bike-hike

For some time, Linda has been working Saturday-mornings at the West Bloomfield post-office.
It’s only a small-time (part-time) job, hopefully with an income low enough to not effect our Social Security — i.e. not a “real” job; that is, not life-support.
My job at the mighty Mezz was like that; hardly enough income to support oneself. —In fact, it even went part-time.
It was an attempt to offset my stroke. Life-supporting work (Transit) ended with the stroke. I was supposed to be disabled, but got hired anyway. And stayed hired because I was impressing people with mental wherewithal. They still use my stockbox, and the astronomical-events site I found. —And honor-rolls ended with my departure.
The Executive-Editor (“Boss-Man”) gave me a huge raise to get me off Social Security Disability.
Beyond that, they all loved me at the mighty Mezz. “This place is just too quiet since Hughsey left. Boring.” —I was making them laugh.
I retired because “episodes” were happening.
I left knowing a lot about driving a web-site, so that theoretically I could probably drive one as a volunteer — like for the town or something. That’s upload stories/piks; not design the site.
But driving the Messenger-site was so frustrating — and therefore high-pressure — I decided I better not.
So I do nothing: sleep in on Saturday.
Saturday morning I get up at 6, unload the dishwasher, and go back to bed.
The idea was to run Saturday mornings, but so far I’ve only done it once. Usually I was too bushed; and now it’s dark until 7.
Linda leaves around 7.
As such, I’ve had a chance to think about “lots of nice memories.”
It’s true. The things I remember from my callow youth are, e.g. 1) riding the PRSL turntable at Camden Terminal Enginehouse, and 2) watching the Corsairs fire up at Willow Grove Naval Air-Station. Willow Grove was a Cub-Scout trip; Camden Terminal Enginehouse was a first-grade field trip.
I think “too bad I didn’t have a father like Peggy’s Paul;” i.e. one that does adventures to please himself, and then takes his kids along.
No doubt my sister in Floridy will bluster angrily “What about this, and what about that?” Sadly, the only “adventure” I remember is my father reconnoitering a bike-hike for the “yooth” at Erlton Community Baptist Church.
We went down a little-used dirt-road in Camden County Park that ended at the high embankment of the Camden bypass built by the Pennsylvania Railroad about 1896. The embankment dead-ended the road.
We turned down a narrow path that led to Cooper Crick (not “creek”), where the Pennsy crossed on a high girder bridge.
We then dismounted and started along the north bridge-abutment. The abutments were on a concrete apron that had a four-inch level you could run your tire on, and the apron was about four feet wide, 30° slope; enough to walk on.
You could thereby get around the railroad embankment, and access another little-used dead-ended dirt road that led into a more active area of the park near Cuthbert Road bridge, behind Ellisburg Drive-In, where we saw “Greatest Show on Earth” with the Lipscombs.
The active area was denouement, but the first part was adventure. The actual bike-hike was the same way.
Sadly, the only “adventure” I remember with the Old Man was this bike-hike. I guess there were a few other things, usually at the behest of my mother. I remember a Thanksgiving-Day football-game at Haddonfield High we hiked to.
No doubt my saying this will prompt angry blustering from Fort Lauderdale about how my parents were wonderful and fabulous and perfect.
Plus the usual noisy blustering from Boston about my being utterly clueless and forgetful, from the same guy who can’t remember who he took to his prom, and forgot about the LHMB (which he rode, for crying out loud).
If I forget something, my memory is failing; and if I remember something, I’m a haughty SME.
Seems it all started after I disputed his recollection of where we got off I-80. “He’s sensitive about that,” Linda said.
And then I get called an “old man” by GramPaw.