* * Facing rejection

Today’s entry begins a few weeks ago, as you faithful followers of this blog will remember my “brush” with a car in front of me and the resultant ticket.  Obviously I was chagrined at my mental error and resolved not to do anything similar, at least for a while.  This changed last week.
I planned a 3-day stay at the 76th annual Old Fiddlers Convention in Galax.  I had gone last year to do research for my book, Harmonic Highways.  This year I went back to try to sell some books, do research on the next one, see some friends, and hear some music.
Last year, I arrived by motorcycle and was told at the gate that motorcycles weren’t allowed anywhere on site.  I was instructed to park at the perimeter and carry my camping gear inside.
This year I drove my car, as I had a trunk full of books. I arrived at the same main gate and was asked whether I was a musician or a vendor.  “Neither.  I am just a spectator and I’d like to camp for a few days.”  
“If you’re not a musician or a vendor, we don’t have room for you.”  I was told my only option if I wanted to camp was to stay in one of the outside, private camping areas.  The first one I went to wanted $25 per night, simply to pitch a tent.  I found one that charged me $10 to camp, but it had no water or rest room facilities other than outhouses.  Rejection.
I set up my tent, then walked inside the main Felts Park grounds where I quickly found Fred Swedberg and Roger Sprung, folks I’d met and interviewed the prior year.  I was to spend most of my stay at the Convention with them.
Fred, who I describe in my book as being an “overgrown leprechaun”, is a Baptist minister from Massachusetts.  Roger is an accomplished musician, now in his 80s, and is instrumental (pardon the pun) in bringing banjo music into the mainstream of the 1960’s folk scene. I like these guys very much.
As the hour became late, I wandered outside, banished to my parking lot tent, where I tried to get some sleep under the industrial noise of what seemed like a nearby natural gas plant.
The next day, I picked up a friend, Barbara Trammell, of Galax, who was to join me on two visits with people in the area who I thought could give me a good perspective on the area’s culture.  The first was an astrologer who lived in a country bungalow near Elk Creek. An overweight, chatty woman, she described her “practice” of astrology. She surprised me twice.  The first time was by informing us that she’d had a breast removed due to cancer and insisting on whipping down her T-shirt to show us what was left. The second was by telling us that she’d moved to this rural community a dozen years earlier in anticipation of the “Y2K” scare and was in fact disappointed that the economy didn’t collapse. I am aware that there is a significant segment of the population that believes the proverbial excrement is soon due to hit the fan, but I’d never met anyone who seemed to be looking forward to it.
Leaving that appointment and headed for the next one, I got a speeding ticket: 60-mph in a 45-mph zone, approaching Independence. I saw the cop coming towards me and in the midst of a conversation with Barbara, I glanced at my speedometer, convinced myself that I was safe, and kept driving. I was frankly astonished to find the cop in my rear-view mirror, lights a-flashing. Ticket.  Summons. Damn! Here we go again! A dozen years since my last ticket; now I’d gotten two within a month. More rejection.
The other woman we spoke with was a former lawyer and brilliant researcher of ancient and modern religions. She had been forbidden to establish a study center by the supervisors of Grayson County and was suing them over it on the grounds of infringement of her religious liberties. Her organization, The Oracle Institute, is “an advocate for enlightenment and a vanguard for spiritual evolution.” We talked at length about her rejection by the community, who, she said, were entirely resistant to change and new ideas.
Back in Galax, I took Barbara home and then approached the Convention again. This time, I went to a “back” entrance where I white-lied my way in, telling the gatekeeper that I was a vendor. (This was half-true, as I was to be a guest author at the booth of Capo’s Music.) I set up my tent near Fred, Roger, and their contingent. The camaraderie was great, but I was in a terrible mental state of frustration and anger over the day’s events. I went to be this night, serenaded by nearby music jams.
On Friday, I spent the day visiting with friends, making new ones, and attempting to put my stress aside. I had planned to spend another overnight, but as the day wore on, I decided to depart for home in the evening, making my way northward on busy interstate highways, watching a full moon rise alongside pink puffy clouds and keeping a close eye on my speedometer.
The sense of frustration and embarrassment still hangs with me as I type. I am resisting the impulse to feel that the Galax area’s rejection are a refutation of my psyche and contributions to the community in the form of my presence, my friendships, and my new book.
This week, I plan to have my speedometer checked to see if perhaps I was mislead the speed I was driving when ticketed. I’m still struck by the irony that I put three times as many miles each year on my motorcycles – which I drive much more aggressively – as my car, yet both incidents were in the car. I am reminded by the “wise” words of a young fellow I met at the Capo booth who told me that he’d had dozens of tickets. “No big deal. You pay the fine, attend the driving school – which is a huge waste of time – and go on with life.”  Good advice, I suppose.  

