Public School number 42 was located on Grant Street in the Black Rock section of Buffalo. The area is on the  northwest side of the city, and is bordered by the Niagara River on the west, the Squajacuada Creek on the south, and railroads and factories on the the south and east. The factories have since been shut down, burned down, torn down or turned into warehouses or junk yards with equipment from other closed factories. It was once a vibrant community with a bar or restaurant on every corner, where there wasn’t a small delicatessen or market.  Every Friday the air  permeated with the smell of fish fry from the local bars, and the smell of freshly baked bread and pastries made at the local bakeries. Families would meet at the corner bars and restaurants for freshly cooked fried fish and  large cut potato fries served with a coleslaw. Men often gathered at the bars to cash their checks to have a couple of beers with vodka chasers before walking home to their families. Drinking and driving wasn’t an issue in the late 50’s in Black Rock. If you lived there, you probably worked at one the factories with your father and brother. You walked to and from work  on the sidewalks because it was to close to drive, or you probably didn’t own a car. If you went out to have a beer, it was at a the local tavern down the street. If you got drunk, you walked home, or you were close enough to be carried home by the cohorts who probably  helped get you inebriated. If you were lucky you lived on the first floor flat and your friends could get you into the apartment. You were especially unlucky, if you lived on the second floor flat or the attic apartment, because even in the middle of January, your friends were likely to leave you on the porch steps for the night, where you would be found by your wife or parents in the morning under a cool layer of snow or frost. 

Everything you needed could  be found off Amherst Street or Grant Street. The pharmacy, the paint store, the hardware store, the lumber yard, the bowling alley, the churches, the clothing store, the shoe store, the shoe repair shop, the candy shop, the hobby shop and of course the factories that kept the community employed. Everything was packed into small lots with little or no front lawns, except for the Morrison Electric manufacturing plant. Housing in Black Rock consisted mostly of two family flats. It wasn’t unusual for parents to be living on one flat and another relative to be living in another flat in the same dwelling,  with other family members living three or four doors down the street.

Most shops had a residence attached to it with an apartment flat above the shops. Most of those who could afford a car were forced to park their car on the street  because most residences did not have a driveway, let alone a garage.  In Black Rock, there were first, second and third generation families of European decent. Irish, German, Poles, Hungarians and Ukrainians mixed in the families that lived in Buffalo since its’ inception in the early eighteen hundreds.

The less money you had, the closer you lived to the factories. My family lived right next door the former Linde Air Products Manufacturing Facility. Our home was unusual for the area as it was one of the few that was a single family home with a drive way, a three car garage in the rear and a large side yard. Nevertheless it was still adjacent to the Linde plant. From 1942 until 1947  , the Linde plant was part of the top secret “Manhattan Project and had  a Manhattan Engineer District contract with the U.S. Army to develop a gaseous diffusion process that helped produce the first uranium atomic bombs.. There is no evidence that radioactive material was used at the plant, at least that’s what they say, it is after all in the heart of  residential and industrial area.  Who would ever believe that that owners would place the community at risk. We didn’t move there until 1955 and the manufacturing at the plant stopped shortly afterward in the early 60’s. It’s been a warehouse for used factory equipment since then. It’s essentially an industrial  junk yard but to me it was the Swiss alps, a place to climb up the discarded equipment, or the the flag pole on the side of the building to get up on the roof. It  provided me with an adventure in technical climbs and made for interesting games of hide and seek with my friends as we crept through the large electric motors, the assembly line superstructures, or the over sized chemical mixing tanks. We didn’t  recognize we were trespassing. It was an environment to be explored and conquered, not unlike the New World of Christopher Columbus.

In 1962 there was a shortage of elementary school teachers. Typically at PS 42 all school grades had two teachers for each grade from first grade through the eighth grade. There was only one kindergarten teacher who taught one class in the morning and one in the afternoon . In in this particular year with a shortage of elementary teachers, PS 42 solved the problem by having only one third grade. To avoid the problem of overcrowding one third grade class, a third of the more promising second graders were promoted to the fourth grade where they were split up between the two fourth grade teachers. I happened to be placed with Mrs Jocylin along with about ten other youths who had skipped the third grade. Third grade was critical because it was where pupils were taught multiplication, and division, and were expected to learn to write in cursive.

Mrs Jocylin was a short women in her late forties or perhaps early fifties. She was fit for her age, had grey short cropped hair and wore black horned rimmed glasses. She was not sympathetic to the plight of the son of an immigrant as on numerous occasions, in front of the entire class, she referred to me, to my parents and my siblings as DP’s (displaced persons) as if we had come to the United States unwillingly. I was born in the United States but still had a  a bit of an Eastern European accent as I spoke primarily the language of my parents until I entered elementary school. When I introduced my self to Mrs. Jocylin as Tadzio(pronounced Tah-jaw), a nicknane my family called me, she told  my classmates and I, that this was not the “old country” and that I would be called Ted or Teddy. Having been taught to respect the wishes of parents and authority figures, I said nothing, nodded in agreement, wrote Teddy at the top of my assignments, and from then on the name stayed with me. Even to this day, almost fifty years later, when I meet some one from the old neighborhood or an old high school friend, I am referred as Ted or Teddy, the kid that lived to the next to the factory.

