Happy 3rd of July

It wasn’t looking very good at 4:00 when it was pouring buckets of rain, but soon after, the clouds broke and gave way to mostly sunny skies, and the July 3rd Montpelier Independence Day Parade went off as scheduled. Each year, our shop signs up as participants and we invite kids to decorate and ride their bikes with us, promoting bicycle riding and of course, our shop. As always, we had a hearty bunch, but unlike prior years, no one got hurt or abandoned by their parents.

As I have done for the past four years, I dusted off the old Penny Farthing and took it for its yearly spin around the parade route. The rest of the gang dusted off other assorted clunkers, aired the tires, and gave them their annual cruise through town. My lovely fiancée rode the J.C Higgins with the Schwinn 3-Speed stick shifter. Pablo rode the ORS banner carrying trike. Flip pedaled the recumbent. And Jase, as usual, showed up wearing rollerblades and a beard along with a backpack containing a tow rope, a Nalgene bottle full of PBR, and probably some organic composting worms or something. Unlike prior years, he didn’t cause any crashes, but he did look as silly as ever.

I get a kick out of riding the high wheeler in the parade, and I’m serious when I say that my CamelBak full of gin and tonic has absolutely nothing to do with it. It’s the height of summer, the streets are lined with people cheering and clapping, and it’s the only time of year when you can legally ride in large circles at the intersection of State and Main. The Penny Farthing stands tall and stands out, and each year I hear the same things: “That’s a big bike! How do you get on that thing? Pop a wheelie! You’re the coolest!” And each year I say the same things: “Yes it is a big bike! I fall onto it! You pop a wheelie! I know I’m the coolest! Jase, get the hell away from me with that tow rope!”

The last stretch of the parade is the best. The crowd is the most dense, the energy level is the highest, and the smoke rising from the multiple vendors selling delicious parade food such as hot dogs, falafels, maple kettle corn, fried dough boys, and samosas sits like a low lying fog bank, enhancing the festive ambiance and enticing the senses. By the time we get to the end, I’m always starving and torn between which of the delicious food items I want to immediately devour, but before I head to the vendor section, I first make my yearly stroll to the river bank. After drinking an entire CamelBak full of Gin and Tonic, first things must come first.

Nothing is Free

Over the winter, my father-in-law-to-be and his wife, my step-mother-in-law-to-be, sold their house, gave away most of their possessions, and moved south. We acquired a lot of their things, some of which are useful, like an iron skillet, a toolbox, and a table, that according to my Pop, who owns a consignment furniture store, could fetch close to a hundred dollars. We also obtained a gas grill, an old console stereo with a record player, and a few boxes of old albums, which according to my friend who owns a record store, could fetch close to eighty-four cents, provided I threw in a six-pack.

Last night, we decided to get that grill he gave us going. We had two locally raised, grain-fed pork chops to cook up, and it was a lovely summer evening ideal for grilling. The grill needed a tank of propane and a fresh bed of lava rocks, so I decided to clean the thing up a bit before heading to the grill supply store. Upon sifting through the charred mounds of rubble that filled the bottom, I discovered a rusted metal plate covering holes large enough to drive a hot dog cart through and a loose wire that I ascertained, after careful inspection, indicated that the automatic starter wasn’t going to work. Frustrated, I slammed the lid down, upon which one of the wooden slats on the side fell off. Not everything was broken, however. The wheels that allow you to roll the grill around were still functional, which made getting the thing to the dumpster a hell of a lot easier.

Earlier in the day, I had purchased a vintage vinyl boxed set Blues compilation, so to help lower my blood pressure after the incident with the grill, I decided to take a break and throw one of those albums on the turntable. Being a music lover, I occasionally like to listen to that rootsy, authentic rackety old stuff upon which my beloved rock and roll is built. That grill had given me the blues, so this was the perfect time to reap the calming benefits of this music as it has done for so many years. I lowered the needle down, and heard that marvelous pop and hiss, followed by the sound of a harmonica playing a one-four-five chord progression, but only through one speaker. I figured one of the speaker wires must have been loose, so I checked the connections. They were fine. Perhaps one of the speakers was fried, I thought, so I switched them around. Each one produced sound, but only when plugged into the left side input jack. As it turned out, the console stereo that we scored last winter for free was the culprit. The right side input was dead, and the sound quality of that music coming through only one speaker was equivalent to that of a stock cassette player in a K-car. Or, I began to think, that of an old wooden radio, broadcasting an AM frequency to folks sitting in rocking chairs on dusty porches, fanning their sweaty brows with their hats, drinking bourbon, and letting their troubles fall away.