You Know you're a gardener when....

Well, I had an encounter with a "harmless" garden snake. It was six feet long and black. Just came slithering up my driveway. Ever see a five foot tall woman jump on THE ROOF of her car in two seconds flat? My neighbors found this soooo amusing. So did my children. So much so that they decided to take a very realistic looking toy snake and put behind me while I was gardening. When I turned around and saw it, I leaped OVER the flower bed, which is, ooohhh about five feet wide.

This message was edited Jul 26, 2005 1:35 PM spelling errors....gosh I hate them.

This message was edited Jul 26, 2005 1:36 PM

That sounds like 'grounded for life'.

Lambchop:

It should have been...but they are nine, four and three, and their laughs are just so adorable I laughed once I realized what was going on. Then I went in and changed my pants! :o)

ROFL
Lambchop, the first copperhead was in a rural area... outside of Tuscaloosa Alabama.

The second one, the one in the carport, was in a town called Childersburgh, right in town. I guess its the dangers of living down south.... I don't know. Here we are very rural, and when my neighbors across the street opened their shed last spring to get the lawn mowers and stuff out, there was a nest of baby copperheads. We live very close to a stream, so that is why they are there. We have to watch close, we have heavy undergrowth and a rock wall in our yard.

Its just a hazard of living in the country I guess..... I coiuldn't stand to live in a town or city tho :)

Janis

Well, as long the topic of snakes has been raised, here is my snake story. It takes place in the most unlikely of places -- Manhattan!!

I lived at 7 Morton Street in Greenwich Village in NYC from about 1975 - 1983. On the nearby corner of Bleeker and Morton Streets was a pet store named "Exotic Aquatics." They sold not only fish, as the store name might suggest, but also birds, reptiles, and even a few mammals. They catered to the desires of clientele that wanted to bring some touch of the Amazon to their urban jungle apartments.

The store sold an assortment of non-poisonous snakes. The snakes were kept in individual small aquariums with a mesh screen cover and a weight on the top, usually a small rock. It was not the best method for housing snakes. The snakes could easily, when the whim struck, slither up the glass of the aquarium and push open the flimsy lid and escape.

One of the joys for me of living at 7 Morton Street was that my apartment was on the first floor at the rear of our building and had an old turn-of-the-century garden, complete with black slate paving and some raised concrete planters on each side of a fish pond with a nicely sculpted lion's head fountain in a tall brick arch at the back of the pond. The garden had been left to ruin for about 50 years, according to the building superintendant, Iona, a 70+ year spinster artist lady whom had lived in the first floor front apartment since the 1920's. She recalled when the current storefront location of "Exotic Aquatics" had a been a speakeasy where she had worked as the hat check girl during prohibition. One of Iona's most exciting memories had been accepting a hat to hold for Judy Garland when Ms. Garland paid a visit to the speakeasy. Iona was a quirky sort that wanted nothing to do with new fangled inventions. She had refused to allow her apartment to be converted to alternating current (AC) when the power company came around to make the change, which meant that she had to buy DC to AC adaptors for all her appliances. She made lovely ceramic pins that were fairly accurate copies of insects. She didn't see the need for any housework and had a theory that dust only accumulates to a certain point of critical mass, and then won't settle any further. Every flat surface in her apartment was therefore completely covered in about 3/4 inch of city soot and dust. Her own version of the particle theory may have been correct. I never saw the dust layer in her apartment go beyond this fossilizing level of sedimentation.