* * Loving to travel

I love to travel. I’ve been to 43 states and 14 foreign countries on 3 continents. And the list of places I still want to go is long.

When I give presentations on my recent trip to Bolivia, people often express curiosity about what would make me want to go there. Bolivia is the poorest country in South America, and I think many people here are wary of the poverty and perceived despair. However, both elation and despair are fleeting and widespread emotions of people around the globe. No place is free from strife, turmoil, or pain just as no place is free from joy. How people deal with issues and emotions is a function of their culture, something I find endlessly interesting. There are few places on earth I wouldn’t at some time wish to visit, although I am partial to mountainous, sparsely populated places. I like to see how people interact with the land.

Yesterday I was in a dentists’ chair with a hygienist rooting through my teeth. She asked me if I’d done anything interesting over the summer, I said, “I spent five weeks in Bolivia.” She admitted she had no idea even where it was. “Do you know what continent it’s on?” I asked. “Same one as Brazil, Argentina, Peru, Columbia, Chile, Paraguay, Uruguay…” She had no idea. I said, “Do you know what continent England, France, Germany, Italy, and Spain are on?” She didn’t. “How about India, China, Japan, Thailand, and most of Russia?” Yes, she guessed, they’re in Asia.

I asked if she’d ever left the United States and she said she hadn’t. I assumed that she had further never lived in a religious or ethnic minority. I’m guessing most Americans never have.

My upbringing was different and I have always lived in a religious minority. I’m hopeful this has made me more tolerant and perhaps more curious. Somehow I think it would be a better world if everyone could travel, see how others live, and be part of a minority at some point in their lives.

* * Riding the VFR with Whitney

My daughter Whitney is 20 years old and she is an only child. This is her summer break and within the next few weeks she will return to Virginia Tech for her junior year. We don't often get a chance to talk with each other. Usually when we’re together, there are other people around. Or far too often, she is poking away at her infernal cellular telephone. No inbound message is too trivial to interrupt whatever conversation we seem to be having. Lately, I have figured out the best way to spend some quality time with her and to get a sense of where she is in her life. We go motorcycling.

A year or so ago, I purchased a set of electronic communicators. These devices contain a microphone and a speaker that attaches to a motorcycle helmet and allow the driver and passenger to speak to and hear from each other.

Yesterday, Whitney and I took a ride together of about an hour and a half on the 1998 Honda VFR Interceptor, an 800-cc sport bike.

Our weather over the past several weeks has been extremely hot. But yesterday morning, the air was a bit overcast, low clouds were beginning to break up, and the temperature was perfect for ride. We left the house descending into the Roanoke River Valley and driving upstream alongside the river towards the community of Catawba. The road undulates up and down and swings back and forward closer to and further from the river itself. The river is on the right and beyond it rises a forested ridge called Pearis Mountain. There are scattered farms and cultivated fields, punctuated by barns and horse stables. There are several older houses alongside those of newer construction. The area is close enough to Blacksburg to benefit from the relative economic strength of the college town. Occasionally, I was called upon to swerve to avoid various small rodents like squirrels and chipmunks crossing the road. Turkey vultures, with their distinctive V-shaped wing pattern, soared overhead.