It wasn’t until I was in my last year of highschool that I began to question the decisions and actions of adults and other authority figures.

Charleston, has a reputation of being the  ”The Holy City” in part because of the  manner in which numerous church steeples stand out of the city skyline and partly because it was one of the few cities in the original colonies that allowed religious tolerance to the French Huguenot Church. Interestingly enough,  it has  been reported to be the only city in the United States that still has a French Huguenot Church.  When I consider the Southern States I normally think of Baptist and Evangelist. However, Charleston was one of the first  colonial cities that permitted Jews to practice their faith without any limitations. The American branch of the Reform Jewish movement was founded in Charleston in 1749 at the Synagogue Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim and happens to be the fourth oldest Jewish congregation in the continental United States.  Brith Sholom Beth Israel in Charleston is the oldest Orthodox synagogue  in the South and was established by german and central european jews in the mid 1800’s. 

The earliest settlers to Charleston came from England but it was also home to a variety of religious and ethnic groups including the French, Germans, Irish and Scottish who migrated to the Charleston penninsula as Potestants, Jews, and Roman Catholics.  St. Phillips Episcopal Church, the first Anglican Churfch in the Charleston was established there in 1682. Slaves who made up a large portion of the population were active in the city’s religious community. Free black Charlestonians and slaves helped establish the Old Bethel United Methodist Church 1797. The congregation of the Emanuel A.M.E. Church stemed from a religious group organized solely by African Americans in 1791. Currently it is the oldest A.M.E. church in the south, and the second oldest A.M.E. church in the country.

Charleston is the seat of the Episcopal Diocese of South Carolina as well as the seat of the Roman Catholic Diocese in the north western portion of South Carolina. It is also the home to the only African-American Seventh Day Baptist Church congregation in the Seventh Day Baptist General Conference of the United States and Canada. The First Baptist Church of Charleston is the oldest Baptist church in the South and the first Southern Baptist Church in existence.

Despite being referred to as “The Holy City”, Charleston has the distinction of being labeled as “one of America’s most dangerous cities” according to Morgan Quitno when compared to the national average crime rate . In 2007,  the national crime rate averaged 320.9 crimes per 100,000 civilians, while the average crime rate in Charleston was 430.9, per 100,000 civilians. Charleston had a murder rate of 12.8 per 100,000, well above the national average of 6.9. The trend remains the same for every other major crime, including rape, robbery, assault, burglary, and automobile theft.

We had coffee from the Waffle house , left the city by 6:30 AM with no fanfare. Just before I entered the on ramp to Interstate 95, I saw a bumper sticker on the vehicle in front of me which read, ”Remember Jason Gadsden.”  He was murdered on the outskirts of Charleston on 9/25/08.  Jason Gadsden was  twenty one at the time. His criminal history in South Carolina showed he had been charged with marijuana possession, manufacturing substances with intent to distribute, and breaking and entry,  but he had no convictions. He was the eighth homicide of the year in Berkeley County area. His accused murder fled the area but was later caught in Massachusetts. What possible reasons could there be for such a tragedy?

We headed for Jacksonville, Florida on Interstate 95 until we passed Savannah. 

We exited Interstate 95 near Southport and resumed our ride on Rt. 17 which parallelled the Interstate all the way into Brunswick and Jekyll Island Park in Southern Georgia. Riding on the Interstate has it’s advantages: you can ride a steady 70 to 75 miles an hour. It has it’s disadvantages: you can ride 70 to 75 miles an hour. The time spent riding can be shortened considerably on the interstate. The roads are straight, and the speed is constant. In good weather it’s probably safer on an expressway than on the back country roads, as everybody is moving at the same speed in the same direction. It’s unlikely that there there will be an abrupt stop, no one will be pulling out of a side street, and no one is going to make a left hand turn in front of you. The problem on most interstates is that the ride is sterile, and often devoid of any distinguishing features. The ride on interstate 95 in Georgia between Savannah and Southport may as well have been Interstate 90 between Syracuse and Utica. The center median and the trees on the sides all begin to look the same. Hence, the change the to Rt. 17. Along any state route, or local highway are the glimpse of times past. At the major intersections you might find the non-distinct strip malls and box stores, but between those intersections are the old farms, the small communities with the family run hardware store or body shop, the road side leather business or the community cemetary where all local history has been laid to rest. The ride off the interstate takes often takes twice as long even if there is no traffic. Its  just natural to slow down to look at the those features that distinquish a community. The town hall, the children playing at a park, the clapboard sided church with small steeple, the hunched over old man walking with his cane, the young man negotiating a lower price with the owner of the auto repair business, all add to the spice of the small communities peppering the way along a state and local route.

