Last night there were skinheads on my lawn

Last night there were skinheads on my lawn. No wait, I was on a skinhead’s lawn last night. It was the worst possible time for the ipod to select Camper Van Beethoven’s “take the skinheads bowling” on shuffle, which is exactly what happened. The timing was-appropriate.

Wait; let me back up a little. I didn’t know the skinhead, Todd, until after the music was silenced from the glove box of my 1962 vespa and the awkward stare went away.

Actually; I should back up to the start. It’s important to understand that I don’t usually fraternize with skinheads. Last night was an exception. It was the first night of Orange Crush 13, an annual scooter rally for vespas and lambrettas. There was a mood in the air that matched the mood inside me, so I decided to ride. The freeway was my route of choice and nothing forces you to appreciate everything you should in life like ten inch tires at 70 mph. It’s the sort of appreciation that leaves your entire body sore, and I recommend it in small doses.

There are traditionally two groups of people that are associated with vintage scooters; Mods and Skinheads. I don’t fit in to either of these groups, and it was obvious when I pulled up to the scene. But something was different than usual. As scooters have gotten older and harder to come by, it has driven out the younger, hooliganesk crowd, and left behind the “has-been’s” and the “hardcores” like Todd the skinhead. Finding conversation would be hard here, but I didn’t come to talk. I came to ride. To enjoy the unspoken comradery that naturally develops on the open road. It didn’t matter who these people were, it was about that raw feeling you revert to when you run with the pack.

The ride started in Costa Mesa , and we made are way to the Balboa Ferry. There were about forty of us and we barely fit on the boat. The captain looked at us in wonder, and announced that it would be a hundred dollars for all of us. Someone revved their engine, and negotiations began. His next offer was fifty dollars. More engines revved. An unspoken arrangement had been made. We rode off the ferry without having to exchange a dime. This was our night.

We raced around the Back Bay down roads I didn’t recognize. We didn’t stop till we got to Santa Ana , and parked on a skinhead’s lawn.

Todd introduced himself a few minutes after I turned off the music, and offered me a cold can of Coors light. I took it and drank as he lit a fire in his backyard. Surreal to say the least. Some awkward time passed. I thanked him for his hospitality and looked forward to the long, cold ride home alone.

my hero cried

My Aunt Lanie is the strongest person I know. I have only seen her cry twice and tonight was one of them. She commands so much presence that you can’t help but cry with her. She had just put her dog Fritzee to sleep, and I know it broke her precious heart. This was the reason I began to cry.

It’s kind of confusing when you see someone so strong cry. It reminds you that they are still human just like everyone else. From time to time I’ve had my doubts about Aunt Lanie being mortal. She is a solid 88 years and doesn’t miss a beat. She shows no weakness.

As I walked up to the door, I heard her playing the piano and just listened for a few minutes before knocking. She told me the news with a longer hug in the doorway than usual, then it was back to business as usual as she pulled out two decks of cards and we began to play double solitaire as we have so many times before. Her deck must be thirty years old, with numbers and suits faded, and an old picture of half dome on the back. My deck is newer, and lacks in character as far as a deck of cards is concerned when I lay them down next to hers.

There is so much to learn from a woman like this. Fritzee meant more to her than anything else in the whole world, and I know she misses him so much. But she accepts it, knowing that she can’t change anything or anyone but herself. “The show must go on” she chuckles as she wipes away a tear, and beats me again at cards.