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October 30, 2005

Grandpaps

The article below was published many years ago (I'd reckon at least twenty) in a glossy Pittsburgh magazine. Growing up, my family lived in an neighborhood in the east end of the city, surrounded by my mother's family. The entire neighborhood was at one time owned by my great grandfather, but over the years, he parceled the land and sold it away. Still, most of his immediate family still lived in the neighborhood, congregated in houses along The Drive. That's where I grew up. The article was written as a tribute to my great grandfather. The author was a neighbor, Chuck Husak -- an outsider, as it were -- who found some inspiration in the life of Anthony Yacaboni.


My neighbor Mitch is raking leaves in his backyard looking like someone laced his Maxwell House with amphetamines. What's stranger, it's Sunday afternoon, the time of the week he can't be budged from his football games. He explains by nodding toward an upstairs window in the big red house next door. "The eyes are upon me," he says, the words of a beaten man.

Instantly, I understand. Mitch is doomed to rake until he gets his lawn pooltable perfect. The eyes, of course, belong to Grandpaps.

Anthony Yacaboni is ninety-one now, getting stronger every day. He's Johnny Appleseed, Picasso, Buckmeister Fuller, and Will Geer. He's a prime mover and a motivator. A man who, with his bare hands, designed and built an entire neighborhood from scratch. A man who uses hedge clippers the way a neurosurgeon uses hemostats. A man who looks at an old stump, and envisions a table, and presents you with an extraordinary piece of hand-hewn furniture two days later. A man who could tell Marlin Perkins a few things about wild birds. And Ewell Gibbons a few things about wild hickory nuts.

To full experience the scope of this man, it's first necessary to experience The Drive -- a plot of land tucked away in a corner of East Liberty, bearing little resemblence to the rest of that concrete community. The Drive is a five acre, wooded fairyland, complete with flowers, manicured hedges, goldfish ponds, stone statues, vegetable gardens, flagstone paths, pheasants, raccoons, and six rather unusual homes, all connected by a winding lane known as, if you're catching on, The Drive.

The Drive takes on different aspects in different seasons. IN the fall, you're reminded of a postcard from Vermont. In winter, the scenario from Robert Frost's Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening. Springtime, a set from Babes in Toyland. In the summer, The Drive is nothing less than a giant, spectacular miniature golf course. This is the domain of Grandpaps.

A landscaper in his working days, Grandpaps bought this piece of land when it was just a field around 1921. With his shovel, wheelbarrow and back, he transformed it into the kind of showplace that never fails to drop people's jaws the first time they see it. Drive residents have heard the comments before. "How'd you ever find this place, man?" "I thought Disneyland was in Florida." Or just "I don't believe it."

As his family grew, Grandpaps and his sons built homes to accomodate the Yacaboni clan. One son, and architect, built an experimental dome house that looks like something out of Close Encounters. Another house has a 50-foot tulip tree coming up through the living room floor, out through a skylight in the ceiling. Today, four generations of Yacaboni descendants inhabit The Drive. And a handful of "outsiders" like myself.

Grandpaps comes down for a visit. He walks you around the grounds, pointing at towering trees. "I planted 57 years ago," he says with a thick Italian accent that keeps you listening closely. He stops at a little alcove with stone benches designed so ingeniously they look like a natural formation. "I carried each rock, one at a time." Suddenly, it dawns on you that most people don't know what hard work really is.

It's commonplace when the weather's not too rude to come home at night and find all your leaves raked into a gigantic pile. Or all your bushes trimmed, the clippings stacked neatly, ready for disposal. Grandpaps, helping out.

He points outs various projects you may want to consider. "Build wood floor, put garbage cans on top, move over here so no one sees." Moments later, after he leaves, you find yourself looking around for two-by-fours, your plans for the day postponed.

Grandpaps in his toolshed. A rickety shack, decked out his antique hoes, saws, and shovels, old burlap sacks, push lawnmowers, flower pots, and handyman bric-a-brac, the feeling inside is almost religious. As if you're in a chapel, surrounded by holy, ancient artifacts. The handles on the tools are worn smooth from his hands. Each tool broke years ago, was mended in earnest, broke again years later and was again fixed. These are honest-to-goodness tools, the real McCoy, Harley-Davidson heavy duty, forged in cast iron. Absolutely nothing in common with the plastic rake I bought at Sears for $3.99, then hid so Grandpaps wouldn't find it and think I was some kind of jerk for buying. When he found it, he tactfully ignored it. Next day, he brought down his personal, pre-World War II indestructo-rake and demonstrated how to use it, remarked that I needed it more than he, turned and hiked back up The Drive. Anthony Yacaboni knows when he's made his point.

