E7 wrote:It hit 80 here in the Keystone state Monday.
It was in the 40's at my place in PA on Fri. If we get into the 70's today in VA, I'll be surprised.
If it dries out a bit, I'll be able to plant the cannas and elephant ears!
Hobo Jungle
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Rufus T. Firefly
- Posts: 42114
- Joined: Wed May 16, 2007 7:52 am
- Location: To be Determined
Re: Hobo Jungle
It was in the 40's at my place in PA on Fri. If we get into the 70's today in VA, I'll be surprised.
If it dries out a bit, I'll be able to plant the cannas and elephant ears!
Once, men turned their thinking over to machines in the hopes that this would set them free. But that only permitted other men with machines to enslave them.
Re: Hobo Jungle
It's been a mixed bag here just of late but anything looks good after February. I wouldn't mind planting some butternut squash, but I doubt I'll find the time. Always something going on. Cleaned a bird nest out of one of the gutters today......a real mess.
Rich
Rich
Re: Hobo Jungle
This is the column in which Sarge is mentioned. It also continues the road trip from last month:
http://www.penbaypilot.com/article/eric ... trip/51398
http://www.penbaypilot.com/article/eric ... trip/51398
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
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Rufus T. Firefly
- Posts: 42114
- Joined: Wed May 16, 2007 7:52 am
- Location: To be Determined
Re: Hobo Jungle
Tramp wrote:This is the column in which Sarge is mentioned. It also continues the road trip from last month:
http://www.penbaypilot.com/article/eric ... trip/51398
"I remembered being a washing machine on agitate cycle."
Simply excellent. And, I know that feeling all to well...............
Once, men turned their thinking over to machines in the hopes that this would set them free. But that only permitted other men with machines to enslave them.
Re: Hobo Jungle
Tramp:
In a short and concise paragraph, you indeed got what I meant by that statement as it applied to the questions in your last column. Well done and perhaps more evocative than you know. We all have had that same experience in some way or another, the joy of the journey, the anticipation of the arrival, and the ice-cold water of reality as something we least expected becomes the overarching definer of the event. A strong (and poetic!) soul can get past that reality and return to the dream at hand; good for you!
It is that powerful something always in the back of the mind I rather fear about a trip back to the UK. I don't want to have my dream-version or my now-selective memories of that place in that time destroyed by witnessing modern reality upon a return. But then again, I have friends and family there and new experiences to enjoy with them, so once health allows me, I will go back (not without a little trepidation, of course). After all, that strength of soul relies on new dreams making new poetry.
Healey;
Going back a few pages, we spoke of my quest for another blast at a two-seat roadster. I've begun the search, which took me to the local garage that ministers to the needs and wants of classic Brit cars. Guess what was there? This very car!
A well earned weathered look while still standing with pride and dignity. There is something temporal about a true survivor that elevates them above the restored (and dare I say sterilised). The memory hasn't been erased...
In a short and concise paragraph, you indeed got what I meant by that statement as it applied to the questions in your last column. Well done and perhaps more evocative than you know. We all have had that same experience in some way or another, the joy of the journey, the anticipation of the arrival, and the ice-cold water of reality as something we least expected becomes the overarching definer of the event. A strong (and poetic!) soul can get past that reality and return to the dream at hand; good for you!
It is that powerful something always in the back of the mind I rather fear about a trip back to the UK. I don't want to have my dream-version or my now-selective memories of that place in that time destroyed by witnessing modern reality upon a return. But then again, I have friends and family there and new experiences to enjoy with them, so once health allows me, I will go back (not without a little trepidation, of course). After all, that strength of soul relies on new dreams making new poetry.
Healey;
Going back a few pages, we spoke of my quest for another blast at a two-seat roadster. I've begun the search, which took me to the local garage that ministers to the needs and wants of classic Brit cars. Guess what was there? This very car!
healey36 wrote:This Morgan turns up at local events frequently, an understated classic:
Healey
A well earned weathered look while still standing with pride and dignity. There is something temporal about a true survivor that elevates them above the restored (and dare I say sterilised). The memory hasn't been erased...
