In My Blood

I'd like to start by saying that I grew up on motorbikes.  I'd like to, but I can't.  Still, I think it's somehow in my genes.  My parents fell in love on a motorcycle.  Riding out to band practice.  Taking of their helmets to kiss on that first date when they were younger than my now-youngest sibling.

By time I came along motorcycles were traded for a brown Toyota with car seats in the back and an ancient pick-up to go with a budding construction business.  Five kids later these eventually turned into a stubborn minivan and "Big Red," (hint: not a bike.)

I always knew, regardless, that my parents both held class 6 driver's licenses.  At ten I had my first ride when my Dad's oldest friend brought around his cruiser.  I don't remember what it was but I remember the thrill and the wind on my arms.  I clung tight as we accelerated.  I didn't know about counter-steering and had it explained to me after trying consistently to upright on corners.

Once a biker always in your blood, so I've been told.  Once you start you'll never really stop.  When I was fourteen my parents bought a little orange Yamaha Enduro 100 from roughly the stone-age, aka the 1970s.  That's what I learned to drive up and down our lane.  With a throttle in your fist and no license in your pocket 100ccs feels like a lot of power.  20MPH feels like a lot of speed.  An old gold helmet from your parent's dating days feels pretty cool.  And it starts to get in your blood.

At sixteen I drove it on Mexican highways to neighboring villages for an internet fix.  The smell of tortillas and the muggy wind on my face was nothing but pure independence.  I wanted more.  My little brother drives it around mountain roads with his friends now.

I moved out and my parent's young family grew up enough to justify getting rid of the minivan.  They bought a Honda 400.  This time only from the Dark Ages.  AKA, the early 1980s.  It looked like this only until my oldest brother turned his mad airbrushing skills its way.  I made it past the first two steps of licensing and then life got in the way.  I still hoped for the wind on my face and a ride down the lake but my lifetime commitment of achieving my own class 6 was still out of reach.

My middle brother fixed up a Honda 400 dual sport from the same era and would take me burning around mountain trails and rock outcroppings.  I learned to manage the kick start and I'd take it out on my own.  My cousin let me take a   less-than-legal spin on his 600 crotch rocket.  It was only a matter of time.  My license requirements finally fit themselves in last year.

Here's what I'm driving these days.  Yamaha Seca 550.  Check off item 24.  Apparently we have a thing for old-school bikes.  Yes, it's also from the dark ages.  But it's still a whole lotta fun.

Seventeen 'Till I Die

Today my room mate turned seventeen.  I told her, as I always tell people who turn that age, that seventeen is the best year.  In my mind I could fairly happily stay seventeen forever.  But why?

(xCoffeeAddict)

It was actually a pretty crappy year.  I was lacking direction and fought to no end with the school I'd chosen to graduate with.  This ended in tears and the principals office.  As well as fantasies of judo-throwing her incompetent self through the floor (she got fired the next year, and had been shuffled around repeatedly because she can't do her job).

I got kicked out of home.  It didn't last long, but was something of a reflection of my family situation in general.  I never got pregnant, did drugs or assorted rebel behaviour.  My parents just didn't get down with my lack of respect for imposed authority.

I spent three assorted months house sitting.  Nothing seemed more magical then a place to myself.

I questioned the beliefs I was raised with late at night, realizing they'd have to become mine, and not sure if they could.

I built.  Houses, with my Dad.

I passed my road test and took to driving like I was made for it.

I dedicated myself to judo, and subsequently reached my peak.

I struggled to establish a social group after the six month trip earlier that year threw a massive friggin' wrench in the one I was supposed to have.

For whatever reason, all that compiled into a belief that seventeen is independence, freedom and life more abundantly.

In the month before I turned eighteen I bought my own little car that I learned to love.  I also graduated, put a down payment on a place, moved out and got a full time permanent job.

Maybe it's just that I never much cared for being an adult.

The Notebook Chronicles

The little bald one with the glasses is the regular.  I know him only as the milk truck man.  He actually wears a blue collar.  I like to think I belong in that class, despite my ripped t-shirt.  We make our living off the same industry.  His job occasionally overlapping mine.  But that is all.

The milk truck man.

We exchange pleasantries before most of the world has even woken.  "Good morning," and, "How are you today?"