My first experience in gardening was a zealous effort to restore the garden at 7 Morton Street to its original beauty. This was a major undertaking, and an entire story in itself. Suffice it to say that after about a year of arduous effort, the cracks in the cement pond had been patched and the pond had been halted in a slow, eventual descent into the 7th Avenue subway tunnel that ran beneath it. The repaired pond held water sufficiently to have three gold fish swimming contentedly. Water once again flowed from the fountain in the lion's mouth, rebuilt by my reconstructive cement surgical attention, and splashed with calming delight into the pond. A collection of woodland wildflowers, ferns, and other shade loving plants grew in the planters -- the only thing that would grow in this garden that was basically at the bottom of a well surrounded by the neighboring five story buildings. The garden became an oasis of serenity in the Manhattan hubbub for all of the residents of the other 19 apartments in the building. I got to become close friends with most of the other tenants -- a rare experience for a Manhattanite. We were our own exotic collection of displaced creatures, taken from whatever had been our original environments around the U. S. and the world, and transplanted to Greenwich Village. The assortment of people included Betty Aberlin, better known as Princess Aberlin on "Mister Roger's Neighborhood." Betty was a gentle sprite, with a personality much like her character on the children's show. I would sometimes step out of my door on Easter Morning to find that Betty had left a clutch of painted Easter eggs at my doorstep. She had kind, but often slightly misguided intentions, which included bringing in homeless people from the street and letting them stay in her apartment. This was fine, but when she would then go out on theatrical tours outside of her day job for weeks at a time, her homeless friends would end up sleeping in our building vestibule. Most of us in the building would step over the temporary residents in acquiescent tolerance of Betty's generosity, while quietly thinking she was maybe a bit nuts. My friend, Tom, commented that Betty had spent just a little too much time talking to hand puppets. The shifting tide of occupants of 7 Morton included a host of other actors like Betty and myself (and waiter/waitresses that were actor wanna-bes), musicians, artists, and people with no visible means of support. One neighbor, Steve, was a mousy young guy that collected old films. All the residents of 7 Morton would sometimes gather for evening parties in the garden. Steve would bring down his old reel to reel equipment and project vintage films onto the walls of the garden. The whitewash I had added to the garden walls for greater light reflection, trying to eke out every photon from the once-a-day high noon rays directly overhead that were the only light that penetrated to the floor of the garden, served as a film screen. I saw "Casablanca" many times with a white brick underlay to Bergman and Bogart close-ups. Our mostly Italian, mostly mafioso neighbors in the surrounding buildings would set up chairs and lean out their windows to also enjoy the picture show.

The snakes of "Exotic Aquatics," perhaps sensing the garden as a nearby spot with water and an ample supply of food from the ubiquitous city rats-a-plenty, would frequently make a break from their cramped aquarium prisons in the pet store and follow a fast slithering path to the more natural surroundings of our backyard garden.

My first experience with a visiting snake was coming home one evening and, upon unlocking my apartment door and starting to push it open, felt a fleshy resistance. My first response was that someone had broken into my apartment, had heard me about to open the door, and was inside my apartment holding the door shut. This experience would not seem out of the ordinary. But then I looked down and saw a long, thin tail whipping around at my feet and projecting out from beneath the door. It looked like a snake's tail, but I couldn't imagine a snake being in Manhattan, so my mind raced with possible explanations, deciding that drug-induced hallucinations were the most likely cause for the demonic vision I saw near my toes. I finally found that I could open the door by pulling up on the weight of the door so that the squirming creature on the other side could get free. When I did this, I opened the door to find a snake streaming across my kitchen floor, looking for a hiding place. I managed to get around in front of the snake and with lots of quick steps and shouted whoops, jumping from foot to foot, much resembling the frenetic disco dancing popular in that era, I managed to corral the snake and send it back out my door, down the hallway and into the garden. I may be one of the few people ever achieving the seemingly impossible task of herding a snake, second only in difficulty to herding cats.

My next door neighbor, Isabelle, had the next close encounter of a reptilian kind. She was a Texas girl, not unfamiliar with snakes, but also not expecting to find them in Manhattan. She was in the big city to pursue a career as an interior designer. She was a big fan of Woody Allen and, when she learned he dropped into a local Jazz club in the Village to enjoy the music and join in the jam sessions, she semi-stalked him and sent him into a near panic one night by chasing him to his limo and trying to force him to accept a plate of brownies she had baked especially for him.

