Rainy Days and Amish Hats

“Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.”  So goes an old song.  Mondays may be a little tough, but a rainy day is a blessing.  When we were kids, a summer rain was something to play in.  My own children loved it, and so did you.  The scent of rain is so refreshing, and the summer heat is broken, if only temporarily.

Some places have only seasonal rains.  I can think of one such place.  Israel.  When we visited there in November of 2013, the first shower of the fall rainy season came as we toured Nazareth Village.  The folks there were overjoyed, and thanked us for bringing the “blessing.”  We had nothing to do with it, but learned how appreciative the people are for the rain .  Over there they call it the early rain and the latter rain.  That’s not just a biblical analogy referring to the coming of the Holy Spirit.  The analogy is drawn from the literal happenings in that part of the world.

I guess Texas and Oklahoma would like a break.  Why is it that some parts of the country are over-blessed and other parts are drying up.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to have water pipelines across our country, than oil?  I don’t know.  One thing for sure, we have to have water.  Seems a shame that the earth is covered with so much of it, while many land areas suffer from shortage.  We have desalination plants to produce fresh water from the oceans, but we need a lot more.  Investing in water seems like a better option than offshore oil rigs.   There is probably a good explanation for this.  Or maybe not.  

It’s been tough for my Amish neighbors to get the hay off their fields.  Over two weeks ago they mowed some clover on Ammon’s and Jecky’s farms.  Then the rains came.  Finally, the hay was spoiled, so they raked it up, loaded it on the wagons with pitchforks, and made big piles in the pasture.  There it will rot and turn to compost.  They had me worried though.  When I saw them loading the moist hay onto the wagons, I figured we were going to hear about a barn fire.  Shame on me.  They’re smarter than that.

The next day they mowed more.  And the rains came.  There was an inch in the rain gauge Thursday evening.  Today it is raining again—another inch in the gauge.  Farming is a gamble, but when you’re dependent on the weather, you learn to have hope.

Strawberry season is over.  They were delicious!  Now the primitive signs at the ends of driveways are advertising black raspberries.   Add those to your cornflakes with some milk and sugar.  Or just skip the corn flakes altogether.  Either way—amazing goodness!

I have a story for you about Amish hats.  There is no connection to rain as the title may seem to imply, but it’s a story that demonstrates the impossibly intricate system of Swartzentruber Amish rules—at least from our point of view.  

Several weeks ago, Juanita and I were part of a gathering of folks who came in from quite a few different states for a weekend with Lue and Bert from Mount Eaton.  They’ve become friends with Lue through her facebook and blog pages, and she invited them to spend a weekend in Amish Country.  As former Old Order Amish, Lue and Bert have lived the life, and have the inside story.  We were invited to participate and really enjoyed ourselves.

In the process of planning, I offered to pick up some door prizes.  One thing on my list was a genuine Swartzentruber straw hat made locally in a Swartzentruber home.  I wasn’t sure where to find one, so I started asking around.  As a last resort, I knew I could get one that looks almost identical, at one of the local stores, for the going rate of thirty dollars.

I asked Eli G., a Swartzie basket seller, where I might purchase a hat, but when I asked, I sensed some hesitation in his answer, and (as noted in a previous post) wondered out loud if they may not want to sell to an Englishman.  He wasn’t sure.  But he gave me directions to a place back a very long lane.

Out by the road, where the long lane went in, there was a small house advertising more baskets.

“Let’s just go in here and double check,” I says to myself.

After looking at all the fine basket wares, I chose a small round one that can set on the toilet tank to hold the ever-elusive spare roll of toilet paper.  We all need a little container like that, in that place.  It’s just not fun when you discover that the TP roll is down to two squares and it’s not enough.   That’s when you find yourself with your clothes around your ankles, kneeling on the floor reaching way back in the cupboard for another roll, and to your great chagrin, learn that the last one is gone.

I asked the basket-selling gentleman if he knew where I might buy a straw hat.  He didn’t take the bait, and said that he didn’t know.  

“Now what?” I says to myself.

Then gathering up my best fake puzzled look, I mentioned that somewhere back a long lane in his neighborhood I heard that someone makes them.  

That’s when his memory kicked in and he said, “Yes, they do, but they probably won’t sell to you.”

“Because I’m English?”

“Yes.”

“But,” says he, suddenly remembering, “I think you will be able to get one at Uriah Petersheim’s—and proceeded to explain how to get there.