Whitney had just returned from a four-game tour of major league baseball cities, including the Yankees in New York, the Orioles in Baltimore, the Phillies in Philadelphia, and the Nationals in Washington. (Every team she rooted for lost.) She went with her current boyfriend and three other friends. I asked her if she went because she was interested in baseball or because she wanted to be part of the crowd. She said that it was equal parts of each. She and her boyfriend have been living together this summer, the first time she has done so. She said she wasn't sure whether she and her boyfriend would stay together as a couple once he moved out of her apartment and back into his fraternity house where he lived the previous year. She has concluded that his approach to their relationship is generally not something she has much control over. While certainly unhappy about situation, she seemed resigned to it and determined to face the future optimistically. We talked a lot about relationships and how good communication works to build relationships and I imparted what I hope was some useful, parental advice.

She was looking forward to be coming semester with a mix of apprehension and enthusiasm. I reminded her that for many people, their four year college experience was one of the most important in their lives. She said it seemed surreal that she had already completed half of her college education, at least the undergraduate part should she choose to go to graduate school.

“Where did the years go?” she asked me.

I said, “The years go by even so much faster at my age.”

We reached the town of New Castle and made a left turn on State Route 42 and began ascending. We entered a curvy section of roads where I was able to communicate with her about each turn and the lean of the bike. Many passengers may have been skittish about the incredible lean angles we were doing. However, being able to discuss this with her as it was happening made her feel more comfortable about it.

Like the road in Catawba Valley, Highway 42 follows a drainage, in this case that of the Sinking Creek. It is equal to if not more beautiful than the Catawba Valley, with long, forested mountains bracketing the road.

Having recently gotten a traffic violation, I held my speed fairly close to the posted speed limit of 55 mph. I commented to Whitney that with over 70 miles behind us, we had not encountered another single vehicle to pass.

Most of the time, I kept the revs of the engine between 5000 and 6000 RPM. The red-line on this magnificent motorcycle is 11,500. Pulling onto the 4-lane highway at Newport and pointing the bike uphill, I ripped it all the way to redline in first gear before shifting, telling Whitney what I was going to do before I get it before I did. “Wow,” she said.

The last 12 miles home were on the 4-lane highway, first crossing Gap Mountain and then Brush Mountain and then along the US 460 bypass. We finished our ride having thoroughly enjoyed the motorcycling experience, the beautiful scenery, and the opportunity to catch up with each other's lives.

* * Bumping another car

I’ve been driving now for 41 years and until Saturday I had never damaged someone else’s car.  I haven’t had a moving violation in 23 years.

It was the silliest accident.  It was raining hard on I-81.  I was coming home from a bicycle ride on the New River Trail in Pulaski, with my mountain bike on the top rack.  I pulled of the highway at SR-100 in Dublin for the simple purpose of removing the seat pack from the bicycle to keep the contents from becoming wetter.  At the bottom of the ramp, there was a new car in front of my old beater Honda Accord.  We were both at a complete stop at a stop sign.  He began to pull forward, I looked left and saw that it was clear and began to move forward.  He had stopped and I bumped him from the rear. 

The damage to my car was greater than his.  I lost my right front turn signal and scrunched the bumper.  His rear bumper was slightly dented and discolored with my paint.  The bike rack shifted forward and the rear wheel of the bicycle rested on my windshield.

We got outside of our cars and assessed the situation.  He insisted on calling the State Police to get a report.  While we waited for the officer, I exchanged information with the other driver and I re-mounted the bicycle rack.  The trooper arrived and we all went to the parking lot of a nearby service station.  When he could see that nobody was hurt, the trooper asked the other driver what happened.  His story pretty much matched mine.  I was clearly at fault.

The trooper took all kinds of time filing paperwork and I got ticketed for following too closely ($30 + $61 in court costs). 