Isabelle had completely remodeled the apartment across the hall from me, replete with loft bed to add some more living space to the total 30 ft x 20 ft floor space we had in our studio apartments. She had, one evening, taken some chairs out to the garden to paint them in a color to match her decor, using the open air of the garden to allow the paint fumes to dissipate. She had left the door of the garden open, something we all did from time to time since the garden was completely walled on all sides and was not easily subject to intrusion by thieves and muggers. Stepping out from her apartment, on her way to retrieve her freshly painted chairs, she was confronted by a snake coiled up in the center of the hallway. Despite her former ranch life, she was understandably shocked and startled to find a snake hissing at her in this unlikely locale. The snake decided to go on the defensive and slid under the baseboard of the hallway where, despite Isabelle pounding on the baseboard with her shoe, it felt safe enough to wait out a time for a furtive escape.

Isabelle decided to report the intruder. Her first attempt was with the Manhattan Police Department. She called 911, and when asked what the emergency was, responded excitedly, "There's a snake in my apartment building!" The 911 Operator, suspecting the call was from one of the many insane denizens of NYC, a species as prevalent as the rats, came back with the reply, "Yeh, right, lady!," and hung up the phone with a quick click in order to handle the next lunatic with a real or imagined life-threatening situation. Isabelle went down the phone book list of every potential city agency that might be of assistance, only to find the same or similar reply from each of them. In a last ditch effort for someone to help her with the unwelcome snake visitation, she called Poison Control. To her surprise, this was the Manhattan agency officially charged with the duty of rounding up snakes. A Poison Control agent was dispatched to 7 Morton. He arrived with a rod with a plastic retractable loop on the end such as might be used to lasso a stray dog. With unimaginable apt, the agent coaxed the snake out from under the baseboard, captured it immediately with the noose, and walked away nonchalantly with barely a word to Isabelle, with the snake writhing from the end of the stick, as if snake capture was the most routine part of his job.

My next personal snake experience was even more dramatic. I came home early one sultry summer evening to find a huge semi-circle of people surrounding the front entrance of my apartment building. Standing in the middle of the semi-circle were two uniformed police officers, looking down at the ground. I assumed some criminal had been apprehended and the crowd had gathered to witness the take down, part of the usual entertainment, along with the tight-rope walkers, jugglers, magicians, and acrobats that could be found on most every street corner in Greenwich Village on a Friday night. Elbowing my way through the crowd, saying, "Excuse me, I live here. I want to get to my apartment," I finally arrived at the clearing in the middle of the semi-circled throng. There I saw a snake on the pavement, terrified, motionless, cornered by the crowd and the police officers. The police officers' guns were drawn and pointing at the snake. Apparently, they hadn't shot anything or anyone in the last 30 minutes and the snake was fair game for target practice.

Myself, being a peace-loving latter day Hippie and an altruistic type with a hero ideation complex and a Buddhist respect for all living things, upon realizing the plight of the helpless snake, I heard the words escape involuntarily from my mouth, "Don't shoot it! I'll capture it." A spontaneous, simultaneous audible gasp of surprise and awe went up from the gathered mass of curious bystanders.

It was only then that I realized what I had said and to what I had committed myself to doing. I had only once or twice in my life ever touched a snake -- a ring neck snake a classmate had captured on the way to school and the occasional living boa draped around the neck of a scantily clad Village character that enjoyed taking his constrictor for a walk through the streets. I was not sure if I was up to the task of grabbing a snake, but with so many people waiting expectantly for me to perform, there was no turning back. I inched slowly toward the snake, my right arm outstretched, my thumb and forefinger opened slightly to create the vise that would hopefully, luckily, snare the snake. Seeing my menacing approach, the snake made a sudden move to escape along the edge of the curb. In a lightning swift Zen-like thrust, I lurched forward and pinched the snake at an exact point at the base of its head, and secured it in my clutch.

