Motorcycle Dealership Mojo

…and the lack thereof…

 

Disclaimer: The opinion I am sharing is based upon my limited experience visiting and dealing with motorcycle shops over the past five decades.

 

My local Moto Guzzi dealership just closed. The place also sold Aprilia, BMW, Vespa, Royal Enfield and a couple of electrics. Good selection. Not so hot as a dealership. Why? There seemed an element missing. Entering felt a bit like dropping into your nearest Ford dealership to look at the latest F-150 or the Chevy Man looking for an Impala or a Malibu. “What’ll it take to get you into this baby today?”

     Motorcycles – particularly European ones – are different from automobiles. While many who ride motorcycles started out on a dependable Honda (I did)...

... Yamaha, or like Asian brand, some of us progress – or maybe evolve – into enthusiasts that might be looking for something more. Something that might defy definition.

     My transition to a European marque happened nearly forty-plus years ago when I wandered into Ozzie’s BMW in Chico, California and eventually rode out on a beautiful black R65 roadster. Ozzie, with his thick German accent talked with enthusiasm about the area roads I might enjoy astride one even allowing me to take his personal R65S on a fifty-mile round trip run up to a foothill community. I was as much sold on the dealership as I was on the bike. Mojo.

     Ozzie was famous. On a visit to a dealership in Seattle where I was drooling over BMW’s latest and greatest, when the salesfloor guy found out I was from Chico, he offered a light punch on my shoulder and said, “Hell, you’ll be buying one from Ozzie!” (I didn’t.) That said, more mojo.

 

I gave up riding for a decade or so, but upon a second or third relocation, stumbled into A&S BMW in Roseville, California. I’d never lost the itch and a lovely blue R1100 roadster, used, grabbed at my throttle hand and wouldn’t let go. On this particular Saturday, Candi, my beloved was catching up on schoolwork in her classroom, when I drove by, stopped and hailed her out of her classroom. 

     “Wow!” she said. “They let you test drive that bike all by yourself!” 

     “No,” I responded as I lit out for home. 

     What was special about A&S? Beyond selection, it was the enthusiast nature of the sales guys. They all wore riding boots and were eager to share their favorite Sacramento area route: Highway 49 north to Nevada City and Downieville, south to Placerville and Sonora, highway 50 over Echo Summit; 160 (?) out through the delta. The list I would travel on that R1100 was nearly endless and with each service visit I’d be asked, “Where’ve you been lately?” 

Dealership mojo would prompt me to purchase the 1100’s replacement and a couple of other rides.

     Eventually, I bought a used Moto Guzzi from A&S. Shaft drive, bullet proof motor, Italian elegance, my drift from the German to its European neighbor was unavoidable. I’d hankered for a Guzzi after having visited Dave Richardson’s Moto Internationale in Seattle with my riding buddy. Squeezed into a tiny showroom was a row of Guzzi’s limited models and a few Aprilias for the racing crowd Dave likely hoped to attract. 

The visit with the owner proved to be less about buying a gorgeous 1400 California touring bike and more about where I’d could go on it. Knowing that I’d already played that card once, I didn’t come home with one. 

     Later, visiting the Guzzi dealership in Austin Texas, AF-1, while I sat on a white California, the sales guy, finding out that Candi was a quilter engaged in a forty minute discussion about fabric and stitches and batting and stuff.  I wandered in and the fellow asked if I was ready to ride the California back home to California I came close to saying yes accept that it was the first week in January and I knew that the ride across the south and over the Sierra would be colder than a well-diggers instep in the Klondike. Still: Seattle mojo, Austin mojo. 

  

Fast forward to life in Sonoma County. Roads to the coast are exquisite and there’s several of ‘em. Add to that, multiple ways through the Mayacamas range and into the Sacramento Valley or north or south on US 101 and I’d landed in a motorcycle enthusiasts dreamscape. My first purchase would be a classically styled V-7 roadster... 

...which lasted about a year and a half when I became smitten with a more touring-oriented model. 

