In article <
[email protected]>,
"Roger Zoul" <
[email protected]> writes:
>
> "Tom Keats" <[email protected]> wrote in message
> news:[email protected]...
>>
>> Personally I'd feel somewhat awkward, buying a
>> [slotted] saddle from a place called Team Estrogen.
>
> After your bits have been hangin through that slot for a while, estrogen
> will be your best option.
I like estrogen. As long as it's in somebody
endearably else.
I think dairy products are a good thing, too.
Speaking of which, y'know what I sorely miss?
The plain ol' Dixie Cup[tm]. They haven't been
available here for years. I dunno if they're
still available Stateside.
A paper cup of the hardest vanilla ice cream in
the world, plus a flat, stubby, wooden spoon.
Heaven.
A Dixie Cup and a bottle of the soft drink of your
choice at the time, and you'd have the best float
in the world. mmm ... a cream soda float, and
memories of sharing it with Annette Schuster
(G-d bless her.) Good ol' days. In my childhood
years she was the best squirtgun sniper on the block.
She could also moon-rocket a softball like Reggie Jackson.
She could spike a volleyball with a fist of fury. And
she inculcated in me an appreciation of roller skating.
And she was great to ride bike with.
It's funny, how a stoopid little thing like a
Dixie Cup can be so meaningful & poignant.
Anyways I guess by now you're wondering where I'm
going with all this nostalgia, and how I'm gonna
segue this into an on-topic thing about bicycles.
So, here goes:
I had an idyllic childhood in East Vancouver, during
the '50s and early '60s. And I lived atop what was
then an imposing hill to bomb down on a homemade
skateboard, but is now a trivial hump. Annette Schuster
with her lace-on, clay-wheeled roller skates clobbered
me every time, bombing down E 21st Ave from Maxwell St
to Fleming St. I tried to introduce her to stilts, but
for some reason she was reluctant.
I guess I already posted about the time me 'n Davie
Rosemeyer tried to push his older sister's Morris
Mini Minor around the block.
Many of my neighbours were post-war refugees from
Europe, and the Ukraine and Sasquatchewan. They
brought with them their "takes" on cycling, and
I learned from them.
And that's my scene. When people at work ask me
about my ancestry, I tell them: "I'm Vancouver
East End-ish". Because that is what I am, and
all I know. And I ride bike because that's part
of my culture. Sometimes people insist that's
not valid enough. They figure I /must/ somehow
be connected with some identifiable Old World roots.
Well, Vancouver East-End is pretty much all I know.
Especially Cedar Cottage. It's not resplendent with
cycling facilities, but sometimes it's a good place
to be in. The rain there is beautiful. Along E 22nd
St is a row of Eastern Maple trees. They were planted
there by a Great War vet who wanted to commemorate his
lost & blown-up buddies. I still recall my amused thrills
at seeing their seed-pods helicoptering down to the ground
while I was walking or biking to school.
You've gotta be what you are, not what your predecessors were.
I could sure go for some kapusta right now.
And a big garlic pickle.
I sure hope nobody ever gets blown-up again.
There's already been more than enough of that razmatazz.
cheers,
Tom
--
Nothing is safe from me.
I'm really at:
tkeats curlicue vcn dot bc dot ca
