Fringeville #170: Another Revolution.

Pipe down. Don’t get all excited. I’m not talking politics and I haven’t joined the anarchists.

I’m talking revolutions around the sun.

There have been untold billions of revolutions around the sun by our little rock. I recently celebrated my 60^th. Whoop-de-doo.

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I’m going to work backwards here.

I woke up Sunday to banners and balloons celebrating my official over-da-hillness. The big 6-0. I haven’t been the happiest camper lately, but this stuff made me smile. When I opened the car door on my way to work… well, see the photo at the top of this page. (My daughter loves celebrating birthdays, and she always gets a smile from me despite my crotchety old-man-ness.)

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Saturday was interesting. I put in my morning shift at work then drove to Tunkhannock to get my driver’s license picture taken. My sister recommended going to Tunkhannock because there is never a line. That wasn’t what sealed the deal for me. I decided I’d do a little foliage tour while I was up there.

From Wilkes-Barre to Tunkhannock, the logical route would be up Route 309 to Route 29 and straight into town. This would be especially sensible as I was leaving from Wilkes-Barre Township after making a bank deposit. A normal person would hop onto I-81, drive north one exit and take the Cross-Valley Expressway, which morphs into Route 309, for the jaunt to Tunkhannock.

I am not normal. I suspect you all know that already.

Instead I took 81 south a few miles and exited onto the southern end of Route 29. I followed it across the river and up into the mountains. I passed through the Pinchot State Forest, whizzed by Pikes Creek Reservoir, then Lake Silkworth, and out into the official boonies.

It was a calming ride.

There was almost zero traffic.

There was a slight children-of-the-corn moment when I had to swerve around a large carcass of something laying in my lane. No fur or appendages …just a giant slab of something festering on the asphalt.

Could have been butchered deer meat that fell off a pickup truck.

Maybe bear.

Possibly Jimmy Hoffa.

Except for the mystery cadaver, it was a hauntingly beautiful ride. The only regret is that I was alone. I spend most of my time with just me. I suppose I’m not bad company, and I’m getting used to it. It’s my lot in life, so I make the best of it.

Once in Tunkhannock, I quickly found the Photo ID center at the far end of a building that also houses a Weis Market. Across the parking lot is Sky Haven Airport, and the runway lies over a rise and runs behind the supermarket. You could probably leave the engine running on your Cessna, dart in for groceries, and take right off again. I suppose one could do even better than that:

“Honey, parachute out to the Weis parking lot and get the groceries. I’ll land and pick you up in twenty minutes. There’s a slab of meat on the road a little south of here with some kids hiding nearby in the corn. I want to buzz’em a few times before I land.”

As my sister promised, there was virtually no wait for my photo. The red “Take a Number” dispenser by the seating area was empty and dust-covered. I suspect that is its usual state. No matter. It was prime time on Saturday and there were a handful of people there for photos. The only other day the Photo ID center is open is Friday, so I missed the end-of-week-harvest-happy-hour rush.

I was in and out in a jiffy. I will never go anyplace else for a license. The two folks on duty were courteous, kind and cheerful. A quarter of the Boy Scout Oath. That's a rarity at such facilities. If Harrisburg finds out, they’ll surely get shit-canned. 

After I got the new license, I paused in the parking lot to take a picture of the mountain across the river, which was wearing fall colors. I also got some type of utility pole, a windsock, and the roofs of some trailers.

I never said I was Steve McCurry.

Oh, and when I was getting my license, this happened:

It wasn’t a rash decision.

People will draw all kinds of conclusions, but in the end I decided I no longer belong in a party. Across the course of my life both national parties have left me, or perhaps I’ve left them. It was no one thing in either case.

Perhaps I’m just getting old and, as I mentioned earlier, crotchety.

Maybe I just want to be left alone.

Maybe I fear I’ve done enough damage.

In any case, this fits a pattern for me. I mull major decisions for a long, long, time. I ponder them quietly. Then, when I make a decision, I move swiftly and irrevocably. More often than not, I make final decisions near familiar calendar landmarks: changes in season, years, or birthdays. If you know me well, you know when I am quiet near a calendar landmark then something is in the wind.

Anyway, it’s done now.

A page is turned and I have moved on. I will still vote, of course. But I am tied to no party.

U-N-A-F-F-I-L-I-A-T-E-D.

I am no longer a part of the great, vast circus of American politics. I’ve been a very good soldier for a long time, but the war is over for me, kids.

I suppose I could write about it. Trust me, I have the material.

But that would, again, pull me back in. I don’t want a Michael Corleone moment. I prefer having it all in the rearview.

In closing: be good to each other. We’re all we’ve got.

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