This is the summertime Grandpaps, whipping The Drive into shape, doing the outdoor things he values highest. In many ways, his winter itinerary is even more remarkable. That's when he takes his show inside the big red house he shares with his daughter and son-in-law.

Grandpaps leads you through the hallways, pausing to chuckle softly at the various knick-knacks he's fashioned, as if he fondly recalls a special story behind each piece. He catches me admiring an old pastel-tinted photo of a heroic military figure on a charging stallion. "Italian cavalry, nineteen-fifteen," he says with pride and affection. It's Grandpaps himself in the picture, looking like Errol Flynn.

Down in his basement, Grandpaps works quietly, deliberately. Most everyone on The Drive has one of his hand-made bread baskets. Solid, intricate, proverbial old-world craftsmanship. His matching wicker wine bottle decanters are just as perfect. But Grandpaps is just tinkering.

He takes his stonework a litte more seriously. Tiny mantlepiece miniatures, oversize garden totems. Each with the unmistakable lines that are distinctively Grandpaps.

His work is priceless. Not because art collectors open bidding wars for his pieces. They well might, but Grandpaps' work simply isn't for sale. He'll give you one, if you're the mailman, the water meter reader, or just a neighbor. One day he'll walk down, present you with his latest creation, wave off your thanks and wave so long. He know you're grateful, and that's enough.

So what's his secret? Where does it say a 91-year old man should be able to pull weeds all afternoon, shoulder-to-shoulder with people one-third his age and end up with a bigger pile to show for it?

Well, he has several cousins close to his age, so longevity is a Yacaboni family trait. But he hasn't smoked or had a drink in 60 years, either. And ever since an ulcer that came and went in (Teddy) Roosevelt's term, he's been a rather bland diet that never varies: fruit, some eggs, lots of cream and butter, home-grown vegetables, cottage cheese, creamy soup, occasional fish and poultry. Out are all spices, all sweets, tomato sauce, and all meat. It works.

If there's a common feeling among all who meets Grandpaps, it's best described as humble. He's simply an overwhelming presence. More than anything, you want to do something for him. Show him something he'll approve of -- something you built or painted, some little invention you thought of first. But you may as well try to outperfrom Bruce Springsteen.

What he really likes, and it's really all the rest of us can offer, is when we get up, get outside and dig, pull, chop and trim, doing our part to keep his Drive the only way he'll tolerate it. Perfect.

To Mitch and me, it looks like the lawn is about finished. But on The Drive, final approval on such matters comes from a higher authority. So Mitch, the eyes upon him, keeps raking.

Halloween Alleycat -- A Different View

Yesterday was the Spirit of the Streets race. Having done seven or eight races in the last eighteen months, I thought I'd offer my services as a volunteer, and the organizer, Brad from Dirt Rag, accepted my offer. There would be two races:

1. The citizens' race: a combination scavenger hunt/point-to-point race with four checkpoints. Riders could hit the checkpoints in any order, and would be asked to complete a task to get their tag. I was stationed at the mouth of Point State Park in town, armed with circus peanuts and canned pumpkin -- racers had to eat one or other. Other checkpoints were Washington's Landing, the lake at Panther Hollow, and the bottom of 18th Street in the South Side.

2. The "pro" race: Same checkpoints as above, minus the activities. The riders, however, had to hit the checkpoints in a particular order, bumping the total distance of the race to roughly 20 miles. Winner takes all.

Costumes were required (I was dressed as a 1950s era racer, complete with a leather hairnet -- thanks to Dave -- pictures may be forthcoming).

Around 4:30PM I left the dinosaur in Oakland with cans of pumpkin and bags of circus peanuts in my bag for the lonely riding down Fifth Avenue to the Point. The winds were swirling, and for a moment I was happy I wasn't racing. Ten minutes later I was unpacking my wares, and filling dixie cups with pumpkin. My initial spot, under an oak tree in front of the Hilton, turned out to be a bad idea, as acorns were falling almost constantly, with a few bouncing into the cups of pumpkin. Oops. Remember to warn the racers about that.

Ten minutes after the race start at 5:00PM, the first of the pro racers appeared (mine was the first stop). Nothing terribly out of the ordinary happened at the checkpoint (aside from a few folks having to spit acorns out of their mouths -- sorry about that), so instead of rehashing boring details, I'll list a few of the interesting bikes that passed through.