Re: Hobo Jungle
Sarge,
The trepidation of a visit after a long absence is understood by me.
A visit to my hometown haunts in Ohio showed most of the neighborhood places under a four lane highway.
The elementary school that my three aunts, my mother and I all attended for seven years were leveled.
The high school is still in use.
The B&O and PRR railroad stations are gone without a trace.A few trains a week go through town without
stopping.
The population has gone from 17,000 to around 4,000.
Could name many places that are gone.
Better stop now.
The trepidation of a visit after a long absence is understood by me.
A visit to my hometown haunts in Ohio showed most of the neighborhood places under a four lane highway.
The elementary school that my three aunts, my mother and I all attended for seven years were leveled.
The high school is still in use.
The B&O and PRR railroad stations are gone without a trace.A few trains a week go through town without
stopping.
The population has gone from 17,000 to around 4,000.
Could name many places that are gone.
Better stop now.
roger
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
Re: Hobo Jungle
For me, the great tragedy of road trips is that they eventually come to an end. There is something incredibly therapeutic about being on the road for an extended period of time. Sometimes the return home remedies the disappointment experienced at the mid-point.
Three years ago I road-tripped to Fayetteville, North Carolina, to bury one of my college room-mates. It was a couple of days before Christmas when the call came…his sister gave few details of the circumstances. I had a house full of people at the time, and was uncertain and troubled on what to do. I made a few calls and let my other former house-mates know, making no commitment to attend the funeral. Christmas night one of the guys called and said he had to go and I agreed…we had to go.
Two days after Christmas, a Sunday, I excused myself from a house full of family, drove to Baltimore to join my buddy Mark for the drive south. The weather looked dismal…Maryland, Virginia and North Carolina was due for a good dose of snow. The best vehicle we had for such prospects was a four-wheel drive Ford F-250 diesel…we mounted up and headed south.
It started snowing just south of DC. I-95, as always, was a parking lot. The mixture of folks heading home after the holidays and the snow led to long tie-ups. Rummaging around in the glove-box yielded a few maps, a couple of granola bars and a sorry collection of CD’s, but there was a three-disc set of The Doors. Jim Morrison never sounded better, drowning out the throb of that diesel.
The road opened up a bit after Richmond, but the snow was still coming down heavy. The terrain flattened out as we pushed across the state line into NC. We were dead hungry rolling into Fayetteville, but nothing was open…six inches of snow had snuffed out commerce for the evening. A guy out walking his dog sent us to a bar over by the airbase where we got some sandwiches and a few beers. The place was crawling with Airborne, many just back from Afghanistan. The last thing they needed to hear was our story, but they toasted my room-mate and the journey. It felt good.
We headed over to the funeral home for the service. It turned out his wife had Parkinson’s, and Eric had driven himself into the ground taking care of her. He’d been diagnosed with diabetes a couple of years earlier but hadn’t taken care of himself, and his old Ranger body had given out. His wife, who we both knew well, didn’t recognize us…maybe it was the shock, maybe the Parkinson’s. I’d made a point of calling Eric every few months just to chat…he’d never let on he was sick and struggling. The last time we’d spoken we’d talked about heading out to Oshkosh for the air show…now we weren’t going to make it.
A minister showed up, said a few words, then one of their sons spoke, thanked everyone for coming. The burial would be delayed a day or so due to the weather. It seemed pointless sticking around.
The Old Man once told me that one should live his or her life and avoid regrets at all cost…those have a way of piling up and hanging around for a long time. I’d managed to get fifty-five years in the books up until that point with very few, but I earned one that evening.
Heading out of Fayetteville I dumped a hundred bucks of diesel into the truck, then wound my way back to the interstate northbound. Mark slept the first leg. Still snowing, I got into a clutch of truckers and followed along. The trip was dicey, all the overpasses had frozen but people kept driving at maximum speed…saw more than a few wipeouts along the way. The truckers took care of us, detouring a few times to get around pile-ups. A few miles south of Richmond it stopped snowing.
