One Seventh of a Back Yard

This afternoon I dropped off my down payment on a new back yard, and had the opportunity to chat with Brent Wilcoxson, who is pleasant and funny when no one is protesting. There was to be a public hearing this afternoon regarding the sale, though, so there may be protests yet.

In the mean time, all sorts of spray painted lines are decorating the gravel and grass back there, identifying the locations of property lines, phone lines, and power lines. From the looks of it, we'll still have the alley (mostly) as it stands. If we want to get rid of it, we and our neighbors will have to take it up with the town council ourselves, unless they suggest it first.

Orange Flags, Red Tape

The surveyors are out surveying. Given that they were going along, finding the edge of each property line, it looks like we'll have a back yard, rather than apartments, in back of our house.

Back when I was in high school, and thinking of becoming an architect, I took a drafting class. Good thing: I discovered that it was, while a valuable skill, not really to my liking. A further class field trip, where we surveyed the school grounds, drove that point home. Start at a known point, lay out the measuring chains, measure the temperature, calculate the expansion or contraction of the chain... entirely too picky and mathematical for my taste. It made me appreciate what these guys were doing, and all the more, the shortcuts: previous surveyors had sunk steel spikes into the ground at the edges of the property lines, and finding your fixed reference point was a job that could be done in 30 seconds with a metal detector and shovel. I knew there had to be an easier way to do it than how Mr. Watson was showing us!

According to Brent, the purchase agreements are off in the hands of the lawyers, and then there's a two-week examination period (presumably to allow for public protest... Jan, you hush now!) and then, finally, the closing and excavation, although I'm not certain about the order of the last two. Will it be a month? Several? Will it still happen this year? No idea. In the meantime, I keep scraping together what money I can.

Interesting New Developments

A view from the proposed new property line. A hammock over there, a wading pool there, a garden of our own over here... Oh, hi, kitty.

A very interesting letter showed up in my mailbox on Monday. The Village at Winona, which runs the shops just down the street, and owns the land just behind our house, is offering to sell the latter, and would I be interested in a slice?

Would I be interested?

Is a kitten interested in dangling string?

Does a dog want a piece of bacon?

The odd bit about this deal is that it's all or nothing — all nine surrounding property owners have to buy all 12 lots. At the price mentioned — and, since I don't have to by a minivan — I can afford one; by default, the one connecting to the back of my property. The Volkers registered their positive interest, too. I'm eager — and anxious — to find out what the rest of my neighbors decide. (To spur us on to the correct decision, the letter included an oblique mention of an apartment block as the alternative.)

Odder yet is the fact that this isn't the first time the surrounding owners have had a chance to own this property. I asked how the property came to be owned by The Village, and Brent told me the history:

The McKee Courts area was originally the location of rocque and tennis courts and was owned by the Winona Assembly. (Hence the street names “Court” and “Tennis”). The Assembly removed the courts and built a 48 room single story motel, McKee Courts, on the property in the 1950’s. Grace Schools assumed all assets and liabilities of the Assembly in 1968 of which McKee was one. The motel was used as men’s dormitory space until The Village acquired all of the old Assembly property from Grace which included McKee. At that time we asked all adjacent property owners to share in the cost of demolishing the structure and we would give them the land in a plan similar to the one currently proposed. All owners, except one, refused to participate so The Village removed the structure, graded, seeded, etc. which leads us to today.

It's a bit discouraging that all but one refused the plan back then. Hopefully, the neighbors that live here now will see the value in having the land. Personally? I can't wait. A garden, a hammock, a wading pool...

Art Fair

The first weekend in June brings a number of things to our neck of the woods (heart of the island?) including, most noticeably for us, RVs.

But, but, but, that's our backyard... OK, we don't own it, but it's our backyard nonetheless...

The real reason for all those RVs, though, is the annual Art Fair, which is a lot of fun for us to go and browse. Not that we buy much — we generally can't afford it — but it's fun to go be inspired, and talk to the artists. This is the fourth or fifth one, so many are familiar faces now.

The talent and variety are amazing...

Irridescent glass tiles...

Vases...

One of my favorites from the show, a landscape by Dick Heffelfinger.

We didn't end up buying much, but did take home a few small pieces by some local artists.

We got to watch this young artist paint a rock, and then, we got to take it home with us! And the artist, too!