     Entering the showroom of this dealership – part of a small chain with showrooms in Reno and Vegas – seemed different from those listed above. They seemed lacking an inventory of don’t-miss-this riding destinations or stories from staff about their favorite routes. Videos of moto-GPs were not being shown. Displays seemed a bit perfunctory – except for their BMW selection in that BMW requires certain showroom attributes. Although I bit twice, the “what’ll it take to get you into this little beauty today" seemed not too far off, perhaps second only to the practice of not engaging the walk-in customer with more than “Hi. How are ya?” 

     Still, I’ve enjoyed all aspects of my Guzzi V-85tt except for a service issue – one perhaps NOT the responsibility of any dealer. It seems my sample came with a cracked fuel bladder, one that emitted the smell of gas when sitting in the garage.  The part would need to be ordered from the factory in Mandello de Lario back in the old country. Might take some time. Figuring on a couple of weeks, my ride sat in the service bay for six. I’m not sure what the Italian version of laisse faire is, but the Maybe tomorrow, Luigi corporate attitude of Piaggio, Guzzi’s parent group, was doing neither the customer nor the dealer any favors.

     Five weeks gone, with a trip to Oregon scheduled in but a few days, and recalling more than one story about a BMW rider who would have been stranded had the dealer not pulled a part off a new bike to install it on the customer’s, I eyed a new V-85tt that had been sitting on the showroom floor since before I’d dropped off my disabled version. “Isn’t there a tank bladder in that one?” I thought but didn’t articulate. A shop with mojo might have already seen that as a customer-oriented solution.

     Ultimately, the tank was replaced under warranty and down the road I went just in time for Crater Lake and environs... 

... however, after a time, that gas smell redeveloped and I returned to the service bay to have ‘em check things out. I didn’t know at the time that they had given up the Guzzi/Aprilia/Vespa franchise. “A couple of valves under the tank have fractured. We don’t have any in stock and can’t order them any longer because we’re no longer a dealer.” I turned to my pals at AF-1 in Austin who graciously accepted my order but informed me that the parts would need to come from Maybe tomorrow, Luigi in Italy. 

     Two months passed while I gingerly rode the beast and left it outside allowing the fumes to dissipate before parking it in the garage. The parts arrived – including a 50% tariff – and I hauled them down to my local dealer only to find the entire shop – BMWs and everything – boarded up. No mojo. No nothin’.  

 

 

Dave Harris and Keli Litle operate a wonderful independent motorcycle repair shop in Point Arena, California called The Zen House. They sponsor touring rides for enthusiasts and host moto-GP viewing parties at a local eatery. Traveling enthusiast-renowned Stewart’s Point Skaggs Springs Road out to the coast is always a delight and David said if I had the parts, he’d eagerly install ‘em. (I knew of The Zen House as I had David rebuild my brother’s classic 80s era BMW R80RT. The results were awe-inspiring.)

     My November ride started at 46 degrees, downshifted to 39 and fluctuated into the low 60s and back. The wait time – not two months – was but forty minutes and an interesting verdict came when I retrieved the bike. The valves were not damaged, but he replaced ‘em anyway. It seems the odor came from the line that was not securely attached to the O2 canister. A cost-free, two-minute fix that could have occurred during the ‘inspection’ back in August. [Thanks for your eagle eye and your always attention to detail service, David!]

Motorcycle dealers need competent mechanics and it helps if they have affable sales folks. But dealer personnel don’t need to be interested in where you’ve been or where you’re going or make suggestions of routes to travel. They don’t need to have motorcycle races running silently in the background. They certainly don’t need to entertain tag-a-longs with tips about threads or fabrics or quilting or pie making or how to puree tomatoes.

     They don’t need to demonstrate that elusive thing that might be known as mojo. But successful dealerships do.

 

References:

 

Ozzie’s BMW – Chico https://www.ozziesbmwmotorcycles.com

A&S Powersports – Roseville https://www.aspowersports.com

AF-1 Racing – Austin https://www.af1racing.com

The Zen House – Point Arena https://www.thezenhouse.net

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

ANOTHER SUNDAY RIDE

…two hours

and a half gallon of gas…

 

 

I decide it’s finally time to give up on riding motorcycles – safety wise, aging, etc. – and then a Sunday afternoon like yesterday happens. 