There are some that prefer the fast ride on the interstates, moving along at seventy five miles an hour.  I prefer the soft ride at fifty miles an hour where the bike engine is relaxed, purring at 2500 rpm. At that speed, the wind wraps gently around the bike, and my body, occasionally tugging at my pants or my shirt. I hear only the light roar of the engine, the air lightly snapping around my ears,  the drone of  tire against the pavement, the clicking of the transmission as I shift throught the gears, and mostly I hear the words within my own head. The only conversation I can have on the bike is with my self. With so much time spent on the road, I am find myself in a meditative state, aware of my surroundings, but also keenly aware of my own thoughts, my own ambivalence, my own limitations, my own strengths. As turbulent as it may appear to some, there is peace. The humming of the road, that low roar from the muffler, and the sedate ruffle from the wind, all act in unison as a mantra in helping my find the words of an inner tranquility that I have that I rarely been able to find. Its much like the hikes I have taken by my self in the Adirondacks High Peaks. Foolish perhaps, but very satsifying. A long hike to a peak, alone, with only my inner workings to engage with have typically left my in a euphoric state for weeks afterwards. It is more than simply reconnecting with my surroundings, it is reconnecting with myself. Albeit, I have earned a satsifactory living, but it has been easy to lose a grip of who I am, especially when I find myself doing the bidding of others, or following policies and procedures that I have no say in. It is in the moments of solitude that I have managed to dig up my own strength, my own self, those inescapable truths that have been buried so deeply in self protective behavior, trivial conversations, and repetitive worthless  drivel.

On Rt. 17 we crossed over a bridge named after Harriet Tubman, also known as the conducter of the underground railroad. A short way down the road I spied a large and unique cyprus tree just outside an entrance to a private gravel road.  Looking up the gravel path I observed numerous old cyprus trees acting as columns and the tops of the trees as roof into what appeared to be a plantation. I stopped to photograph the cyprus trees with the moss hanging on the branchs. As I stood there taking shots, a pick up truck approached me and I waved as the truck came up along my side. I introduced myself to the driver and asked if it was all right if I photographed the canopy of trees. He assured me that it was not a problem, but shared with me that when he first saw me he thought I was firing a gun, because saw the flash from my camera. His right hand was holding a shot gun that was placed on the passenger seat. He told me that the gravel road led to a plantation home and that he was employed as a grounds keeper. He was a friendly type and shared with me that the property was no longer a working plantation but an animal sanctuary. We joked about the shot gun and he offered to allow me to take a tour of the area. I declined.

As we left Brunswick, Georgia, the fourth largest automobile port on the east coast, we crossed over the Sidney Lanier Bridge. It is a cable-stayed bridge with a total length of 7,779 ft. It has a span of  1,250 feet and a clearance of 185 feet over the South Brunswick River. More impressive than the bridge is the expansive site of of the salt marshes south of the bridge, bordering Jekyll Island Park. As  I crested over the highest point on the top of bridge, I was awestruck by the beauty of hundreds of acres of marshlands and the meandering waters. I want to stop on the bridge, and take in the view for a few minutes, but it would not have been a well advised decision. I could only enjoy the splender of the breathtaking view for a brief period as paced down the southern side of the bridge. I felt like I cheated myself not being unable to remain there. Such is life.

We made our way into Jacksonville, late that afternoon. It was hot and humid and inundated with travelers like my self and Ross.

It was already eighty-six degrees  and the humidity was 80 %  at 6:45 AM on Wednesday when we resumed our ride south on Rt 17.  We crossed the Neuse River in New Bern on a bridge that was battered by five hurricanes during its construction from 1995 until 1999.

It seemed sturdy enough, considering that there was: 49,000,000 pounds of steel; 200,000 cubic yards reinforced concrete ; 221,000 feet (just about forty miles worth) of pilings, drilled shaft, and piers; eight miles of bridge railing; and 40,000 feet (over seven miles) of concrete precast girders used in the building of the bridge.

During construction, engnineers used the combined efforts of two 200-ton cranes, one 350-ton “ringer” crane and one 100-ton assist crane, all on floating barges and all in tandem to place the 260 foot main channel span girder. The foundation of the bridge involved driving a thousand piles and placing eight hundred drilled shafts, using steel casing and a bentonite slurry wall technique for excavation support.  The drilled shafts were one hundred feet deep, twenty five of which were rock socketed, a technique used to support the heavy loads in support structures. There was a concern if all the parts would ultimately fit, considering the complex geometry in the fabrication of the six hundred twenty nine steel girders and more than two thousand cross frames and diaphragms that were utilized. It was seven years from the conceptualization and development of the plans, to the time the bridge was completed in 1999. 

Rt. 17 changes from a two lane highway, to a four lane highway back to a two lane highway, cutting through towns and villages such as Vanceboro, Maysville, Jacksonville, Holly Ridge, Wilmington, and Bolivia as it makes it’s way south in North Carolina. The towns and villages all seem to have WalMarts and Waffle Houses. I had expected a mostly rural experience riding south on Rt.17, but with exception of the occasional cluster of farms with corn six or seven feet tall, it felt like a suburban experience. Churches, WalMarts and Waffle Houses dotted the ride. When when we rode into the Myrtle Beach area in North Carolina, we found ourselves in a urban tourist trap, inundated with hotels, WalMarts, Waffle Houses and dozens of miniature golf courses with dinosaur themes, water park themes, airplane themes, and volcano themes, all presented as if it were a carnival ride at a state fair. It was slow moving traffic and the temperature, depending on which bank sign I read, was between eighty nine to ninety two degrees. I was wearing a short sleeve shirt and even with the sun block, my arms had reddened. Still, I wasn’t boxed in a steel case, but I wasn’t afforded air conditioning either. I wanted to move out of the congestion and the theme park  life style of Myrtle Beach. I wanted to feel the wind.