I paid him for the basket, thanked him, and went on my way with hope.

Petersheim’s house was a few miles away, over Hog Back Road, then over Salt Creek Road, and back a lane that was so cobbled up, I was fearful that my car would not pass over the boulders protruding from dirt.

You see, Swartzentruber Amish aren’t allowed to have gravel or crushed stone in their driveways, and some times of the year, buggies are the only thing that can get in and out.

After a slow and careful drive, I pulled up beside a very poor-looking house.  A teenage girl came out to meet me at the fence.  I explained to her what I was looking for, and offered that maybe they don’t sell to English people.

“Yes, we sell hat’s to English.  Follow me.”

I followed her through the house to a back room where a row of shelves held the coveted straw hats.  

“Up there on the top shelf are the English hats,” she said.

I looked, and could not tell the difference between those and the hats on the other shelves, except that they seemed to be slightly shorter.  I liked the taller ones—which also had slightly wider brims, but those were on the lower shelves.

“So you won’t sell me one of these?” I said, pointing to one on the bottom shelf.

“Yes, I will sell it to you, but the ribbon will have to be changed.”

That’s when I glanced back up and noticed the slight difference in the width of the black ribbons.  So that’s how they get around it!  They really can’t sell me an Amish hat, but if the ribbon is slightly wider, it becomes an English hat.  My goodness!  They have it all figured out.

The young lady proceeded to change the ribbon, and I paid the sum of twelve dollars for my authentic Swartzentruber straw hat, and nobody else in the world except them will ever notice the difference in the width of the black ribbon that goes around the crown.  I guess these things are important to them, but I don’t know why.

It was a lady who won the hat for a door prize at the gathering.  She looked as happy as a dog with two tails.  She put it on and wore it proudly for the remainder of the evening.  Bless her heart.  

And that’s the about all we have to share today from Kidron, Ohio.  Looks like the sun is peeking out, and it’s a good time for a walk.  Have a wonderful day.

A Wandering Mind

It’s amazing how rapidly the crops are growing.  Every day there’s a slight change, yet it seems like only last week my neighbors were sowing the oats, and now the stalks are at least two feet tall and coming into head.  Won’t be long until the fields are glowing golden and shocks will appear.  In the meantime when there’s a good breeze, you can watch the wind-driven waves moving across the fields of wheat and oats—not unlike waves on a lake.

Amish neighbor's oat field

Amish neighbor's wheat field

Watching the dips and swells of the waving grain brings to mind the movie, “Sarah, Plain and Tall. ”  As the story goes, it was 1910, and a widowed Kansas farmer, Jacob Witting, finds the task of taking care of his farm and two children too difficult to handle alone.  So he advertises in the newspaper for a mail-order bride.   Sarah, from Maine, responds and travels to Kansas for a thirty-day trial period before agreeing to stay.  She’s a headstrong lady, yet she has a quiet and warm personality, and proves to be a great help.  During the trial period, she gets homesick for the sea, and for a while the viewer is left wondering if she will stay and marry Jacob.  She’s able to console herself by noticing how the Kansas prairie is rolling like the sea, and when the wind blows, there are ripples and waves, similar to the swells and waves of the ocean.  

Here’s the thing about the story.  It’s written for children, and the odds for love and a happy ending seemed pretty slim.  But it happened—in the midst of a storm, in the meeting of good neighbors, in children who needed a mother, and in a man who had not come to terms with the death of his wife—it happened.  Love found them, and Sarah stayed and married Jacob.   

Since I’m a kid at heart, and an old sap for a love story, I liked it.

Interesting how the mind works, skipping rapidly from one thought to another, until you have no idea what you were thinking when you began the hike up the Zuercher Road hill past the beef cows and their newborn calves.  But here we are, thinking about waves, and what surfaces next are thoughts of the great vacations we’ve had on the water, paddling canoes through the meanderings of rivers and the waves-and-swells of lakes.  Those were trips to remember, and some day to repeat.

                                                                                         

When I think of all places where a person could spend a week or two, the possibilities are endless.  So why would I occasionally drive a thousand miles to get to a place where I know I will be tired at each day’s end, rather than rested, like a vacation “should” be?  I’m talking about the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.  

Sometimes the wilderness beckons us to experience real life, to get away from all things man-made.  It’s a place where one will likely become a meal for mosquitoes—where the unexpected is to be expected—a place where there are wolves and bears.  And once there, we will tackle activities that we don’t always feel completely prepared for.  The wilderness answers some of the questions that we have about ourselves.