     Lazing around after coffee and a three mile walk, the current novel I’m reading lacked pull, the New York Times crossword proved too difficult – as it always does – and a nap seemed a waste of an 80-degree November afternoon. Do I really want to go through the hassle of pulling on riding gear and heading out. Actually, no, I didn’t. But I do so, anyway.

     The Royal Enfield at 411ccs is my other bike. It’s the one that requires little thought or maintenance. Lube the chain. Check the oil. Ride. The scant engine produces barely enough power for the thing to get out of its own way, but on hilly wine country by-ways, you don’t need power. Just wind on the helmet and associated fresh air.

     

Sunday’s ride would be both wind and fresh air and more. Eight miles from home I venture west on Dry Creek Road toward Lake Sonoma, thence to Stewarts Point Skaggs Springs Road. This mythical route is sought out by fellas on big displacement rice-rockets and euro-sports. The 35 mile-per-hour speed limit signs don’t even rate as a suggestion. A pair of road racers scream eastbound around a sweeping curve – rider’s knees inches above the pavement – as I tootle west. They drop their left hands for the perfunctory wave, as do I, when we pass. I’m enjoying the autumn hills dotted with golden oaks, digger pines and early vestiges of winter grass. I wonder about the tradeoff between the thrill of awesome speed and precise handling versus the sublime beauty of the rolling coast range in mid-fall. See ‘aging,’ above. Another pair race by, low-hand wave. 

     I’ve driven this route from the Russian River drainage all the way out to the Pacific Ocean several times on several different machines. BMW(s), a Triumph, a Yamaha, Guzzi(s) and I find myself calling myself fickle. Oh! The money I’ve wasted on motorcycle turnover. Yet, each one was unique. Each with its own character. Each filling a particular ‘need’ at a particular time. Today’s need would be to get out and enjoy some fresh air but not be gone so long that the left knee gets too stove up. 

     There’d be no particular destination, though I knew it wouldn’t be all the way out to the coast.

 

Stewart’s Point Skaggs Springs is a relatively new iteration. Forty-plus years ago, as Sonoma County burgeoned, the long-planned Warm Springs Dam was completed, impounding Dry Creek and its tributaries for much-needed water. Prior to that development, Skaggs Springs Road followed Dry Creek into the hills to a 1900s-era resort and continued west from there to the Pacific. That road was lost as Lake Sonoma filled and the new route was created: Twelve miles of lovely, wide pavement over gentle crests and sweeping curves through eastern-most redwood stands and oaks. Why wouldn’t I ride this every day of the year?

     A big BMW GS approaches – I used to have one of those – and a Harley and another Beemer. The riders are in no kind of hurry. They wave, as do I. Up ahead, I spot a silver trailer moving west along what will be my route. Within minutes, I catch up. It seems a Dodge Ram 3500 pulling a trailer full of about 15 head of cattle must be even more judicious on this road than I. So do his two associates. The bovine aroma isn’t at all offensive, rather, it is simply rural. I damper down to about fifteen miles per hour awaiting a section not curvy or hilly enough that I can safely pass the first cowboy. Don’t want to tangle with the next Ducati or Hayabusa, if any, screaming from the other direction. I’m noticing the fenceline, rotted posts suspended by barbwire strands; and skeletal evidence of a five-years-back wildfire – so many little details. Then I pass the second truck. 

     Perhaps two minutes after eclipsing number three, I come to a junction. Ahead, I know the lovely engineering will end, as the route returns to the original with broken, hummocky pavement, dips and cracks and conditions that will slow down those hotshots coming from the coast. The right turn, which I take, finds me on the western portion of the Old Skaggs Springs Road – a decrepit four-mile piece that didn’t get covered by the lake. Venturing along it’s clear that this section hasn’t seen repair other than the occasional sack of cold-patch asphalt in the forty-plus years since the dam was completed. 

     Folks live down this way. There are a couple of rustic residences and, somehow, a banjo starts to twang in my head. I’m following a creek’s mini canyon. Trees bending low. Occasional glimpses of sunlight reflecting off a tiny pool. Dodging some rockfall and attempting to avoid potholes that pock the surface, one’s that still await cold patch, likely in vain.