After escaping the bottle necking and overcapacity of Myrtle Beach, we continued south on Rt. 17 past Georgetown. We slowed our ride in the Francis Marion National Forest, a park just northeast of Charleston, South Carolina. Despite the heat, the air was crisp with a strong scent of pine in the thirty miles through the park.  

The park is named after Francis Marion, a patriot who served in South Carolina in the Revolutionary War. He began his military career just before his twenty-fifth birthday when he and his brother were recruited to serve the British for the French and Indian War. One of the influences for the  main character that was played by Mel Gibson in the movie, “The Patriot”  was Francis Marion.

He served as a lieutenant and had developed a reputation for having fought a brutal campaign against the Cherokee . However in a quoted letter, in “The Life of Francis Marion” by W. Gilmore Simms, Marion spoke of the British-led campaign with sorrow when referring to an attack against  the Cherokee. Later, during the revolutionary war, Marion served for the South Carolina Provincial Congress as a captain in the defense of Fort Sullivan and Fort Moultrie in Charleston. The Continental Congress commissioned Marion as a Lieutenant and he took part in the siege of Savannah. Referred to as “the swamp fox”, he utilized guerrilla warfare techniques, and made himself and his troops a nuisance to the British.  He is considered the father of modern guerrilla warfare with direct lineage to the modern day Army Rangers. After he showed himself to be an able leader, he was commissioned a brigadier general of state troops. He subsequently served as a State Senator for South Carolina and in recognition of his services,  he was made fort commander at Fort Johnson. He died in 1795.

The Francis Marion National Forest has been referred to as a park under construction and that the contractor is mother nature. It is a fertile and luxuriant 250,000 acre forest situated along the inter-coastal waterway of South Carolina. It has an intense variety of wild life habitat including otters, beavers, bobcats, black bears, and coyotes, making for a perfect location for wild life enthusiasts and lovers of nature. There ares some  250 different species of birds found in the park including the bald eagle. The park has a system of hiking and biking trails, back country paths as well as rough roads for motorcycles and ATVs. The are blackwater swamps in the forest with majestic bald cypress and water tupelo trees teeming with raccoons, barred owls, wood ducks and the endangered rockaded woodpeckers.

Rt. 17 led us right into Charleston. In the few miles before entering the city, in Mt Pleasant, there were side roads leading to a series of cul de sacs with commerical businesses that were difficult to see from Rt. 17. It was an example of community planning at its best with business were tucked neatly away from the main road behind trees and brush, avoiding the look of strip malls, large parking lots, and oversized monotonous box like stores. 

To enter historic downtown we traveled over the Arthur Ravenel Bridge, a cable stayed bridge over the Cooper River, connecting Charleston and Mount Pleasant. It is not only an impressive structure in terms of its engineering, it is also an attractive sculpture. It is an eight lane bridge with a main span of over fifteen hundred feet. It has two diamond shaped towers, each standing at a height of 575 feet. The total lenghtof the bridge structure is 13,200. There are 128 individual cables anchored to the towers suspending the deck 187 feet above the river. The cables consist of 90 seven wire strands with each cable holding over one million pounds.  In addition to the eight 12 foot lanes, four for each direction, there is a 12  foot bicycle and pedestrian path on the southern side of the bridge providing for a view of the Charleston Harbor and the Atlantic Ocean. During the construction more than 100,000 tons of cement was used for the bridges girders, decks, columns and towers. 50,000 tons of reinforced steel and 40,000 tons of structured steel were also needed in the construction. There were 400 drilled shafts, eleven of which drop 200 feet down through each of the main footings. Construction began in 2001 even before the design was finalized. It is designed to withstand 300 mile an hour winds and an earthquake measuring 7.4 on the Richter scale. The two diamond towers are protected from ships by the construction of small rock islands built around the towers. 

The bridge was opened in July of 2005 at a cost of 531 million dollars. Mindful of motorcyclists, and considering the problem, and the time in getting money out of pockets, there is no toll to cross the bridge.

After crossing the bridge, we took a short ride into historic downtown Charleston. Tired from the ride, we stopped at a Motel 6, where they keep the light on for you. Next door was a Waffle House and of course down the street was a Wal Mart. I turned on the TV after settling in, and watched the fair and balanced national news to find that the main focus of the day’s stories remained on the life and death of Michael Jackson. I heard nothing about the death of Sgt. Roger L. Adams Jr. of Jacksonville, North Carolina; nothing on the death of Sgt. Juan C. Baldeosingh of Newport, North Carolina; nothing on the death of Spc. Robert L. Bittiker of Jacksonville, North Carolina; and nothing on the death of Sgt. Edward C. Kramer, of Wilmington, North Carolina, all of whom died from wounds suffered from when an improvised explosive device detonated near their vehicle in Baghdad on June 29. 2009. I heard nothing on the national news about the death of these men until I read the sixth page of USA today, on July 6, 2009, a week later, while the headlines referred to Michael Jackson, and who was going to handle his fortune. Over a week of front page news, and and later accolades bantered about at the final services of a man, albeit extremely talented, who reportedly paid 20 million dollars to quiet a child he had allegedly sexually abused,  while the death of four american soldiers, true heros, barely made a short quip on the sixth page of a national newspaper.