This morning as I finished clean-up I felt like we shared a bond.  Both of us the working class.  Earning our keep at jobs we do well.  Keeping our hours and making sure you get milk on your morning cheerios.

I grinned at him.  As though, somehow, we knew a common secret.  It not occurring to me that it was a connection noted only in my mind that particular AM.  He probably only thought I was strangely cheerful at a time when usually I look forward to is going back to bed.

I leave our farm as the sun rises.  My part of the process complete for now.  He finishes loading the fruit of my labour and continues on, his day just beginning.

The milk truck man pulls up to another parlour as I crawl beneath the covers.

---

The feature where I let you read the ramblings of my past.

Ah, the luck o' the Irish.  That's right.  I'm doing a St. Patty's day post.  At least, sort of...
Mostly I just don't really get it.  I mean, ok, they have shamrocks and leprechauns.  There's always Guinness,  kissing, pots of gold, and other great stuff.  And I guess they're pretty lucky and Good ol' St. Patrick decided to drive all the snakes of the island.  But let's take a short look at the history of Ireland.
5000 BC- Basic settlements exist on the island which is accessed by land bridge.  Or something like this.  They start like any other civilization.  This isn't unfortunate, but it's not exactly lucky either.  The Inuit did the same thing.
500-600 AD- Christianity and  St Patrick influence this Celtic region.  Christianity becomes the prevalent religion.  The Irish find religion.  Sure, this is great.  For now...
800 AD- A century of viking invasions begin to wreck havoc.  Good times.
1169- The beginning of outside (originally Norman) involvement in Ireland.  In 1534 English military campaigns begin and settlers begin to flow into the region.
Early 1600s- It is clear Gaelic Ireland is defeated.  Religious conflict becomes a integrated part of their history and society.  They are also thrilled, or course, at English domination.  The Anglican church is installed, and bloody conflicts are carried out as the Irish are subdued in a "re-conquest" and Catholics are discrimiated against.
1641 and 1689- Both the beginnings of civil war.  The first is started with an uprising killing thousands of protestant settlers.  By the end almost of third of Irish population is killed or exiled.  Catholic land is redistributed.  Parliament is rearranged and James (a Catholic) goes up against William the Orange for the second war in order to reclaim property.  What luck!  No, wait, James loses.
1740- The Great Irish Famine.  Potato blight.  Hundreds of thousands of Irish die.  Another 150,000 leave.
1798- The Irish rebellion is held by the Society of United Irishmen.  It is violently suppressed, and self governing done away with 1801.  Ireland is now officially part of England.  Maybe they were a little short on four-leafed clover.
1845- The second great famine.  Population drops by millions.  Gaelic begins to become obsolete.
1916-1921- Political distress, violence and guerrilla warfare (or, war of independence).  Oh, and WW1.  England has bigger fish to fry and in1919 sovereignty is declared.  In1921 N. Ireland is differentiated and chooses to remain with the UK.
1922 and 1923- Another bloody civil war.  Who saw that one coming?
1949- After remaining quite neutral through WW2 Ireland leaves the British common wealth.  throughout these years Catholics dominated the political scene, and protestants are discriminated (except in N. Ireland which encounters violent upheaval in the 1960s).  Unfortunately, the Catholic Church makes a lot of inhumane decisions in the running of the Irish.
1970s- Economic stagnation.  Continued trouble in N. Ireland.
1990s- Tribunals set up to investigate severe scandals through the church and political positions.  This is, not lucky, but a good thing as it faces some major problems plaguing Ireland.  By now people are becoming less bound to religious following, and religious freedom is granted to a greater extent.
 1996- Angela's Ashes published.  a memoir which documents extreme poverty, religious and political discrimination, and alcoholism within the Irish setting.  Other true-life accounts emerge showing the horrors of religious sex scandal, ect.
Modern Ireland- They finally have their act together.  More or less.  Catholicism has lost much of it's control, the economy has taken it's place as a power.  There is still tension between the north and south.  Also a continuing presence of the UK.  Overall stable.  But I don't think it's in the last 20 years that Ireland has been considered lucky.  
Maybe that's it, ultimately though.  A long history of bloodshed, and they're still drinking pints in their pubs and proud that they're Irish. (note, referenced almost exclusively through Wikipedia)
Who knows?  They host a pretty good holiday.

so Happy Saint Patty's day, anyway.  

May you be luckier then the Irish!