Can we cope without watches, telephones, running water, and electricity?  Do we have the emotional and physical strength to handle severe weather conditions, or long tedious portages, while our bodies are loaded down with heavy packs and canoes?  The answers are out there.

The wilderness invites us to cooperate with, and experience all that it has to offer.  As we subject ourselves to the possibilities, we are gifted with the knowledge that we can live up to the rigors, and we can live simply, with only the bare necessities, and enjoy it.  And we are blessed with the sights and sounds of a place still nearly as pristine as God created it.  It is unbelievably refreshing and restful.

The wilderness can sometimes be raw and dangerous, or it can be peaceful and comfortable, allowing us to bask in the pleasure of just being there—but always, always it is beautiful and giving.  

I can’t help but believe that our vast array of technological advances and modern conveniences have robbed us of some of life’s simplest pleasures:  A small crackling fire providing us with inspiration and heat to cook delicious meals in the open air.  A cup of “cowboy” coffee warming our bodies on a cool morning.   A misty sunrise over a dead-calm lake.  The scent of the lake water.  The aroma of a pine forest.  The lonely and mournful howl of wolves across the lake.  The haunting song of the loons.  The sight of eagles soaring gracefully in the sky.  

I go to the wilderness to see a night sky unpolluted by light.  A sky where the stars shine brilliantly enough to illuminate my path without a flashlight—where the Milky Way is a broad shimmering path of silvery specks stretching endlessly from horizon to horizon.

I go to the wilderness to experience real silence.  Except for the pleasant sounds of nature—including the lapping waves, gentle breezes stirring the pines, bird songs, and insects—the wilderness is nearly silent.  A good tent to duck into as night falls, allows us to rest comfortably as a congregation of mosquitoes come to sing for us.  It’s a disturbing noise when a loan mosquito buzzes us in our bedroom at home, but out there, protected by the tent, it’s as if a chorus of tiny musicians  are lulling us to sleep.  Thankfully, they’re not much of a problem during the day.

Camping in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness

It takes a couple days to decompress when entering the wilderness.  The busyness of our everyday lives has become such a blur of activity and non-stop running, that the shift in activity is at once both a relief and a shock.  By day three, the routine of canoeing, fishing, cooking, relaxing, daydreaming, and napping, has become so refreshing, that even the occasional mosquito bite or sudden shower cannot dampen our spirits.  We are returning to life out there.  And that’s what vacation should be about.

Sunset in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness

Not everyone is up for that kind of an experience, though.  For those who are unable to withstand the rigors of such an adventure, or who have no interest in an outdoor vacation, there are still plenty of places to visit where relaxation can be relearned, and the soul can be refreshed.  

Amish country in Ohio is one such place, and a great place to start.  The pace around here is slower—especially when you follow a buggy up a long hill—and we are surrounded by a life-style reminiscent of how our Grandparents lived.

Jacob's farm on Zuercher Road

I’ll have to be honest, it has taken a year of walking to come back to a deep appreciation for life lived at a slower pace.   It’s too easy to get wrapped up in running to the many good events and meetings that beckon us.  I’ve heard that’s why we’re called Mennonites, because we’re on the go so “manynights”.  It’s good for the soul to slow down.  It’s good for the body to take a walk and breathe deeply.

No partiality intended, but Kidron is a fine place for that to happen.

In addition to the peaceful scenery, and the many small roads available for slow drives, right here in town you can find everything from Amish hats to 50’s style dining.  The main attraction though, is Lehman’s—a place that rivals a good museum, where you can take the old-time tools and kitchen wares along home with you.  Even those of us who are lucky enough to live here, still enjoy a long relaxing stroll through the aisles of yesteryear.  

From Kidron, Ohio, where we roll up the sidewalks at 8:00 PM and the shops are all closed on Sundays.  A place where most folks are about twenty years behind the times, and our Amish neighbors a lot more than that.  And we like it that way.  So long.

When I Grow Up

It was bound to happen.  Although time seemed to move so slowly those many years ago when I was a boy hiking the trails along Hog Creek with my brothers and cousins,  I was pretty sure—barring unforeseen circumstances—I would live to see this day.  Always wondered how ancient I’d feel when I reached my sixties—if my hair (providing there was any left) would be gray or white, and how weathered and wrinkled my outer layer would be.  Now I know.   

