and i forgot that conversation. Towards the end of the day, he came back over and asked how my day had gone. I made a sour face, but someone walked into my booth before I answered. Appleman went back to his booth, picked up the pie, carried it back over, lifted a corner of my tablecloth, and slid it underneath, with his finger over his lips in the universal symbol for "we shall never mention this". I smiled very big.
Now, the pie had to come home with me.I was on my fixie- no rack, no basket, mustache bars are terrible to balance anything on, and my riding position is leaned so far forward that putting the pie in my bag was not even an option. So I tucked it under my left arm and road home. We lived in Somerville, and it was not a long commute- perhaps four miles? Certainly less than six. The bridge was an adventure, what with the wind, and the large flat box, but I made it all the way to my street with no real problem. I turned into my street, and hit an enormous pothole that had been there all winter and which i knew all about. I flipped over, landed with one leg through the frame, my bag tangled on the seat, my arm, still holding the pie box, stretched out in front of me. I was entangled in the bike, and unable to get up, but I was just able to reach the box and open the corner.
The pie was right side up, and uninjured. Life is awesome.
Friday, August 26, 2011
the twentieth story
Another story, this one set in Brazil.
Dustin and I flew into Manaus to meet my Brother and Yuka, and we all went out onto the Amazon. We had a guide and were out for maybe five nights? I'm not totally sure. One night, Dustin wanted to take a night walk- lord knows what he thought we'd see, but we all got ourselves together. At the last minute, the guide decided he didn't want to go, and sent us with the cook, instead. That is another story. This story is very short. We only had one flashlight, and the cook had it in the front, and somehow or other I was in the back. Only about 200 yards from the campsite, I stepped in a hole. I admit it- I squawked like a startled parrot. My brother, right in front of me, turned around quickly enough to see me still descending into the hole. It ended up only being about thigh deep, and I was totally fine, but much later in the evening, when we finally got back, he admitted to having a split second of envisioning himself trying to explain to my mother when he got home that he'd lost his little sister fall down a rat hole.
Dustin and I flew into Manaus to meet my Brother and Yuka, and we all went out onto the Amazon. We had a guide and were out for maybe five nights? I'm not totally sure. One night, Dustin wanted to take a night walk- lord knows what he thought we'd see, but we all got ourselves together. At the last minute, the guide decided he didn't want to go, and sent us with the cook, instead. That is another story. This story is very short. We only had one flashlight, and the cook had it in the front, and somehow or other I was in the back. Only about 200 yards from the campsite, I stepped in a hole. I admit it- I squawked like a startled parrot. My brother, right in front of me, turned around quickly enough to see me still descending into the hole. It ended up only being about thigh deep, and I was totally fine, but much later in the evening, when we finally got back, he admitted to having a split second of envisioning himself trying to explain to my mother when he got home that he'd lost his little sister fall down a rat hole.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
the nineteenth story
Today, a Massart story:
a little context is necessary for this one. I was a small metals major at Massart, but spent at least as much time in the foundry and attached large metal studio as I did in small metals. Small metals was a very clean, quiet studio- the kind of place where you could concentrate on setting a stone just so. Large metals was loud, and chaotic, and very dirty. I looked like I belonged in the latter.
So there I am, covered head to toe in black dirt, in a tank top and stained carrharts, sitting on my bench at the end of the row in small metals. I was grinding off a sprue (that would be where you pour whatever material you're casting into whatever it is your casting). It was from a bronze thing that I'd cast in the foundry, but was relativly small, so I was using the flex shaft. Most of the casting I did was large scale, and sprue grinding would have been done downstairs, with an angle grinder, standing up. A flex shaft is used sitting down. The red hot sprue flew off when the grinding was done- right down my pants.
I reacted the way that anyone would to a cherry red bit of bronze down one's pants. I yelled like a lumberjack, lept up, put my hand down my pants, and, when that didn't work, dropped my trousers in the middle of the studio, while still cursing more or less at the top of my lungs.