* The winner of the pro race was riding an old, old ten speed, complete with a milk crate bungied to the rear rack. Awesome.
* The very nice, red and white custom Jonny Cycles. I wasn't a big fan of the bullhorns on it, but otherwise, a very sharp track bike.
* The Soma cyclocross bike riden by a girl in a lion costume. Yeah, it had 20 gears too many, but it was a fine looking ride.
* The new Lemond singlespeed. Another sharp looking ride -- black frame with white decals.
* Brad's Vivalo keirin frame, straight from Japan.
* Jason's urban trials machine -- 32x16 singlespeed. He ran the pro class and didn't come in last place.

When I left my station and went to Duke's for the awards and to return the remainder of the circus peanuts (apparently Brad loves them -- more power to him), I took joy in the sight of nearly fifty bikes locked and hanging from the chainlink fence encircling the construction site next door. Why didn't I bring my camera?

October 26, 2005

Why I Don't Dance

good grief

From Dave and Casey's wedding.

October 21, 2005

Memories

Doug accurately sums up the single greatest asset for a parent -- short term memory.

October 20, 2005

Localism

I've wanted to post about this for a long time, but haven't found the time. Patagonia has published this essay by Bill McKibben on the joy of localism. I am always amazed that localism is not easily constrained within typical Left v Right thinking. Most "conservatives" would dismiss anything Patagonia prints as enivronmental drivel, yet the more traditional conservatives (as manifest in folks like the Pantagruelists and those behind Caelum Et Terra) would find much common ground with McKibben (as I do).

October 18, 2005

Book It Alleycat (2)

Let me get this out of the way -- I don't like scavenger hunt style alleycats, at least not as much as the standard checkpoint driven races. When faced with four pages of stuff to do, in divergent corners of the city, I tend to stare blankly at the manifest, hoping that I can find the wheel of someone who actually has a plan. This would be no different, except that Eli and Josh were actually expecting my feedback on a plan for the race. Umm....

The race was a benefit for Book'em a books-to-prisoners run out of the Thomas Merton Center. The stops on the manifest were heavily library or prison-centric, so at the very least, the race promised to teach us something. The three of us mulled over the manifest in the Free Ride parking lot, trying to find the balance between the lower valued, but more local stops and those high point stops that were on the fringes of the city. We decided to take a library-intensive route, going to Wilkinsburgh, East Liberty, Oakland (with multiple stops), perhaps downtown, and then Garfield to the finish.

From the start, we quickly got on Penn Avenue and headed to the Wilkinsburgh library. The wind was, in a word, terrible. It was nearly constant, with gusts that pushed my front wheel off course. It dampened any thoughts of perhaps getting to one of the more distant checkpoints, especially those along the rivers. Once at the library, we had several tasks -- get information from a Wilkinsburgh map, and check out a Herman Hesse book. Both were easy (Hesse's books were within sight of the door), and I quickly checked out Narcissus and Goldmund. Joshua, however, had a tougher time at the counter, and Eli and I had visions of unpaid fines and Joshua being taken away by the authorities. A few minutes later, however, he appeared, book in hand, and we were off to the East Liberty Library.

This stop was quick and mostly easy as well -- a Langston Hughes book and some research about Mr. Rogers (which, apparently, I forgot to write on my manifest -- oops). Quickly, we were off to The Big Idea bookshop. Another quick stop and we were on our way to Oakland to the main branch of the Carnegie and Hillman Library at Pitt.

Before we hit the libraries, we made a quick stop on Craig Street for two different checkpoints -- one in Phantom of the Attic, the other in Caliban (a vintage, used book store). The Caliban activity was to discern a rather old train schedule, the format of which resembled this:

1. Afternoon train with seating for two, beds for two, and space at the Hotel Omnium.
2. Same as #1 with seating for one.
3. Same as #1 with one bed.
4. Same as #2 without Hotel Omnium.
5. Same as #1, but evening train.

Repeat up to #20 or so. After a few headspinning minutes, I tapped on the window and requested reinforcements.

A few notes from the libraries:

1. It looked like there were lots of points to be had, especially at the Carnegie, but it was a bit of the Big Lie™. Yes, there were points to be had, but we spent a full 30 minutes (at least) in the Carnegie. We could have used that time on the road to a higher value stop.

2. I apparently can't type the number from my library card properly. After trying five times, I asked for help. The kind gentleman keyed in the number, and I had access.

3. Despite having only one copy of Prison Memiors of an Anarchist, the value for checking it out was a paltry 200 points. I do intend, however, to read the book.