Bruce Jackson said, “Bridges become the frames for looking at the world around us.”

We have the capacity to build monumental structures, and develop innovative technology allowing to see from magnificent heights, cross long distances, and communicate with robots we have placed on other planets. Yet, we focus on the trivial, glorifying a wealthy fallen bojangler, and then we fail to give recognition to those individuals that honored us with their service and ultimately made the greatest of sacrifice of all.

What a piece of work is man.

Rebecca  Jones has been married to Kenneth Jones for thirty nine years. During their marriage they had four children, Angela, Kenneth, Kamlyn and Kevin. Rebecca’s younger daughter, Kamlyn is a physician in Virginia.

Rebecca Jones is acquainted with tragedy as her oldest child, Angela was twenty seven when she lost her battle with cancer. Kevin was the youngest, and something of a surprise. Her love for each of her each her children was evident but as with all children in all families each one has a unique  character. Rebecca Jones described Kevin as the child that “unified the family”,” the one that pulled the family together.”  

All of the children were accustomed to the military as Rebecca’s husband, Kenneth, served in the Naval Reserve for thirty years before retiring. Three of the children including Kevin participated in the Junior ROTC while in high school. Kevin was caring, he was compassionate, he cared for the underdog. He was a firefighter and became an EMT just before he left to serve in the military. He had a good attitude about his enlistment and believed that what ever happened was “Gods Plan.” 

Rebecca has a strong belief in God. When she was six years old she found Christ and has held her belief in God and Christ since then. She believes that she can rely  on God, and that God either ordains or allows all that happens for a good reason. Kevin truly believed that also. 

Kevin was a corporal assigned to the 181st Transportation Battalion. He was fatally wounded on 9/22/o5 after an Improvised Explosive Device detonated near the support truck he was in. He was twenty one years old and the 37th serviceman, who referred to North Carolina as his home to be killed in the Iraq war. Before his death, he made plans to start a trucking business with his brother, Kenneth. Kenneth who served in the marines has started a trucking business, fulfilling the dream he and Kevin set forth before his death.  

Kevin had pride in his country and the willingness to serve in the armed forces. He understood that there were no guarantees. His mother has comfort in knowing that Kevin believed in what he was doing and that he had a sense of doing the right thing.

Her  last contact with Kevin was by telephone when he called at about three or four in the morning. He died nine days later.  It has been her strong belief in God that has helped carry her through the difficult times. She has cried to herself to sleep on many occasions since his death. The only difference now is that she cries less often and for less time.

The pain and the grief still lingers. Not a not a day goes by when she doesn’t think of Kevin and Angela, and inspite of it all, her faith in God remains resolute.  It is her conviction that they will be with each other again as a family in the after life.

We drove south on Interstate 95 to catch Rt.13 south of Norfolk. The sun slowly burned off the low lying clouds and filled the morning air with light and warmth.   We traveled in a south westerly direction on Rt.13 with the early morning angle of the suns light flickering a strobe effect through the trees while, we moved along at fifty five miles an hour.

As a New Yorker, I have grown accustomed to seeing grand-like churches and cathedrals built with stone or brick by the Roman Catholics, the Episcopalians, or the Presbyterians. I recognized that once we started traveling south of the Mason Dixon Line most of the churches we passed were  small wooden framed Baptist Churches, painted white, with names not unlike “Temple Baptist Church”, “Faith Baptist Church”, or “Bible Truth Baptist Church”. However on Rt.13 just south of Suffolk in Virginia  we approached a non denominational church named the Liberty Springs Christian Church, something of an anomaly when considering the number of Baptist Churches  in the area. 

A sign on the front lawn of the church said, “God supplies our needs, not our  greeds.” We stopped to inquire about the sign and to meet Allen Lancastor, the pastor, however he was unavailable as he was making visits with church members at their homes. We learned from a staff member that the pastor had entrusted one of members of the parish  the responsibilty for posting the slogan on the church sign. It was a more faithful and an abreviated way of saying, “you can’t always get what you want, but if you try some time, you might find, you get what you need.” 

On Rt. 17 we passed rows of corn as high as six of seven feet and budding fields of tobacco. In Williamston, North Carolina we stopped at a communty library to update our research. We learned that Kevin M. Jones a twenty one year old Army Corporal died of injuries he sustained from an Improvised Explosive Device on 9/22/05.   He and his family were from Washington, North Carolina,  just a short ride from Williamston, south on Rt. 17. We decided to remain in Washington, a community with a population of just over ten thousand. It’s located on the Pamlico River and has been dubbed as the heart of the inner banks of North Carolina.