There is no way to stop this process, and I am very thankful to my Maker that a combination of good genetics and clean living have preserved this aging carcass fairly well.  We’re doing alright.   Looking back fifty years, I’d probably not change too much.  Never really had a hankering for making a lot of money or living high.  Part of me says it would be fun to try it, but the better part of me is very grateful that I’ve never needed to go hungry.  That is a huge blessing.  No matter our lot in life, we should never take for granted the gifts of food, shelter, and love.  Way too many people don’t have these things.

We’ve had a lot of fun along the way so far.  Not expensive fun, but times and experiences that we wouldn’t trade for anything.  One of the biggest highlights in life was when we pulled up stakes in our thirties and tried out farm life in Ohio’s Appalachia.   Truth is, the memories from that period of life left such an impression on us, that the experiences have found their way onto paper, and someday I hope to share the stories in some form.  

The top of the list though, is having the blessing of four wonderful children who enjoy coming home with their babies.  

So I’m in no hurry to leave.  It seems like a lot of fun to stick around and watch our progeny grow up.  Maybe they’ll have a better idea—perhaps a sense of call—of what they want to do with their lives than I did, but it’s okay if they don’t.  Some of us never find out what that is.  One thing though, while I continue to recycle molecules of food and water, I’d like to do it with good health.  I’ve learned some ways to work at that in the last while.  Keep breathing.  Keep moving.   And don’t stop.

That’s my mantra.  “Keep it up.”  One foot in front of the other.  Three miles, four miles, sometimes five, rarely only two.  A lot of sweat, a few friendly waves, and some short, friendly conversations.  The further I go, the more time I have to think.  And that’s just about my favorite thing.  Observe and think.  Some walkers like to have ear buds in their ears, filling the time with music—perhaps helping to set the pace—or maybe listening to a podcast. They’re probably doing this because the walking isn’t fun for them, and they need to occupy their minds.  Nothing wrong with that.  At least they’re walking, or running.

I love to live in the present, and absorb whatever’s out there along Jericho and Zuercher.  There’s no need to judge anyone else.  It just seems others may be missing something—or someone.  For me, this is a great time to open my eyes to what can be seen, as well as my heart to the “unseen”, and I’m never disappointed.   I’ve often thought, my cathedral stretches from horizon to horizon, and there I meet with God.

No doubt about it though, there’s no way to avoid getting older.  Wherever we are in our personal journey, let’s be thankful that we live to see another day.   I put some of these thoughts to verse a while back.  Maybe you can identify.  

                                          When I Grow Up

“When I grow up, I want to be……

A fireman, policeman, or sailor on the sea,”

Said the little boy as he rode his trike,

“But first I must learn to ride a bike.”

Wasn’t very long he was peddling that thing,

And pushing little brother on the backyard swing,

And mowing some lawns for a buck or two,

Still wondering about life….what will he do?

A doctor’s money sounds pretty inviting,

A jungle pilot….really exciting,

But for now he’s pickin’ those guitar strings,

And dreaming about girls dressed in pretty things.

Then he met the lady who won his heart,

A Swiss farm girl who was cute and smart,

Suddenly he knew what he wanted to be,

A man with a wife and a family.

The future was uncertain, but he didn’t really care,

As long as that beauty with the long blonde hair,

Stood beside him forever and loved him true,

That’s all that really mattered as they walked life through.

Get up in the morning, kiss his honey goodbye,

Work another hard day, how the years go by,

Maybe some day he will figure it out,

For now, loving and living is what life’s about.

Middle aged and balding, four people call him dad,

He is very grateful - things haven’t been that bad,

Life is happening as the clock ticks on.

Kids are growing up, and having babies of their own.

At times the man wonders what he might have been,

A missionary, inventor, or veterinarian,

But he knows down deep it makes no difference,

‘Cause life never will make perfect sense.

Grand-kids are growing up, time is moving so fast,

He ponders on things, and reflects on his past,

In his head he’s still young, and thinks occasionally,

When I grow up… I want to be…

When I grow up… I...

When I grow up…

Nah.  Ain’t happening.

If I grew up… I wouldn’t be me.

From the small town of Kidron, Ohio, where the beautiful girls are hoping for a knight in shining armor to sweep them off their feet.  And where the homely young men are almost too shy to talk to the girls, but somehow they manage, and love finds a way.  And the next generation of cute little rosy-cheeked children will fill their home with laughter (and screams) and the grandparents will love their babies.

So long.

