(originally posted Jul 1, 2006. This was a stop on the Valley for the reunion which was the start of a 3-week motorcycle trip through the Northwest and Western U.S. on the trusty R1100RT BMW, which I still have in 2017 as this blog is being re-posted on the new site)
Date of this writing: Saturday, July 01, 2006 7:16 AM
Riding date: Day No. 2
Location: Still in Jones Valley — on the occasion of the 85th family
Last night while all tucked snugly in the tent on top of the sleeping
bag (you see, it’s a down-filled mummybag that is rated to something
below 0!) I was surrounded by sounds and, even in the dark of the night,
sights. The rain fly was still safely tucked away in the bike trailer as
there was not even a hint of rain. Had it rained on me I would simply
have taken credit for bringing it in. Thus the “roof” of the tent was
open to the almost clear night sky and the stars were surrounded by the
sounds of locusts, crickets, small frogs, and occasionally the throaty
croak of a bullfrog.
For all I could see were the stars above and the only sounds were those
of the forest night. Moonless, the night allowed the stars their
resplendent glow. The senses then wrapped those sounds around the stars
and I was immersed fully into it.
Not far away, just over at the dining hall, the “young people” (that
would be the 20 and 30 somethings) were getting reacquainted and making
the memories for the tails they will spin when they, like I, venture
into their 60’s. I recall my own gatherings with cousins I hardly knew.
Those particular cousins I cannot now recall but new family
acquaintances have been made since my 39 year reunion hiatus which was
broken in 1998. I still recall having arrived on a motorcycle (the 1998
Harley Wide Glide) and the wonderment by some of the family at this new
arrival, a motorcycle-riding judge! Huh? Incongruous they thought.
This morning started with a brisk walk of about two miles. It’s about
70, maybe even a little cooler. The sky is clear and the birds are in
full voice as the world slowly awakens. I walk by the family cemetery
and say a quiet thanks to those who have preceded us and who made this
wonderful place where we have gathered for 85 years. As I write, the
sounds and smells of bacon frying and the warm coffee in my cup tell me
the morning is moving toward the day. Hunger pangs strike when I let it.
Will the food never get done?