4. There's a coffee shop in the Carnegie. What? Beverages and books, together?

From the Carnegie, Eli and I hopped across the square the Hillman, whilst Joshua went off to the Carnegie Library for the Blind (or is the deaf?) to dumpster dive for government issue tapes (hmm, blind methnks). The Hillman tasks were relatively quick and easy, and Eli and I were soon riding across Oakland trying to find Josh. Apparently we blew right by him, so we headed to the Thomas Merton Center to package books for the books to prisoners program (and get 1000 points in the process). One interesting note -- while I was packing fantasy and sci fi for one prisoner, Joshua was busy searching for existential philosophy. Different strokes, I suppose.

One last stop at a small book seller (the name escapes me), and we were checking out manifests outside the Arrow Gallery on Penn Avenue (the finish line). Apparently, I was a bit hasty in preparing my manifest, and I left off an answer or two, since I finished behind Joshua and Eli, despite having the sole copy of the anarchist's memiors. So well. I still managed to get a multi-tool out of the deal for finishing 18th, and there was a dinner spread from Sree's Foods, so I more than got my $5 back.

Joshua found that the folks who won did manage to hit highest point stops at the edges of the city in the North, East, and West, but apparently they suffered for it. The wind was unbearable in the city, so I can't imagine what they dealt with along the rivers. I don't know what their point totals were, but they were enough to compensate for finishing nearly an hour late (10 points were deducted for every minute). Perhaps had we tried to go the jail, at least, we may have cracked the top ten, but we were no match for roadies on their fancy bikes.

October 16, 2005

Book It Alleycat

The full report is coming soon (I think), but here's the route Eli, Joshua, and I took for the scavanger hunt-style race.

October 14, 2005

The New Commute (2)

I was not looking forward to the new commute yesterday (my first day on the new job). I had been given a laptop a week or so ago so I could begin to poke around the codebase, and now, I had to get said laptop (a large-ish Dell workstation-type model) back to the office, in my messenger bag. When I slipped the strap over my shoulder, the weight threatened to tip me over backwards. Yes sir, this would be fun.

Running down Baker Street faster than usual (thanks to the front brake), I found myself turning right on the 62nd Street Bridge. The expansion joints on the bridge deck are scary -- gaping jaws ready to catch a skinny road tyre. Exiting into Sharpsburgh, I bounced over the rough concrete and slowly picked my way over the railroad tracks into Etna proper. For now, I wished I had cushy cyclocross tyres, rolling resistence or not. Moving along Butler Street, I notice a small cafe/deli and think maybe I'd stop some morning.

As quickly as I'm on Grant Street, I'm off again, up Dewey, heading for the "back way" to avoid the initial hill up Mt. Royal out of Etna. Once out of the neighborhood, I'm on Pine Creek Road, meandering below the traffic of Mt. Royal. Pine Creek is only a gentle climb most of the way, passing small pockets of houses, folks that are brave enough to live across from a creek that floods at a moment's notice. It is a nice section of road, with little traffic and a wide shoulder. I note, however, the lack of any sort of street lamps, and realize I'll have to upgrade my (non-existent) lighting system for the winter.

At the end of Pine Creek Road, the road bends sharply to the right, and I'm faced with the single hardest climb of the commute -- a short, steep rise that curves quickly to the right. Immediately, I lose momentum, and I'm one the drops of my bars, the bike rocking side-to-side. I hear the chain grown a bit each revolution, and I hear the tyres buzz as the bike leans with my pedal stroke. At the crest of hill, I turn left on Vollmer, into another residential area. The grade eases somewhat, and the crossing guard at the corner smiles and says "Hello, there." I wheeze a "hello," and this disrupts my breathing terribly, and I'm now panting, hoping this will end soon. I feel like I'm barely moving -- in fact, I'm sure someone walking could overtake me with ease. Soon enough, I'm at the top of the hill, hands now resting on the bar top, tongue wagging. The respite will be shorted lived, however, with another short rise ahead that will bring to Mt. Royal.

Most of the ride into work on Mt. Royal is just slightly rolling. In the first two miles, I don't even have to get out of the saddle. This, however, ends abruptly just past Ferguson Road. The hill is deceptively steep, though relatively short. Any momentum carried from the previous downhill is lost rather quickly, and again, the bike rocking side-to-side, the chain squeaking just a little from effort. Once to the top however, it's a looooong downhill to the office parking lot. Which of course means...

It's abrupt start to the ride home -- poking my nose out of the parking lot, looking for traffic, and then immediately it's into the drops for more bike rocking and tongue wagging. The intitial hill is long, but not sustained. The angle decreases eases a bit in the middle, allowing a bit of rest before the final surge around the first corner. Once at the top it's a short, steep drop past Ferguson, and then the deceptively easy climb through the S-curve. I thought upon first inspection that this climb would be the killer, but it's not, really. Yes, I'm out of the saddle a lot, but the first curve flattens a bit. After the second curve, it's a short sprint to the crest, then nothing but rolling bumps until Saint Bonaventure school, where I leave Mt Royal for the quiet of the residential streets.