A few pics of Grandpa enjoying the Grand-kids.

Canoe adventure with son and grandson.  Started on Sugar Creek near Kidron a couple summers ago, and fought our way around a lot of log-jams until reaching the Tuscarawas River.  We're still traveling the Tusc, but next stop is Coshocton, Ohio where we will join up with the Muskingum River.  So far we've just done day trips on Saturdays, picking up where we left off, but hoping for some over-night camping along the way to the Ohio River. 

Being a kid and entertaining a grand-daughter.

Tree house for the grand-kids in process.  

The completed tree house being enjoyed by a grand-daughter.

Motorcycles and Amish Strawberries

It’s been a busy week on Jericho Road.  Getting caught up with gardening and lawn work, spending time with family (yeah!), and following the progress of Jacob’s barn renovations. Today was the big day.  Must have been around 200 men crawling all over the barn.  It’s been fun capturing the process on my camera.  I try to stay at an acceptable distance, but with telephoto it is possible to get some nice “close” shots.  

Tee-shaped barn being enlarged to double the width, and replacing all the roof rafters, roofing and siding.

Field full of the horses and buggies of the workers.

This handsome fellow wouldn't be happy if he knew he was being photographed.

On the top.  See the next photo for perspective.  

A lot more of the crew is on the other side of the barn.

Two photos showing mid-day and end of day.  Great work!

Well, it’s that time of year.  Fresh strawberries from one of our Amish neighbors on Zuercher Road graced our table nearly every day this week.  Small primitive signs at the ends of many driveways advertise the seasonal delicacy.  Little boys wearing straw hats hold the boxes of berries out at passing cars.  It’s hard to resist.  For the next two or three weeks we’ll enjoy them to the max, and put some jam away for the winter months.

Vacation Bible School begins on Sunday.  It always surprises me how many Amish children come.  They usually outnumber our own children two to one.  I pick up a carload of them each evening, and it’s fun to listen to the lively chatter coming from the back seat.  They love to talk about Cleveland sports teams.  They must have radios tucked away somewhere.

And it’s two-wheel time.  Everyone who owns a bicycle or motorcycle is hitting the roadways.  Safety is always the rider’s concern—myself included.  I own a thirty-year-old light-blue Goldwing, and enjoy going out for slow evening rides around the countryside.   In the summer, this is my main mode of transportation when it’s not raining.  Just like when walking, one can smell all the wonderful country scents.  

Exactly ten years ago, my brothers and I enjoyed a motorcycle trip on the Blue Ridge Parkway—and beyond—including the Tail of the Dragon.  Through conversations and personal experience, I came up with the following list to help us think about safety before we made the journey.             

             SUGGESTIONS FOR MOTORCYCLE SAFETY

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to things that are taught in a motorcycle safety course is completely coincidental.  Use these suggestions as a supplement, not a replacement.

1. Defensive Riding.  This will be the first and last suggestion in this list.  All other suggestions will pale compared to this one.  Remember, above all else, that you as a motorcyclist have become invisible to many people.  It’s nothing short of a modern day miracle gone awry.

2. Road Trash.  This does not refer to people or vehicles.  This is a warning to always be aware of things on the road.  Your cycle reacts much differently than your car, to dead animals, pieces of tires or metal, stones, mud, sand etc.  Always be watchful.

3. Center Line.  The center-line of the road divides the oncoming traffic from you.  It is not there to ride on.  Don’t even ride close to it.  It makes oncoming drivers nervous.  I’ve had the experience of riding behind someone who hugged the line.  The oncoming drivers would almost go off the road to give him room.  It scared me because I was afraid they would go off the road and jerk back onto it just in time to be thrown into my path.  That would not be good.  If you are riding with someone who cannot break this habit, perhaps they should ride at the back of the pack.

4. Avoid Raccoons.  Never kick a raccoon that’s crossing the road.  A friend of mine tried this.  He made a point of saying he would never do it again.  He said it felt like he kicked a large rock, and it nearly knocked him off his cycle.  The raccoon survived, but offered up some really interesting gymnastics in the middle of the road.

5. Avoid Dogs.  Watch out for the canines.  They tend to go after the first rider.  You will have to somehow miss them if you are next in line.  My raccoon-kicking friend sometimes carries a buggy whip along to educate them.   This is more of a problem for bicycle riders than motorcycle riders.