I learned that Kevin’s parents still resided in Washington and I was able to find the phone number to their home. At about six o’clock PM, I left a message at the residence regarding the purpose of my call, with a request to be called back. I was tired and just dozing off when my cell phone rang. It was Rebecca Jones, Kevin’s mother. I introduced my self and in a very cordial southern manner she inquired about the purpose of my documentary. She asked what my political view was on the Iraq war and I told her without pause.

“Well I appreciate your honesty”, she responded with a North Carolina drawl. She stated she was agreeable to doing an interview so long as the documentary was not intended to place the US Armed Forces or the US government in a bad light. I noted the intent was to bring to light the struggles of the families who have lost loved ones in the conflict and the manner in which they have coped with the loss. She wanted me to speak with her husband, Kenneth Jones. She would meet for an interview if he and her children were agreeable to it. I called Kenneth Jones on his cell phone, a half hour after I spoke with Rebecca Jones to giver her enought time to speak him. He was in New Mexico on business when we spoke. He was reserved and non-judgemental as I provided him backround information about myself and my intentions with a documentary. He said he would discuss it further with his wife and made no indication what his opinion was.

Rebecca Jones and I spoke again that evening. She agreed to meet for an interview but not without approval from both of her children. I told her I agreed that either one of her children should have veto authority on this matter. I would have to wait until Tuesday morning before getting a final answer.

He has been a better friend to me  than I have been to him. I love him for that. Despite my failings as a friend, he still calls me on my birthday, sends a card on the holidays, calls my wife and I on our anniversary. He shares  his most  intimate thoughts with me, bringing me in as one of his closest confidantes. I on the other hand rarely call anybody on their birthday, I no longer send out holiday cards and the only wedding anniversary date I am absolutely sure of is my own.  My wife can vouch for me on that.

I often fail to call Moe back on a timely basis while he makes a point of being at every signicant milestone in my life. In so many ways, he is the devoted friend, he is the perfect friend.  He has never passed judgement on me and never mocked me for failings or my idosynchracies. 

He has that typical Irish wit and storytelling gift. I listen while he talks. He loves me for that. He can quote Shakespeare and then refer to a Myers-Briggs management style. He can’t pound a nail but he will try. With those skills he is lacking in, he has the savvy in getting others to help him out either for free or at a fair price. And when a project is done, he has  either enhanced a relationship or he has made a new friend. Like most of us, he gets along with most everyone, but only holds a few close. My family and I are blessed with the good fortune of being some of those close few.

Before he was born, his mother and father separated. His father left, and his mother raised him and his older sisters for three years before the old man returned to find out he had a son. He grew up in the “projects” most of his life, but somehow managed avoid the pitfalls that comes with growing up poor. He and his family moved from one “project” to another. I met Moe when he moved to Black Rock, a lower class blue collar area on the north side of Buffalo. Even during his time in Black Rock he move d at least three times from one flat to another.

In my senior of high school, he received his draft notice. I sat in his bedroom with him, reviewing and re-reviewing the draft notice, while he strummed “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” on his cheap green semi hollow body elecric guitar. He made the decision to join the army in order to have some control as to where he would end up. He served in the army but with his skills,  he was given an assignment that kept him out of combat.  When he was discharged from the army he worked in a low level janitorial position at a  federal building.  He attended college, obtained an associate’s degree, and then a bachelor’s degree in business management, all while he was working. His mother passed while he was in the armed forces and his father passed while he was attending colleg and some how, some way, he continued. He has been the rock in his family, providing  his siblings with emotional and financial support. Heworked his way up from the broom sweeper on the evening shift to a high mid level position with the government with high clearance and a respectable income. He  moved where his employer sent him. He has been the dutiful soldier all the while he has been the  devoted husband and father, and the dutiful friend. Now with his wife and children he lives in a house valuled at $450,000. He owns a Volvo, but prefers driving his 1993 Chevy S10, which has over 180,000 miles on it.

Not bad for a freckled face Irish kid from the projects. He is an enigma. My visit with him on this journey only reinspired me, as it should have. And why not, we are the closest of friends, and I love him for that.

I was seeking to make contact with the family of Jennifer Parcell, who was one of the first female casualties in the Iraq War.  We finally got off Rt. 222 by turning on to Rt. 623 to pass over the Susquehanna River on the Conowingo Hydroelectric Plant Dam, an impressive structure that spans the river at the Cecil County and Harford County borders in Maryland. The dam is over 4600 feet in length, has 53 flood control gates, and has a total of twelve turbines that produce a peak output of 548 megawatts of  power. It was completed in 1928 and is one of the largest non-federal hydroelectric dams.

As we made our way west into Bel Air on Rt. 155 the clouded sky above of me let out a mild warm rain while the sky in the west shined a bright sun in my eyes. The contrast was unbearable, forcing me to stop to get a cup of coffee. We decided to call it a day and found a room at Days Inn in Emmorton, nothing special, just cheap and free wi-fi.

Jennifer Parcell died on 2/7/07 in Barwanah Iraq, the result of a female homicide/suicide bombers last and perhaps only mission. Jennifer was twenty two at the time of her death. 

She has a MySpace website dedicated to her with recent postings. No one is left the same by their personal casualty of this war, and there is no returning to the way it used to be.