The other driver, who was on his way from Georgia to Roanoke, went on his way, but not before I apologized profusely. 

The trooper explained that I could either pay the fine or go before the judge who may decide to wipe it from my record if I went to 8 hours of driving school, which may cost as much or more than the ticket. 

This morning, I spoke with my insurance company.  I likely won’t file a claim for my car and will merely replace the broken turn signal assembly ($15).  The man I spoke with couldn’t tell me whether this ticket would impact my insurance rates, no matter how many times I asked him.  Anybody had any experience with this?

The following day, I went on a motorcycle ride where I resisted every opportunity to misbehave, hoping to string two consecutive days without a ticket. 

* * Putting Shasta down

I was still sitting in bed reading the newspaper a few days ago when Jane came upstairs from feeding our three dogs and said tearfully, “I think it is time to put Shasta down.”

“Yes, I know,” having reached the same conclusion a few days before, but being unwilling to voice it.

Shasta is our rescue dog. She came into our lives 13 years ago. My daughter, who was 7 years old, was riding with me on our tandem bicycle on the Huckleberry Trail when we were stopped by a family walking a dog. They were interested in our bicycle. We chatted about the bike while my daughter petted the dog. “We already have another dog at home,” they told her. “You can have her if you want her.” The next day, Shasta came home with us.

Shasta is beautiful. She has long, luxurious fur, black on her back and tan underneath, with a silly curl in her tail. Her face is brown and white, in the shape of a fox, and she has alert, pointy ears. She has an ebony nose and dark skin around her brown eyes that looks like fine mascara. She is, or was, athletic – a fast runner and an able leaper.

I am a habitual walker, covering typically 3 to 6 miles every other evening on the Huckleberry. Shasta has always been a willing companion, scurrying excitedly whenever I reached for her leash. We have walked together hundreds of miles in weather ranging from rainy to icy to snowy to pleasant, and she’s always unfazed. People often stop us to comment on what a beautiful animal she is.

Our other two dogs are 7-year-old littermates, energetic Australian shepherds. These are mamma’s dogs, following her every movement around the house, paying mere lip service to me. But Shasta has always been mine. She is less clingy and more independent, content to spend hours alone, often on the landing of the upstairs steps. A couple of times over the years, she’s gotten loose outside and stayed on the lam for days. She’s never met a stranger, and when she’s wanted to be petted, she nudges the elbow or forearm of family or visitor alike.

These pleasant and happy occasions stopped a few months ago. Shasta began to look sick and under all that fur was rapidly losing weight. In the process, she began to lose control of her back legs, finding it difficult to stand on slick floors. She could no longer climb or descend steps. Her right eye began to cloud up and ooze fluid, and her hearing failed.

We knew Shasta was nearing her life expectancy and would never recover.  The quality of her life was gone. Our veterinarian said that it was unlikely she would die on her own in a timeframe we would consider palatable, that she would more likely face an ongoing deterioration, and that we would face the decision to terminate her. Yet we kept vacillating, putting off her final breath, as she was still continent, somewhat alert, and mobile. However, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was her mournful cry of pain towards the bedtime hours.

Our tearful decision is shared by millions of Americans, who keep approximately 163 million domesticated dogs and cats. If the average life expectancy is 11 years, there are 15 million unhappy families every year. But sharing the sorrow makes it no easier.

In a couple of hours, we have an appointment where the veterinarian will do the Grim Reaper's job of putting our dear Shasta down. Once the doctor takes Shasta into the back room, I will retreat outside to wait for my wife and daughter. I prefer not to watch Shasta pass, but instead to have my final memories be good ones. I want my mind’s eye to see that chilly evening last November when the fading sunlight far to the western horizon lit her fur as it wafted in the wind. Her eyes were alert, her ears were back and her nose was high, as she ambled effortlessly forward, absorbing her world and brightening mine.

When I retreat to bed tonight and Shasta is gone, a piece of me will be gone with her.