Need more cowbells

One of my friends asked what I was going to be doing this afternoon.

"Watching the race."

"Oh, NASCAR?"

Ah, no. Better. Much better.

I've always enjoyed bike racing, and having the action so conveniently close — right outside our front door! — makes it all the better.

We started the morning out at the Harting's place on the other side of the island, where Hal made breakfast casseroles for everyone he'd invited (he made eight pans of it this year) as we watched the men's category 4/5 race start off the day. I had to sneak off for a few hours, as I had to run the sound booth at church, but by the time I got back, the lunch fixings were ready, and I fired up the grill.

One thing was lacking. Cowbells. See, rather than keep yelling, or clapping with every lap (50+ for the last race...) we ring cowbells — or, alt least, everyone on our block does. And I forgot, again, to go get some. Hal Harting loaned us a few for the afternoon races, though, and we egged the riders on. Fiona and Grandma Renaud both showed great enthusiasm.

You go, girl.
Fiona again demonstrates why she's actually a difficult subject to photograph.

* * *

A good number of people have asked whatever became of the girl and the rider that had an unfortunate meeting at last year's race. As I was walking back from where I'd parked, I passed by a rider in a NUVO uniform getting ready, and I asked whatever happened to his hapless teammate from last year's race. As it turns out, the USCF did press the case, and tried to strip him of his racing license, and then the girl's parents also tried to sue — and by the rider's use of the word "tried" I presumed they were unsuccessful — but at the end of it all, he threw in the towel and stopped racing. The girl has apparently recovered.

The race organizers this year made certain there would be no one behind the hay bales in that corner. Good move.

Me, a person of influence?

Almost exactly a year ago, I was grousing about the incomplete snow removal on the Lake City Greenway. Today, as I was riding to work, I noted that the whole thing had been cleared. It was much more pleasant than taking the snowy streets. So, since I originally griped publically, I shall un-gripe publicly: Good job, guys!

Of course, they might not read this at all, but you never know. Stranger things have happened due to this blog....

Blood, Sweat, Gears (and Beers) at the Fat & Skinny Tire Fest

With the Village at Winona just down the street from us, there are events going on all the time. At Christmastime, we're treated to live music from a group of horn players. We make a point of strolling through the Art Fair in June. And there's one event that we can't possibly ignore: The Annual Fat & Skinny Tire Festival. Part of the reason we can't ignore it is that the road races pass right in front of our house. (These are the "skinny tires" — the fat-tired mountain bike races are out in the woods.)

The whole island pretty much shuts down for the races. They start early on Sunday morning, and you have to move your car off the streets the night before, as they block off the roads. (This makes getting to church a little tricky; we parked over by the post office and used the stroller to get the kids to the car.) Most everyone sits out on their porch or sidewalk to watch.

Nick and Brett had the party across the street in full swing. Fortunately, we all liked the music they were playing, because it pervaded everything. We could tell whenever the peloton was approaching by the distinctive mix of sound: Dance music, cowbells, cheering, and chattering whir of 50 speeding bicycles. I hadn't remembered cowbells from the races I watched in Spain, but everyone on the block had them. I wondered what they knew that I didn't.

We ribbed Nick mercilessly about taking the siding off his house the day before the races. Several news crews got footage of the party along with the race.

Half the races were over by the time we got home from church. The Category 4/5 race was going on when we got there, so after we tucked the kids in for their naps, I told Deborah I was going to walk arund the block and get pictures.

Lest you be impressed by such pictures, keep in mind that these are only one of about 70 that I took, and I also mananged to get a good number of shots of the opposite curb, with no bicycles in sight.

Bicycle Racing, Winona Style.

After I got that shot, I crossed the street, and headed up the sidewalk towards the finish line. Some of our neighbors were out, watching the races. As I was walking by, one of them said, "Hey, would you like some sausage casserole?"

Well... OK...! It wasn't the way I was used to being greeted, but I certainly didn't mind. As I was sampling the rather generous portion on my plate, and debating between the variety of hot sauces available (I think I like these people...) they also offered me a Bloody Mary, which was also portioned out rather generously. I had no excuse not to stay and chat a while.