A great shout of exalatation and applause went up from the crowd! I would have taken a few bows to show my appreciation, but the snake by this time had coiled its 3 foot length completely around my arm and I could feel its slightly slimy, rough scaled skin against my own. My public accolades mostly escaped my own notice. My trembling hands and thumping heart were sending enough adrenalin through my system to sustain my hold on the snake, but it so focused my awareness that only the sensation of snake-on-arm was within my conscious perception. These hormones overcame the more rational, squeamish neurons firing in my brain, which were silently shrieking, "Drop the snake!!"

The police officers dejectledly returned their guns to their holsters. I had clearly upstaged them in this improvised drama. One of them asked me, "Well, now what are you going to do with the snake?"

I fumbled for an answer, all my senses still focused on the alien thing wrapped around my arm. "I'll keep it in my apartment in an empty aquarium I have and return it to the pet store tomorrow," I said, recalling that I did indeed have an empty aquarium available that was the winter home for the goldfish from the pond.

The crowd dispersed, mummering their critiques of their recent street theater experience. I carried the snake, firmly encoiled at my wrist like a squirming bracelet, into my apartment building. I then encountered the first problem of dealing with the snake: how to get my apartment door keys out of my right pocket with my left hand so that I could retain my hold on the snake with my right hand. After some struggle, this was accomplished and the door was eventually opened with my left hand, which was totally unaccustomed to such assignments. I next had to deal with lifting the 30 gallon aquarium out of storage with one hand and turning it upside down on my apartment floor without breaking the glass. I didn't have any thing to place over the aquarium, so my thought was that the open end of the aquarium could rest on the floor and the snake would have its own glass house until the time "Exotic Aquatics" opened the next morning and I could return the snake to captivity. The one-armed aquarium flipping stunt achieved, the next ordeal was getting the snake off my arm to a spot in the middle of the floor under the aquarium while simultaneously dropping the aquarium over the snake before the snake could dart away.

I was not successful in this effort. When I released my hold on the snake, its own hormones gave it super-snake flight speed and it went zig-zagging wildly across the floor of my apartment. I then reenacted my tribal disco snake dance and leapt about my apartment, again with punctuated whoops, trying to cap the aquarium down over the snake, withouout breaking the glass nor crushing the snake in the process. The snake easily eluded me and found the hole in the floor at the spot where the steam pipe came up from the basement as its perfect escape hatch.

Although I was exhausted, emotionally, physically, and psychically, from the snake ordeal, I was not able to sleep much that night. I was, at that time, sleeping on a mattress on the floor of my apartment with no bed frame to give any distance between snake crawling space and bedding materials. I spent the entire night, one eye open, waiting to feel the snake return from the basement and seek revenge for its capture, irrespective of my saving it from a series of gunshot wounds to the head. Recalling a popular song from a few years earlier about a woman that took in an ailing snake and was then later bitten and killed by the same snake, I knew that these sometimes venomous creatures have a poor reputation for rewarding acts of kindness..

Fortunately, the snake chose to forgive and forget or experienced some other epiphany of insight that allowed it to leave me unmolested in my sleep. I suppose it soon found its way out into the welcoming sanctuary of the garden where it could share stories of its adventures with other ex-con snakes, gecko lizards, and the occasional hamster or chimp that broke free from "Exotic Aquatics."

And I also suppose the lesson from this is: If you plan a trip to Manhattan, be sure to pack your snake boots and a zip-up sleeping bag. In that city, you never know what might slither out under your feet or into your bed.

Jeremy

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This message was edited Jul 26, 2005 4:29 PM

Oh my goodness! What a story! My office mates want to know what I am laughing my head off about! Thanks for sharing it all!

Jeremy,

You painted quite a picture. Thanks for the laughs. It almost makes me want to move to NY. Ok, not really... but almost.

You out-did yourself, Jeremy. Thank you....I thoroughly enjoyed. it.

Hap

I loved reading what you wrote. It came alive for me because of your style. What a treat to find your snake stories here.

This is one I hope to some day do in woodburning to set up for viewing as guest arrive.

