Roar into that Summer Evening

Stereotypes, like bad rules, are meant to be flouted. Here are a few nice surprises in possible identities:

A librarian who never says “Shhhh” and brings a touch of glamour wherever she strides.

A teenager who hangs out regularly with friends except when he is birdwatching.

A burly guy who drives a Big Rig and has read all the works of William Thackeray .

And a bishop — he can be the person you need presiding in church and also enjoy riding a motorcycle on a beautiful summer evening.

This was my view when we headed out at the end of the day on Friday.

Different Times of Life, Different Proposals

I’d just finished a hard piece of work and was ready for a change of scene. You know that feeling, right? No more sitting around — you have to bust out. Fortunately, my partner felt the same way after spending hours replacing clapboards on our house in the hot sun.

Funny thing, too, the thing I’d finished (when it’s in the writing category, you learn to say drafted, because it’s really just a stage in the process that keeps going and going) was called a “book proposal.” That sounds like somebody’s trying to get married, doesn’t it? Nooo, it’s actually more like making a case for why your book deserves to come to life — almost like a way to argue for the existence of a new child on this earth.

I’m pretty sure that if everyone had to go through this particular trial before getting pregnant, months before any actual labor pains, the birth rate would go way, way down.

But back to that word — “proposal.” You may recall that my last post was all about my niece’s wedding, so it almost sounds like I’m going backwards in the betrothal steps here. It’s really the concept of LAYERS that I’m after — you need a lot of ’em, on a wedding cake, and in a book proposal, too (though they’re not nearly so delicious in the document).

Anyway, the other evening, I was glad to leave all that behind and climb on the back of the motorcycle, right behind the guy who, 30 years and change ago, issued a proposal to me. At the time, I said something ridiculous about “taking it in stages” which, come to think of it, showed even then that I tended to see everything in layers.

Vroom, Vroom

We had done precious little of this kind of biking over the summer, and since the end of August was closing in, it was definitely high time.

Here’s another look at what I could see from my perch:

I know, I know — you’re wondering why I was taking a picture and not just hanging on for dear life. This took a brief moment, we were going slowly, I won’t do it again, and I wanted to get what was in the rear view mirror.

It was one of those summer evenings in New England when everything was golden and shimmering and you know you’re lucky to be alive. Heading north, off the highway, we passed lush green fields, cattle swishing their tails, barns, guys leaning on their trucks, hills in the distance with a sinking sun, and hardly any cars.

And, in keeping with our interest (or at least mine) in not falling in line with any stereotype of what a clergyman and his wife might do in their free time, we headed to a place that was completely Vulgar.

What Kind of Place Is This?

You need proof? This was the sign that greeted us, in downtown Franklin.

When you go to their website — https://vbc.beer/about-us/ — you’ll learn how that name came into being. The key thing is that the adjective used to mean something like “characteristic or belonging to the masses” — i.e, not for upper class snobs. So, similar to how a school with “Common” in its name would indicate not everyday-ho-hum but rather a place where everyone is welcome, as opposed to an elitist institution.

So you wouldn’t want to take, say, a Jaguar to the Vulgar; a 1985 motorcycle, though, gets you there very nicely.

Franklin (smallest city in NH) has not been a particularly popular destination for tourists, but it has always been where the Pemigewasset and Winnipesaukee Rivers come together to give birth to the Merrimack. And finally, these days, it’s going through a kind of revitalization thanks to new businesses and more local emphasis on the waterways. There are kayaks filled with flowers everywhere.

Nice, huh?

Our waitress was an especially engaging conversationalist. She revealed herself to be a regular at Fenway Park, showed us an app where you can keep track of your entire beer-drinking history and then advised us on the menu options with, “Even it doesn’t sound like pizza — it’s pizza.”

When we settled in for our “flight” (what they call a line-up of seven different brews, for tasting) at the outdoor table, I felt like a believer in the goodness of getting off the ground for a while. And, with a partner imbibing just a little, I had no qualms about the ride home, either. If we’d had more companions, we would have done justice to all these glasses.

Get Back to the Waiting Dog

There wasn’t much to look at during the 45 dark minutes back down the empty road. But, you know, with a working headlight, you just need to see those few precious feet ahead. I’ll remember this when I return to work as a School-to-Career counselor, encouraging students to start identifying long-term goals. On a motorcycle in August, long-term goals sound a little bit silly. Getting home to a creature who, more stiffly now, will rise up in relief to an opening door, will be achievement enough. Working out the tangles in my windswept hair will take a solid few minutes, minutes I’ll spend being grateful for the ride.