6. Photography.  Avoid snapping pictures while riding.  I’ve done this a few times, and have decided it isn’t safe.  Got some really neat shots, but it always made me feel a little uneasy—like I was teasing fate.  Looking through a camera lens changes the way things appear.  A GoPro is a much safer option.

7. Lemming Mentality.  Lemmings are small creatures who are known to mindlessly follow each other off cliffs into the ocean, where they drown.  This is not a particularly good way to die.  So when riding with others, think for yourself, and don’t follow the pack at speeds that you are not comfortable with.  Slow down and go at a pace that feels safe to you.  Never try to keep up a pace to save face.  The face you save may be your own.  

8. Rider Spacing.  Never ride side by side.  I see people doing this sometimes, but it just isn’t safe.  Not enough wiggle room.  When riding with one or more persons, keep several cycle lengths between you and stagger your positions in your lane.  This is the safest way to travel in groups, and makes you much more visible to oncoming traffic and vehicles at intersections.

9. Hand signals.  It’s a good idea to develop a few simple signals with which you can pass information about things on the road, sharp curves, your intentions to stop, etc.

10. The Wave.  What’s up with the motorcyclist wave?  There seems to be an unwritten rule that all motorcyclists must wave at all other motorcyclists.  And there seems to be two standard waves which cyclists give to each other at every opportunity.  A fist up and out, or an open hand down and out.  Of course it’s a friendly gesture to wave at other cyclists, but it’s always awkward when you pass a long string of them.  Do you give a quick wave to each one, or just keep your hand in the air?  For myself, I keep my hand on the grip when that happens.  I prefer safety over the possibility of being considered a snob.

11. Inexperienced Riders.  It is not wise to include an inexperienced rider in a pack of experienced riders out for a joy ride in the hills.  They should cautiously learn to ride on lonely roads until they can pass a test.  Better yet, new riders should complete a motorcycle safety course before joining group rides.   I once rode with two very green riders.  Due to the curvy, hilly roads we chose, we were very fortunate to make it home in one piece.  Once was enough.

12. Blind Curves.  On right hand curves, hang fairly tight to the right side of your lane.  Local drivers have a tendency to know the road too well and will commonly cut through the lane to save time.  I’ve experienced this several times and was thankful for the fact that I was holding tight to the inside.  On left-hand curves, it pays to stay about in the middle of your lane.  This gives you a buffer to move either direction a little if need be.

13. Competition.  Don’t.  If you suffer from the need to compete, get a dirt bike and do it off the road somewhere.  If you are the incorrigible street competitor, please consider a moped.

14. Pre-ride Inspection.  Always do a quick check on nuts and bolts for tightness. Check oil level and tire pressure.  Top off the gasoline.  Get your mind in gear first, then the cycle.

15. Riding Defensively.  Again, this is by far the most important thing to remember.  This is the heart and soul of safe riding. Yes, you must learn proper techniques, practical attire, good maintenance practices, and have intimate knowledge of your machine.  However, all those things are for naught if you forget to watch out for those to whom you have become invisible.  At intersections, always be prepared to yield.  Watch the driver’s eyes to see if he sees you.  Watch his tires for movement.  Hopefully there will be time to stop if he begins pulling into your path.  I’ve often wondered something.  If a collision appears to be inevitable, would it be possible to leap high into the air a split second before impact.  This could conceivably send you sailing over the car while your cycle plows into the side of it, with fewer injuries sustained.  I hope I never need to try it.  This technique will probably not work on a large truck or bus.  In that case, hit the brakes hard, make every evasive maneuver possible, and pray. (Always a good idea anyway.)  Finally, always expect the unexpected.  For cycle riders, that’s more than just a nice cliché.  

* * * * * * * * * * *

Below is an illustration that demonstrates how easily the eyes can be fooled.  Motorcycles can just as easily be missed by a quick glance.  Never enter a roadway or drive across an intersection without looking twice.  Save a cyclist’s life.  

Look around in the large block, and try to count the little black dots.  Notice anything?

Perhaps you have additional thoughts and ideas for safe riding.  Feel free to add to this list.   Happy riding, and keep the shiny side up.  

That’s all from Kidron, Ohio, where a few rare men would rather go for a walk or a cycle ride, than watch the Cavaliers vie for a title; a town where the beautiful Swiss women enjoy watching their families destroy the warm buttermilk crumb cake that’s covered generously with fresh crushed strawberries; and a curious place where the Amish kids listen devoutly to sports on the radio.  We’ll find out what they think about Labron next week.   So long.