You are welcome here
Be at your ease
Get up when you're ready
Go to bed when you please
Happy to share with you
Such as we've got
The leaks in the roof
The soup in the pot
You don't have to to thank us
Or laugh at our jokes
Sit deep and come often
You're one of the folks


ooooppppssss wrong thread - but hope you enjoy anyway!

This message was edited Jul 27, 2005 11:12 AM

Jeremy, I loved your story - you are quite a writer! It was wonderful and hilarious, right up until the part about the police officers.

I have several police officers among my family and friends, and I was offended by your portrayal of police officers as gun-happy trigger-fingered idiots as you seem to see them. These men and women are brave, dedicated people who put their lives on the line for you and me every day - I know of no finer human beings!

The rest of the story was terrific - too bad you had to ruin it with your unfortunate dim view of our fine public servants in uniform. It just wasn't funny anymore after that.

Sorry, all, didn't mean to disrupt this happy thread, but I was unable to let it pass.

Please let's get back on topic!

Cupoftea, perhaps it would have been better to contact Jeremy with D-mail. I've found issues are better resolved than airing your feelings on line.
Pati

cupoftea
I too have p.o. friends but was not at all offended and my guess is they wouldn't be either. Most officers I know are human beings and not above a little laughter even at their own expense. Time to lighten up a little?

Great story J.
you know your a gardener, aw geeesh I forgot, what is that shinning over there?

Pati and Kerry, I apologize, you are right. I live right near NYC, still hurting from 9/11 and the loss of so many good people......

Jeremy, you are a very talented writer. I apologize, I REALLY do.

well..

You know you're a gardener when you are feeling blue and the very first thing you need to cheer yourself up is walk through your gardens. I think I'll go there now....

Karen

Karen - kiss a flower for me while you're there. Many share your pain and love ya.

Sorry Cupoftea, and any others that may have taken offense at a perception of the police officers being trigger happy in my story. I certainly mean no disrepect to law enforcement officers. We all know and appreciate all that the NYC Police did after 9/11 and on a daily basis to make the city safe. My comment was intended not so much to defame the police, but to point out (albeit a stretch of the truth) the amount of crime that occurs in NYC at least every 30 minutes and how often the police might potentially need to use their weapons, but I can understand how you might see it the other way around. It is a statement of fact that their guns were drawn and they had a bead on the snake when I entered the scene.

Not to pull at your heart strings, but... my oldest brother that I much admired (more like a father to me than a brother because he was about 22 when I was about 6 yrs old), was a career cop, first in Jacksonville Beach, Florida, and then Chief of Police in Milton, WV. He was killed in the line of duty attempting to serve a warrant in about 1970. Somehow I think my brother Ray would have gotten a chuckle out of the cop story, but that I can't know for sure.

Maybe we should start a new thread for snake stories and let this thread return back to its original format, which I have greatly enjoyed?

Jeremy

oh boy...

just came in from my 'attitude adjustment' in my garden and read your reply, Jeremy.

Think I'll go back out and crawl under my elephant ears...

'Nuff said cupoftea.......I think we all need a group hug!
(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((hug))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
Pati

Jeremy, this is so strange. My dad knew your brother and used to talk about him. What happened to your brother was Daddy's stock reason for why he thought the world was going to &^%$. I'm really sorry about your brother, it must have been very painful for your family.
Rachel

Jeremy,
I loved it, every minute of it! You are a great writer; you make it come alive for me! My uncle, Warren Abbey was a motorcycle cop in Jax. I remember when we went down there for his funeral, about 1970... Procession was sooo long, cop at every intersection blocking traffic. They were fantastic. I felt they honored their own so well.

Know you're a gardener, when you go to the dr and don't mention that you need to dig up some fruit trees, so he can't tell you not to do it, like he already told you no more watering from the rain barrel, since you already threw your back out... I'll have the girls help me... (Hopefully!) ~ Suzi ♥

Maybe I'm getting psychic in my old age, Rachel, but as I was typing my reply the thought occurred to me that someone reading these posts would have known my brother, Ray, or his story. We were originally from WV, back in the hills, but moved to Barboursville, just down the road from Milton. Ray and my second oldest brother married 2 sisters from Milton. That is the main reason why he eventually returned to Milton. He was a great hero for me and for a lot of other people. I'm glad your dad had the pleasure of knowing and remembering him.