Going down Vollmer, I'm amazed at how long the hill is. I let my legs spins freely, using the handbrake once or twice to check my cadence without skipping the rear wheel. Quickly I'm at the top of hill above Pine Creek road, shocked and appalled I rode this brakeless on my first sortie with Aaron. Hard braking and a skip or two checks my speed enough, and I gently rolling, rolling down Pine Creek Road, enjoying the creek and the pines.

The last bit of Pine Creek Road is rippled like a washboard, and I bounce over them, not at all gracefully. It's good preparation for the remainder of the ride, however, through the potholed, cracked streets of Etna. I'm still learning the ebb and flow of traffic, so I'm cautious as I pick my way across cars to turn left on Bridge Street. Once again, I wobble over the railroad tracks and harsh cement slabs just before the bridge, and I find the ride still has a sting in the tail -- the final rise to the deck of the 62nd Street bridge. It's not long or steep, but in the corridor of concrete, rattling over expansion joints, drainage grates, and potholes, I'm not happy about it. I've also realized it's best to simply hug the yellow line up the ramp, rather than find myself in the middle of two lanes of traffic once on the bridge deck. Hugging the jersey barrier, I pick my way, quickly, through the potholes and cracks, bounce through the intersection with Butler Street, and take comfort in the final, familiar rise to home.

October 13, 2005

More on Michael Park

Matt Chester, a former rally co-driver himself, has posted his thoughts on the tragic death of Michael Park.

October 12, 2005

New Commute

Starting tomorrow, my morning and evening commute will consist of this.

If you care.

October 08, 2005

Domestic Bliss

Dusk comes early this evening, thanks to clouds and a barely there drizzle of rain. I'm rehydrating myself from an afternoon ride with vanilla tea and water. The day's effort (a ride to Southside and back) settles in, and the tight muscles from yesterday's work around the yard and house fade. On stereo is an old Uncle Tupelo cd, and Sandusky, the song two friends played at our wedding, is on. I'm saddened, just for a moment, thinking that we haven't seen one of those friends in nearly two years, as he and wife (the woman who made our wedding cake) have split and he has fallen out of our world. Dinner, a pot of vegetable soup, is simmering on the stove. Its aroma, a mix of vegetable stock and garlic sauteed in olive oil, fills and wams the house.

The boy and Jen sit on the couch, each reading their own books. Sebastien's head leans on the crook of Jen's elbow, and emphatically points out the "Captain!" in his hockey dictionary. The living room floor is a jumble of blocks and cars and books, but that doesn't matter right now. It might not even matter once the boy goes to bed. You get used to stepping over and around cars and trains and tools. And anyway, why put it away, when it's just going to come out again tomorrow? There is likely a parental lesson we're missing here, but there will be time for that another day.

The boy gets down from the couch with a jump, and he is ready for dinner -- the remains of last night's pizza from Pino's and a few green beans. He climbs into his chair, a well-worn blue plastic high chair strapped to the chair my father gave to us. A moment later and he eating his pizza, chatting to me, to Jen, to himself.

All is well.

October 06, 2005

Surly

Here's a not-so-great photo of my upgraded Steamroller. Better pics will be coming for submission to the Fixed Gear Gallery.

Surly

October 05, 2005

The Commitment of Commuting

Eli has a thoughtful post on the commitments of bicycle commuting. His musings are a reaction to this essay by Grant Peterson (of Bridgestone and Rivendell fame) that outlines the commitments and compromises required of full time commuting. Eli is most troubled by this particular point:

It is also hard to ride a bike to work if it takes away family time in the morning or evening or both. What’s more important to you—your personal fitness and a contribution to a cleaner world, or eating breakfast and dinner with your family? Sometimes, there are tradeoffs, and if you choose your bike over your family, why?

I like his response, and I'll take a bit further. First, I'll ask that if your commute is so long that it takes time away from your family, why don't you a) move closer to your employer or b) work closer to your home? I know, of course, that there are certain circumstances that require a long commute, but more often than not it is simply a choice most people don't want to make. Also, I wonder if these trade-off Peterson describes can't also become important lessons for your children. Even at two years old, Sebastien knows that daddy going to work equals a bicycle ride. The boy is already thinking outside of the box.

That said, Peterson's essay is a great read. There is certainly a hump to get over, but you do, it does really become easier to get on the bike, day after day, in any weather. But I've prattled on about that before...