I still have a scar in an unmentionable location, and I NEVER go into the studio without a belt.
a little context is necessary for this one. I was a small metals major at Massart, but spent at least as much time in the foundry and attached large metal studio as I did in small metals. Small metals was a very clean, quiet studio- the kind of place where you could concentrate on setting a stone just so. Large metals was loud, and chaotic, and very dirty. I looked like I belonged in the latter.
So there I am, covered head to toe in black dirt, in a tank top and stained carrharts, sitting on my bench at the end of the row in small metals. I was grinding off a sprue (that would be where you pour whatever material you're casting into whatever it is your casting). It was from a bronze thing that I'd cast in the foundry, but was relativly small, so I was using the flex shaft. Most of the casting I did was large scale, and sprue grinding would have been done downstairs, with an angle grinder, standing up. A flex shaft is used sitting down. The red hot sprue flew off when the grinding was done- right down my pants.
I reacted the way that anyone would to a cherry red bit of bronze down one's pants. I yelled like a lumberjack, lept up, put my hand down my pants, and, when that didn't work, dropped my trousers in the middle of the studio, while still cursing more or less at the top of my lungs.
I still have a scar in an unmentionable location, and I NEVER go into the studio without a belt.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
the eighteenth story
Today's ever so short story: On my way back from the post office, I passed a pickup truck with a trailer full of lawn equipment. Tied to the back of the trailer were a bunch of cans and a "just married" sign.
the seventeenth story
and a story:
When we were getting ready to sell the house in Somerville, we redid the kitchen. The old one was awful, and while I'm perfectly capable of living with an ugly kitchen, apparently other folks have difficulty seeing past it. When we pulled out the old cabinet, the kickplate had text on the back. We were able to assemble it and discovered that it was an informational sign from a very old show at the Fogg Museum; the show had been focused on Chinese Calligraphy, and the sign was about one particular period (I don't remember which). I'm still carrying it around, and sometimes I cut pieces off and make things of them.
When we were getting ready to sell the house in Somerville, we redid the kitchen. The old one was awful, and while I'm perfectly capable of living with an ugly kitchen, apparently other folks have difficulty seeing past it. When we pulled out the old cabinet, the kickplate had text on the back. We were able to assemble it and discovered that it was an informational sign from a very old show at the Fogg Museum; the show had been focused on Chinese Calligraphy, and the sign was about one particular period (I don't remember which). I'm still carrying it around, and sometimes I cut pieces off and make things of them.
the sixteenth story
So much for trying to write up a story a day, which makes it ridiculous to open with "today's story"
On that note, another story: When Hamlet first showed up, he would run away all the time. Despite this, I would let him hang in the backyard while I was working in the basement, even with all the holes in the fence. He never seemed inclined to go through them. One day, I heard him barking, from what seemed too far away, so ran upstairs to check- he was in the front yard, barking like mad, but well on our side of the fence. no problem.
A few days later, I ran into Joe, mailman, on his rounds, and he asked if I'd gotten my dog back ok. I asked what he meant, and he said he'd found Hamlet a few blocks away, brought him back in his mailbag, and put him in the yard. I quickly realized that had to have been when I found him in the front yard. I thanked Joe profusely and asked if Ham had given him any problem. His response? "He only bit me a little"
On that note, another story: When Hamlet first showed up, he would run away all the time. Despite this, I would let him hang in the backyard while I was working in the basement, even with all the holes in the fence. He never seemed inclined to go through them. One day, I heard him barking, from what seemed too far away, so ran upstairs to check- he was in the front yard, barking like mad, but well on our side of the fence. no problem.
A few days later, I ran into Joe, mailman, on his rounds, and he asked if I'd gotten my dog back ok. I asked what he meant, and he said he'd found Hamlet a few blocks away, brought him back in his mailbag, and put him in the yard. I quickly realized that had to have been when I found him in the front yard. I thanked Joe profusely and asked if Ham had given him any problem. His response? "He only bit me a little"
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