And no need to recluse yourself, cupoftea. Your comment made me realize how powerful words can be and how the same words can have very different meanings for different ears. I've given much thought to your response and appreciate the honesty. It will serve as guidance in the future.

And I certainly have spent my time hiding amongst the Colocasias. and so, lets get back to plants.... I've thought about hosting a "Biggest Ears" contest on DG (under a separate thread) to see who can provide a photo of the largest Elephant Ears (Colocasia esculenta). My C. esculenta this year have really outdone themselves -- about 9 ft tall with a stalk about 12 inches in circumference and leaves about 4 ft from tip to tip. Can anybody beat that?! If so, you win a free T-shirt with an image of elephant ears I painted a few years back that was the featured painting for a local art auction/fund raiser!

(I just spilled my glass of ice tea on the floor while typing this message. Fortunately, there was a stack of seed catalogs about 1 ft high accumulated from about 3 years back to sop up the spilled tea.)

You know you are a gardener when --- you save every seed catalog that comes in the mail and tell yourself you will get around to looking at them someday, but you never do because you are too busy gardening!

Jeremy

Ok, back on subject (since I was sorta the one that started the thread hi jack... sorry)

You know your a gardener when.....
You are carrying 2 hanging baskets across the yard to the other side of the yard, slip stepping up over the curb, fall into the concrete steps going to your front door, spill one hanging basket (holding the ONLY Gray Lady morning glory seedling that germinated) your fist thought is, boy I hope no one saw that, your second thought a split second behind that is OMG my gray lady.. and start to uncover it, and the next thought a split second after the second is OMG that hurts!!!!! I ended up the the ER, getting X Rays of my left arm and ankle. Nothing is broken (although I really thought my arm was) but I"m turning very pretty colors, and had to have a tetanus shot. OUCH

Although I guess if I was relly a true gardener, my first thought would have been for the plant and the second if anyone had seen me LOL

The MG is repotted and still alive, keep your fingers crossed for him :)

Janis

You know............

When you buy a Must Have and Last One, hanging plant at the grocery store and you have to bring it home on the handle bars of your motorcycle...LOL

ROFL I'd like to see that :)

Janis

I'm lucky that there were no police around...it was stupid to do, I must admit, and very dangerous. If one of my boys, they also had liciences, ever did that I would have grounded them. Oh, just a wayward mother....

Hap

woofer---

i'm glad you're allright, sounds like a pretty nasty fall.

*pat pat hug hug*...now, about that grey lady morning glory.....


LOL sorry...can you tell me about it and maybe i will try em?

any pics?

Hey, Woofens. Sorry about your fall! I am sending positive thoughts of healing for both you and your morning glory! I've been known to perform miracles of healing with plants (or so I thought), but I've not quite mastered the same curative touch for humans. Somehow I don't think my special brew of compost tea and copper sulfate would help your injuries. lol

Jeremy

LOL Jeremy... I appreciate it :) I'll pass on the compost tea, tho... I may send you the MG... poor thing. It is still alive, but it was scraggly before, so hopefully it will make it.

Wabi, I have only seen pics of the Gray Lady, but QueenB on the morning glory 7 thread over on Vines and Climbers has a pic of one http://davesgarden.com/forums/fp.php?pid=1651881

I bought 10 seeds this spring on eBay and the one I spilled is the only 1 of the 10 that even germinated. I'm a morning glory addict, so I look for stuff that isn't common :)

Thanks for the well wishes all.... Jeff took me to dinner and to see "The Devil's Rejects" tonight... we had a good time.