We talked old times, Frostburg, cars, music, women (lack thereof). A lot of memories, some good, some lousy. The five or six of us had been tight…we thought we were still tight, just Eric had slipped away from us. I felt at peace as we crossed the Potomac and headed back up to Baltimore. We pulled up to Mark’s place around three in the morning. A handshake and slap on the shoulder and I was back on the road, heading up onto the Piedmont and home.
Eric had been the consummate road-tripper. He thought nothing of jumping in the car and disappearing for a few days. Sometimes we’d head down to the Cumberland airport, smoke, drink a few beers and watch the planes come and go. He and I had done a long one back in ’76, Baltimore to Atlanta to visit his parents, then on to Austin, Texas and a quick slip across the border, then up through Oklahoma to Denver, before turning back east. Three weeks in a brand-spanking new Chevy Nova. At the time I’d never been south of Virginia or west of Ohio. Here I'd gotten a sweep across the south, a glimpse of my father's alma mater, a sliver of Mexico, then the Rockies. It felt like a life-changer, a great trip, seemingly endless highway.
But eventually everyone runs out of highway. Now, somewhere, wherever Eric was, I figured he had to be smiling.
Sarge, glad you spotted that Morgan...it's a gorgeous automobile.
Healey
Three years ago I road-tripped to Fayetteville, North Carolina, to bury one of my college room-mates. It was a couple of days before Christmas when the call came…his sister gave few details of the circumstances. I had a house full of people at the time, and was uncertain and troubled on what to do. I made a few calls and let my other former house-mates know, making no commitment to attend the funeral. Christmas night one of the guys called and said he had to go and I agreed…we had to go.
Two days after Christmas, a Sunday, I excused myself from a house full of family, drove to Baltimore to join my buddy Mark for the drive south. The weather looked dismal…Maryland, Virginia and North Carolina was due for a good dose of snow. The best vehicle we had for such prospects was a four-wheel drive Ford F-250 diesel…we mounted up and headed south.
It started snowing just south of DC. I-95, as always, was a parking lot. The mixture of folks heading home after the holidays and the snow led to long tie-ups. Rummaging around in the glove-box yielded a few maps, a couple of granola bars and a sorry collection of CD’s, but there was a three-disc set of The Doors. Jim Morrison never sounded better, drowning out the throb of that diesel.
The road opened up a bit after Richmond, but the snow was still coming down heavy. The terrain flattened out as we pushed across the state line into NC. We were dead hungry rolling into Fayetteville, but nothing was open…six inches of snow had snuffed out commerce for the evening. A guy out walking his dog sent us to a bar over by the airbase where we got some sandwiches and a few beers. The place was crawling with Airborne, many just back from Afghanistan. The last thing they needed to hear was our story, but they toasted my room-mate and the journey. It felt good.
We headed over to the funeral home for the service. It turned out his wife had Parkinson’s, and Eric had driven himself into the ground taking care of her. He’d been diagnosed with diabetes a couple of years earlier but hadn’t taken care of himself, and his old Ranger body had given out. His wife, who we both knew well, didn’t recognize us…maybe it was the shock, maybe the Parkinson’s. I’d made a point of calling Eric every few months just to chat…he’d never let on he was sick and struggling. The last time we’d spoken we’d talked about heading out to Oshkosh for the air show…now we weren’t going to make it.
A minister showed up, said a few words, then one of their sons spoke, thanked everyone for coming. The burial would be delayed a day or so due to the weather. It seemed pointless sticking around.
The Old Man once told me that one should live his or her life and avoid regrets at all cost…those have a way of piling up and hanging around for a long time. I’d managed to get fifty-five years in the books up until that point with very few, but I earned one that evening.
Heading out of Fayetteville I dumped a hundred bucks of diesel into the truck, then wound my way back to the interstate northbound. Mark slept the first leg. Still snowing, I got into a clutch of truckers and followed along. The trip was dicey, all the overpasses had frozen but people kept driving at maximum speed…saw more than a few wipeouts along the way. The truckers took care of us, detouring a few times to get around pile-ups. A few miles south of Richmond it stopped snowing.