I had no luck in finding a family member, but I must admit, my efforts were minimal as any interview with a family member would have been difficult.

Rt.94 is a winding road, peppered with small villages and town ships with names like Vernon, Hamburg, Lafeyette, Hampton and Newton in Sussex County, and  Blairstown and Knowlton in Warren County. There were small villages with nineteenth century buildings laid close to the streets providing for a sense of intimacy, a bonding where residents lived close to the local business district. On this day I rode in the rain until I reached the township of Newton. The clouds began to break up offering some blue sky and shards of sunshine as I entered the town ship of Knowlton in Warren County. Knowlton County has just under 3000 residents according to the 2000 census. It was established  by a Royal Charter in 1763 and is divided up into three postal areas, Columbia, Blairstown, and Delaware, and it has several small hamlets including Hainesburg.  I passed the Hainesburg Cemetary on the north side of the road and only a few minutes later on my left, I approached a tall Victorian style mansion distinguished with a porch that wrapped around the front side, and two distict  two cupolas to add to its height. A wooden sign with routered gold lettering in front, just off  the street read, ”Animal Mansion Veterinary Hospital, Dr Jon P Bertoldo, DVM.”  It was grand, it was distinct, it was welcoming.  I had to learn more.

We stopped across the street and entered the mansion through a door on the left side of the porch. We were warmly greeted by the staff  in a large room with stained glass on the windows. As ceiling fan whirled above our heads  as we introduced ourselves. I asked if we could interview someone, for An American Motorcycle Diary about the mansion. We were generously offered up information about the mansion and led to Dr. Jon Bertoldo, the town veterinarian and refurbisher of the Victorian edifice. Dr. Bertoldo stood a litte over six feet in height. He was dressed relaxed with a polo style shirt. His posture was straight, he was lean but not thin, and he had an ageless face making it difficult to assess his age. He could have been twenty nine, he could have been forty.  Only the scattered wisps of gray in his dark hair could give away his age.  He had bright blue eyes filled with a youthful enthusiasm and that rare capacity that effectively demonstrated he was listening as you spoke.

Between appointments, and dealing with his daily chores as a veterinarian, he graciously shared ahistory of the building and how it came to be a veterinary hospital.  Dr Jon,  as we shall refer to him, is originally from Staten Isalnd. He graduated from the Cornell University Veterinary School in 1994 and started a practice with another in Warren County.  He  and his wife, a native of the area,  purchased the mansion in 2006 . After a good deal of personal time and money, he opened his own veterinary practice in the mansion one year ago. It has been a work of passion, as after years of neglect, and being abandoned the the mansion was in a state of disrepair. The original portion of the structure was built in 1828 by the Anders Family, and remained with the family through the late 1800’s. It later became a restaurant, an antique store and even what could be described as a seedy bar with nefarious activity within its walls.

Despite the neglect, it was solid within it’s 8500 square feet of living space and hemlock floor joists. With an educated caution, and encouragement from his wife, they made the decision to start a veterinary hospital there. This despite rumors of a ghost of a nine year old boy haunting the mansion, and a turkey vulture that perched itself on one of the cupolas just before the mansion entered their hands.  Dr. Jon recognizes that it will be a long arduous process to rehabilitate the structure, but as the process moves along, his decision to take on this project shows his commitment to his patients. In the end it will prove to be a means of returning an iconic structure to the community as a place of health.

When I arrived at Wawayanda Park, I learned that campsites are reserved for large groups, and that because I was alone, I did not even meet the basic requirement of a group, let alone a large group. After all, a group is two or more people. Perhaps it was the despondent look on my face, or my desperate tone, but the office supervisor, a dark hair pleasant women in her early forties obtained special dispensation, by phone from some anonymous higher up, to allow me to remain for the night even though I did not constitute a group. A man in his later sixties, wearing an official state park employee green uniform, and a full head of white hair, gave me directions to the group campsite. It was at least a mile from the office and the toilet  facilities, an updated prefab version of an outhouse was about a hundred yards from the site.  

“Campsite number one” he said. He was stern yet jovial. I paid the fifteen dollars to sleep on the  ground while he explained that the wash house, which consisted of a sink in a even more updated version of an outhouse was about four hundred yards from the  campsite near the beach on the lake. A quarter mile I thought. Oh well I was tired and just wanted to set up my tent. As I was approaching the door, Mr Jovial told me to make sure I locked up my food in your car. 

“I don’t have a car, I’m riding a motorcyc le” I said. 

He paused, looked out the window and responded, “well then store your food in the bear box”. 

I was suprised, “You have bears?”, I said.  

With an, as a matter of  fact tone, he said, “Oh yes, of course”  .He paused, ” and if you see one, don’t look  the bear in the eye, make a lot of noise and don’t try to run. They run thirty five miles an hour. You can’t out run them you know. They just come around and sniff around campsites,  but if  you don’t have any crumbs in your tent it shouldn’t be a problem”. 

Now I’m thinking about the peanut butter stain on my shirt. 