My outgoing hosts on this section of the sidewalk turned out to be Hal and Jennifer Harting. (I could have sworn her name was Lisa or Lindsey, but the phone book says Jennifer, so I'll go with that.) Hal has a fierce shock of long, pure-white hair, and rides the 1978 BMW motorcycle that I have stopped to admire on many occasions. We chatted a bit about riding, and I asked about the wide assortment of cowbells that were on the picnic tables, and being rung with every passing lap of the race. "I went into TSC [Tractor Supply Company] and said, 'I want some cowbells,'" he explained. "They asked, 'Well, what tone do you want?' and I said, 'All of them! Give me two of every one you have.'" From the looks of it, TSC carries at least 6 different tones.

Realizing I had promised to help prepare lunch, I cut short my trip around the block, and said I needed to get back home, where, I joked, Deborah would want to know where I had been, why I had a drink, and why I hadn't brought her one.

I should joke more carefully. I probably wouldn't have drawn any attention at all, walking along with two large cups, but the Hartings had garnished the drinks with two of the biggest celery stalks I've ever seen. I felt a little conspicuous.

Paul, Deborah and I fixed lunch. We set the table for four out of habit, and only after a long while did we realize that we really only needed three. It's strange having May gone. Was it really only Friday morning that she left to go back to New Hampshire?

The final race started as we were finishing the lunch preparations. Once everything was in the oven, we retired to the picnic table (provided by the town, free for the asking, for this event) to watch the race. I provided color commentary for Deborah and Paul, pointing out what strategies the racers were using, and oppining on whether the currect breakaway would succeed. After a few dozen laps, I got up walked the other way around the block towards the finish line, to see what there was to see there.

Quite a bit.

Most of the spectators were out by turn 1, where there was also commentary broadcast, booths, tables, and all manner of things bike-related.

This sign still reeks of irony.

Some of the races are sponsored by the local orthopedic industry. Warsaw, IN, is the self-proclaimed "Orthopaedic Capital of the World." This trophy is made up of a sprocket and three hip implants.

You can't see it well in the picture there, but at least one of the hips says, "do not implant." Good thing they said that; after what I saw, some of the race participants might have been tempted.

Turn 1 is a devilishly tricky left-hander coming off the bridge — blind, tight, steep, downhill, off-camber, and recently painted. I had marveled that there hadn't been accidents on that corner in previous years; this year, I saw two in the 15 minutes I was standing there. They were nasty.

Can you see the disgust?

The first one I saw was about 10 laps before the end of the race, when a rider blew a a tire going through the corner. He went down, and the rider directly behind him went over the hay bales. The second rider jumped up and got back into the race, apparently not realizing that he had clobbered one of the spectators pretty badly — a young girl, about 10, I think. The paramedics took her away on a back board. When the rider found out what had happened, he quit from his third-place position in the race and asked to be taken to the hospital to see her.

I don't have further details about who she was, or her condition. She wasn't mentioned in the newspaper I bought this afternoon.

The second one occurred just three laps before the end, as one rider's tire slid out in the turn, taking down about 8 riders; about half of those managed to get back on and keep riding, the others out of the race for injuries or mechanical reasons. One guy couldn't get up right away, prompting a lot of jumping and handwaving around the corner to keep the fast-approaching pack from running him over. It occurred to me that bicycle racing could learn a lot from motorcycle racing — on the track, you have corner workers with flags, watching out for problems just like this one, and ready to wave different colored flags to signal the approaching riders of the problem ahead. It wouldn't be practical for long races through the countryside, but it could be a lifesaver — possibly literally — on a criterium like this one.

Nice shot, Gary! I'm actually in this photo; you can see the top of my head and Aiden's right where the tree meets the red jersey. After that, I moved to a safer place...

Getupgetupgetup, the pack is coming....!

As I was heading back home after the end of the race, I met up with Gary Neiter, the photographer for the Warsaw Times-Union, and prof. for all of the photography classes I took at Grace. He didn't recognize me at first, but we chatted for a bit once he remembered me. He was floored to meet Aiden, and more so when I said he was my youngest. Ah, yes, time has passed since I was in his classes back in 1997 or so!

After lunch, I went and joined the party across the street for a while, and was pressed with more food and drink. (Yep, we have friendly neighbors!) Even some of the guys who had been racing were there. Brett gave me a short lecture on various beers available and their merits, I chatted with John Hawkins about photography, and a number of people crowded around to see my pictures and news of what had happened at the other end of the race course.