Happy, my opinion of you as a grandmotherly type with white hair and an apron just went WAY out the window LOL (no offense please!!!) Now I see you in your gardening gloves and a do-rag LOLOL


Ok, I"m getting goofy.... I'm going to bed
Nite all,
Janis

You know you are a gardener when you Google the area of your vacation for
botanical gardens and nurseries.

Happy,
I didn't picture you on a motorcycle either... our preconceived ideas get in the way. Not like with plants, you can look in the plant files or google them to see them instantly. I always had lots of bungee cords to hook my stuff on... ~ Suzi ♥

Janis,

Yep, that's me with the do-rag....I really wear one....it's something I just kept from being a chef...always had one on in the "Kitchen". Don't wear gloves....I'm too tough.. hehe Not true, just like to feel God's earth between my fingers...it's theraputic.


Briar....yep, rode well over 100,000 miles in my time. Had my own and went everywhere in town. For traveling I was with my ex. We toured all over the NE and into Canada, even had a trailer.

I was a sight. I had blond hair in a braid down my back to my knees, a fringed deerskin jacket, (cowboy style) cowboy boots, leather pants, a helmut I painted to look like a floresent Foo dog AND I SMOKED CIGARS... This whole package was 106 lbs and 5' tall. I answered to, The Big Mamu".....AHHHHHHHHHHh those were the days. I was the favorite mom on the block for I was the only one that could take the teenage boys for the MC licence exams. They also liked my bike because it was small and it was easier for them to pass the road test.

Thanks for bring back some great memories..

Hap

I theatened my daughter a couple of months ago about getting another bike...(I was half serious) and she threatened to have me committed.

PS. How would you bungie a plant?

Hap

Hap, please be very careful. I just heard this morning a pastor friend of mine was killed on his motorcycle,yesterday. He was a contradiction of sorts too. Turned his life over to the Lord, he was about 60. Don't take big chances!
Sorry to spoil the mood.

Oh, I gave up the bike when I moved to FL, 20 years ago. Now the only time I ride is when I hitch one from my son. He says he keeps it under 100, and I believe him.......LOL (How can I complain, he's just like me!!!)

Hap

Hap,
I wear a do -rag 90% of the time too.... my first memory is sitting on the gas tank of my "Dad's" bike (he adopted me when I was 3, but we didn't have a good relationship when I was growing up or as an adult, hard still to call him dad) back to the memory.... he and my mom both worked at the time, and I was left with a babysitter .... mom and dad would come get me on the bike, I was3.... dad drove, mom rode behind him and I sat on the gas tank. A back injury in 95 has kept me off them for the most part since. In the past 5 years I've been able to ride a little and can ride 4 wheelers, so I could probably handle a bike again, but the last time I rode, I had to be lifted off the bike in tears..... I don't want that to happen again :)

Janis

oooooooooooo ! biker chicks thread!

uh, me too. had a triumph bonneville bored to 650cc with a fast clutch, then a harley sportster, old one at 800cc. both kick starts. me at 16, 5'9",110 pounds, hair to my knees. a wonder i didn't blow off the thangs LOL.

but that was when i was young and immortal.

*singing "aaah don't want a pickle, i just wanna ride my moooooootersickle" by arlo guthrie*

you guys rock. i am beside myself with happiness to have found a place with garden maniacs AND women like this! thanks for posting...you made my day!

Glad to meet ya wabi :)

Never had a bike of my own, was content to ride but I love em. My littlest is 3, he has a motorized 3 wheeled Harley... made by little tykes i think.. he is outgrowing it, but I saw an Indian for kids up to 55 pounds the other day.. like 80 bucks, motorized... forward and reverse...trike also... I know what he is gettin for christmas :)

Janis

No kidding, I was going to suggest a biker-chick threat, for I know of another that posts here, but I reconsidered thinking that I may have my plug pulled by Dave....

Hap

I rode as a teenager, a friend's Dad, had a dealership for bikes. That was just too cool. Now I stick with the ATVs.

Threat,,,,did I say threat?????? boy what a freudian slip that was.....

I MEANT THREAD...........