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 60th. Whoop-de-doo.
* * *
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.)
* * *
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.
* * *