And that was plenty of excitement for a single afternoon.

Signs of the times

Spring is in the air. Earthmovers move about, digging up random patches of land. Signs spring out of the ground. And the citizens of Winona Lake all wonder: What are they doing now?

Most of what I'm noticing these days has to do with the further construction of the bike path/greenway. And, I'm sorry to say, there are several parts of it that look either poorly thought-out, or downright unfriendly.

Winona Lake is acquiring a sad history of unfriendly signs; for many years, there were signs all over the place stating that "This Park is for the Use of the Village at Winona Patrons Only" ...which was offputting, to say the least, given that we'd been here longer than the Village, and it was previously just a public lawn. Those signs, fortunately are gone. More creative, I thought, were the ones stating "Parking in designated spaces only" ...with a notable absence of designated spaces nearby. But some, I can only look at in wonder, and ask, "What were they thinking?"

Take this one, for example:

This is, I must stress, on the lawn of the bike shop. Neither Nancy nor Rob were in at the moment, so I couldn't ask what was going on there, but I can't imagine they're pleased about it. No bikes! At a bike shop! If you want to say, "This is not the bike path you are seeking" then it would be better to put an arrow towards said bike path. Banning bicycles from that street isn't the answer. I might note that there's a similar sign right across the street. The deep irony there is that in about a week, they're going to be running a number of criterium-style bicycle races right down that very street!

Here's one that's just confusing, even a bit dangerous:

Use crosswalk? I don't see a crosswalk. There's a semicircular sidewalk, did they mean that? Are bikes supposed to go on the narrow sidewalk? If a cyclist makes that assumption, then there's trouble once s/he gets to the next sign:

Routing bicycle traffic down that little passageway looks like a recipe for disaster, especially given the two sets of double doors that open right into it. I can only hope that some future painted lines help clarify that cyclists should go on the asphalt; otherwise, there are going to be some painful accidents and probable lawsuits.

Here, though, is one that I agree with:

The bike route ends here. It was supposed to continue on for several miles, all the way to the other end of Warsaw. But Warsaw seems to have dropped that ball. So: Winona Lake: Kudos to you, in spite of the signs. Warsaw: get crackin', ya slackers!

Ta-dah!

I haven't seen Brian out working on the tree for the past week or so, even on the days it wasn't raining, and today I understood why. There was an Autumn Festival of sorts down at the Village, and he was there, finishing it off for an audience. Given that he's got some sort of varnish or other coating on it, I think this is the final product.



Cool, eh?

The tree takes shape...

I stopped and talked with Brian again on my way to work this morning. Turns out he hasn't been doing chainsaw art since he was 8, just carving and whittling. He started out with knives and Exacto blades.



That's coming along nicely, don't you think?

New life for a dead tree, part 2

So where were with our tree?

I stopped and talked to the guy on my way to work this morning. You'd think someone running a chainsaw wouldn't want to be bothered, but it seems this guy's on the lookout for people to talk to while he's working. His name is Brian Yoder. Apparently, he's been comissioned to do several more trees around here.

Here he's fitting a new piece on the top, as the part that was supposed to go there was rotten. I suppose that's a common problem if your main medium is dead trees...

I did a search for this guy, and found out he's been doing this since he was 8. The commentary (by RevPharaoh) on that bit of info was pretty funny:

"Yoder had been doing chainsaw art since he was eight years old?!?"

This raises all sorts of questions, like:

Where were his parents?

Was his first chainsaw art on purpose or accidental?

Does Suzuki make child size chainsaws for young artists like they do violins?

My eight year old wants to start making bulldozer art. Should I encourage him?

New life for a dead tree

Here in Winona Lake, we don't cut down trees. Well, not all the way. If they're in a nice setting, other things tend to happen to them. This morning, I came across this fellow by Rodeheaver Auditorium on my way to work, a very pleasant Amish guy.*

When I took this picture, he told me he was removing some embedded nails from the wood. I'll take more pictures as the day goes on. I can hear his chainsaw from where I'm sitting...

*It's generally a safe assumption around here that men with long beards and no mustaches are Amish, but not always: when I was with Deborah in the hospital a few years ago, one of the hospital staff apparently couldn't see my mustache too well, and kept offering me instructions on how to use the elevators.