We talked old times, Frostburg, cars, music, women (lack thereof). A lot of memories, some good, some lousy. The five or six of us had been tight…we thought we were still tight, just Eric had slipped away from us. I felt at peace as we crossed the Potomac and headed back up to Baltimore. We pulled up to Mark’s place around three in the morning. A handshake and slap on the shoulder and I was back on the road, heading up onto the Piedmont and home.
Eric had been the consummate road-tripper. He thought nothing of jumping in the car and disappearing for a few days. Sometimes we’d head down to the Cumberland airport, smoke, drink a few beers and watch the planes come and go. He and I had done a long one back in ’76, Baltimore to Atlanta to visit his parents, then on to Austin, Texas and a quick slip across the border, then up through Oklahoma to Denver, before turning back east. Three weeks in a brand-spanking new Chevy Nova. At the time I’d never been south of Virginia or west of Ohio. Here I'd gotten a sweep across the south, a glimpse of my father's alma mater, a sliver of Mexico, then the Rockies. It felt like a life-changer, a great trip, seemingly endless highway.
But eventually everyone runs out of highway. Now, somewhere, wherever Eric was, I figured he had to be smiling.
Sarge, glad you spotted that Morgan...it's a gorgeous automobile.
Healey
Re: Hobo Jungle
sarge wrote:
It is that powerful something always in the back of the mind I rather fear about a trip back to the UK. I don't want to have my dream-version or my now-selective memories of that place in that time destroyed by witnessing modern reality upon a return.
Evocative of Ella Winter's remark to Thomas Wolfe: "Don't you know you can't go home again?"
Rich
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John Webster
- Posts: 839
- Joined: Sat Feb 05, 2011 4:29 am
- Location: Painesville, Ohio
Re: Hobo Jungle
http://www.tudor-vernon.co.uk/buying.htm
Good luck and have fun!
63-67 Spitfires have handling issues that need to be rectified by the fitting of a camber compensator. That should be less than $500.
Good luck and have fun!
63-67 Spitfires have handling issues that need to be rectified by the fitting of a camber compensator. That should be less than $500.
You begin flying with a full bag of luck and an empty bag for experience. The object is to fill the bag of experience before you empty the bag of luck.
Re: Hobo Jungle
John, I think even the later Spits had a camber problem. I seem to recall Triumph lengthened the axles without significantly changing the geometry of the rear suspension. How tough is it to install a camber compensator?
Healey
Healey
Re: Hobo Jungle
I had a Mk IV Spit, and it was well-behaved. The rear had been redesigned from the original style of cambred swing-axle so was pretty easy to control with a medium oversteer that really didn't vary through the speed range. It was a pretty tractable car.
I rallyed an earlier one that was a friend of mine's, perhaps a Mk II, and it would corner like a six-penny prostitute but the breakaway in the rear was absolutely vicious when it finally went. Little warning and little chance of catching it before it snapped round. I understand they would break if it dug a hole, then probably carry on to stubbing its toe and flipping. I spun that one more than a few times but never dug (thankfully). It was rather typical behaviour for short unconstrained swing-axles, but not an optimal car for anything competitive. There were better choices out there then.
I rallyed an earlier one that was a friend of mine's, perhaps a Mk II, and it would corner like a six-penny prostitute but the breakaway in the rear was absolutely vicious when it finally went. Little warning and little chance of catching it before it snapped round. I understand they would break if it dug a hole, then probably carry on to stubbing its toe and flipping. I spun that one more than a few times but never dug (thankfully). It was rather typical behaviour for short unconstrained swing-axles, but not an optimal car for anything competitive. There were better choices out there then.
Re: Hobo Jungle
"Corner like a six penny prostitute" you gotta 'splain-a-me.
roger
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
Re: Hobo Jungle
Happy Birthday! Dirt is one of the best hobos I've ever met. May you have a wonderful and perfect day in every way. Cheers, my old friend.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Re: Hobo Jungle
I'll second that! Many Happy Returns to the Poet Laureate of the Forum.
Hope all is well with you and yours Dirt!
Rich
Hope all is well with you and yours Dirt!
Rich
Re: Hobo Jungle
Agreed...happiest of birthdays Dirt! Thanks for all of the patience and encouragement over the years...
Healey
Healey
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