I left hoping, he just wanted to frighten me a little. After setting up my tent in a small grassy flat clearing, I took the four hundred yard walk to the bath house to get some water. It was more likely a half a mile, as it took me ten minutes to get there and I was walking quickly. I was on guar, looking into the woods as I walked. I met up with a the rental boat house attendant, Alex, who had just completed high school and had just enlisted in the United States Coast Guard. I asked him if I could use an electrical outlet to charge my cell phone. He agreed and after I obtained some water and washed up using the sink in the updated version of the outhouse , I stopped back at to the boathouse to wait for my phone to charge. He was there till six o’clock, giving it almost an hour an a half to charge. We spoke on an off while he went about his chores of cleaning up. He shared that he was on his school swim team and rarely lost a meet. I did’t interpet him as bragging in anyway. He was proud and rightfully so. He was a volunteer fireman and trained as an EMT, essentially making a very good candidate for the Coast Guard resc ue teams. It made good sense to me. He was leaving for basic training in ten days. He was an affable young men, but I couldn’t help think about Mr. Jovial’s warning about the bears, so of course I asked Alex.

“I’ve seen bears here a few times”, he said. 

Just great I thought. He closed up the boat house and I thanked him for allowing me to charge the phone. I left  to walk the half mile back to my campsite, among the bears. I tried reading on the table near my about to be infested with bear campsite, but the mosquitos chased me into my tent. Thus I read the National Audubon Society Field Guide to the Mid Atlantic States until it was too dark for me to read. Then  I waited for the bears.  The bears never showed up, but the thunderstorms rolled in and drenched the area. I remained dry in my tent, and the bears stayed away. I didn’t sleep well, yet I was grateful the bears stayed away.

In the morning, the rain had stopped and I managed to pack up the tent and get my bike loaded under relatively dry conditions.  Just as I was about to get on the bike, a clap of thunder shocked the air all around me.  The light was nearly blinding. I had no comfort in thinking that I’m getting on a iron bike under a set of tall maples with a light  storming rolling over me. I had no idea where to go. Remain under the trees or stand in laughable small grassy clearing where I had pitched my tent?. Nothing felt safe. I got on the bike and left the lighting, the bears, Wawayanda Park and Mr. Jovial.  

Ross and I met at the Shop Rite Store in the stip mall south of the village. He rode in his car dry and listening to the audio version of “E is for Evidence” a Sue Grafton novel, while I rode in the rain  on the Electra Glide until we reached Newton, New Jersey on Rt 94. We stopped for coffee at a McDonalds and the rain stopped. As we were leaving Newton I saw a man,  launching something from a small trebeche in his back yard. We stayed on Rt 94 and headed for Bel Air, Maryland, with an interesting stop along the way.

After a restless night, I said goodbye to my wife who has been  my constant source of support, although I understand her worries, and to my youngest daugther who has been my most ardent supporter, despite her concerns. Off  to work they went, while I pondered with my cat, “Black”, what could I have  been thinking of. I then loaded up bike with my personal belongings, the rudimentary camping equipment (tent, sleeping bag, and a self inflating pad), and the oversized pelican case to hold my video equipment. I managed to get everything on the bike and then called my good friend Ross, to finalize our arrangements to meet. Although appearing unruly and overloaded, the bike rode fine. The ride east on Interstate 90 was uneventful.

When I ride without my wife to engage  in conversation, I am left to have conversations in my own head. I comfortable with that but, without the outside stimulus of dialogue, or music from a radio, one hour seems like two.  I arrived forty minutes early at our prearranged rendevous and as I lay on the grass, waiting for Ross, I dozed off for a moment before he called me. He was running late. Having a some time, I called and left a message with Robert Gilbert in Brattleboro to make arrangements to conduct an interview with he and his wife Regina. Their only son Kyle died in the Iraq war on 8/6/03. Regina Gilbert still leaves posts on the Legacy.com Guest book for her son.   

When Ross finally arrived, we stopped for a beverage and confirmed that we would stop in Brattleboro, Vermont and decide from there if where we would go. He was anxious also, as demonstrated by his inability to keep track of the key to his bike. I told him to tie it around his neck, and showed him the key to my bike hanging around my neck. I understood.

We left Amsterdam, New York and taking Rt 67 east through Balston Spa, and just as we entered Vermont, the bands of rain came. Bands of heavy rain, that slowed down the ride. We made to Bennington, Vermont wet but with the sun coming out as we arrived, we decided to go on and dry off as we rode. Not a bad idea, but around the next  bend, over the next mountain, we ran into several bands of heavy rain. We stopped to wait for the rain to slow, and again we would ride into another band of heavy rain and for a few minutes a half hour from Brattleboro, we were pelted with small hail stones, just to taunt us even more. Each time we hit the band of rain, we stopped for shelter, we waited and each time we started riding we met another band of rain until we came into West Brattleboro. We debated, pitch a tent  at Fort Dummer State Park (yes that is the correct  name) or stay at the Bates Motel. Neither, we opted for the Molly Parks motel where the front desk attedant, a man in his late forties, had  Hell’s Angel tatooed on his right bicep. He was pleasant enough, the room was clean and it was inexpensive.

So much for the camping equipment and roughing it. I didn’t hear from the Gilberts.