     An industrial strength gate closes the road before I can get to the water. Dismounting, although less than twenty-five miles from home, I feel like I’m in a different state; a different world: quiet save for the murmur of the leaves as the down canyon breeze tries to lose them from the sycamores and black oaks; tiny, upper-range piano-like music emanates from the little brook. 

     Getting off the saddle is good for that game left knee. I ambled a few yards down the rest of the road to the water's edge; there thinking about those rich folk who frequented that resort a few miles east and now about fifty feet deep. Good life, 1900s version.

 

The return would be just as delightful. Sun, curves, scenery and no cows. At one point I approach four bikes on side stands at the side of the road with their riders milling about. Good member of the motorcycle community that I am, I stop.

     “Everybody okay?” I ask.

     The rider of a BMW has a grin that would light up midnight. “Yeah, you?”

     His partner has a lovely Triumph Bonneville-based café style bike. Stunning red. He eyeballs my Himalayan. “What is that?”

     “It’s my other bike.”

     “Other bike? What else you got?” asks Beemer man.

     “Guzzi. V-85.”

     “Really? I have a couple of Guzzis. An original V-7 from the 90s.”

     Seems as if everybody has owned a Moto Guzzi at one time or another – or wanted to. "I’m on my third Goose including a V-7 from the 2020s I had for a short time."

    The Triumph rider repeats: “What is that?”

     I explain that my Royal Enfield, though designed in England is built in India, “but every part that falls off represents the pinnacle of British engineering,” for which I receive a knowing nod.

     I point at the engine. “Twenty-two horses.”

     Triumph guy cautions: “Don’t wanna use ‘em all at once.”

     Chuckles abound.

     Before pulling away, someone says, “Well, have a pleasant day.”

     Wind on the helmet, autumn sun and colors and knowing pavement that awaits, I respond, “How could you not?”

 

I’m thinking I’ll put off giving up motorcycles for a bit longer.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

MY CLASSMATE THE PRESIDENT

…a ‘No Kings Day’ reflection…

 

This song of the schoolyard bully is really very sad

He earned lots of infamy by simply being bad

 

He’d push his way through other kids, sneer at them as he’d pass

But no one had the guts to cross this big pain in the ass

 

With impunity he’d needle kids and throw his weight around

Trip up the unsuspecting and laugh when they hit the ground

 

He always drove the fastest car and clutched the prettiest girl

Brag about his conquests after every single whirl

 

He ridiculed the exchange kid, at school for just one year

We’d always hoped that foreign kid would knock him on his rear.

 

     And there-in lay the problem with which we’d not contend

We’d looked for someone else to stand, our honor to defend

 

The fact is really simple as has always been the case

To confront to a vile bully one must meet him face-to-face

 

But that simple tenet is oft tossed out due to angst and fear

Easier is always: “Step aside, make his path clear”

 

So because we all allowed it, junior tyrant had his way

No one displayed the courage to stand up to his sway.

 

     On graduation evening there were many in the crowd

And I and many classmates received accolades aloud

 

But when the bully crossed the stage, the cheering it did stop

It typified the adage about hearing a pin drop

 

He slunk off in the darkness, no one else to push around

Until I’m sure, he stumbled on the new group that he found.

 

 

Fifty years have come and gone as quickly as a flash

Our class did meet and reconvene, our history to rehash

 

The bully did not make our fest, but he didn’t give a fig

In the interceding years, it seems, he’d found a better gig.

 

     To the horror of his classmates, he’d became our President

Ensconced inside the White House where he wouldn’t pay the rent

 

His bully-ness did not subside, in fact it grew and grew

And though he was our President, he was still the creep we knew

 

He pushed right through our statecraft norms said he was much smarter

Than those who’d paved the road to peace with treaty and with charter

 

He took to subjugating folks with skin of different color

And deftly used the tools he had to divide each from one another

 

He gloried running roughshod over laws from sea to sea

And truthfulness and righteousness and basic decency

 

Surrounded by like-minded folks or those with none at all

He pushed our hallowed nation near a precipice to fall.

 

     But time does what time always does and soon his days were through

We looked at one another not quite knowing what to do.

 

         

A Presidential passage is not a thing to cheer

But somehow this was different, relief exhaled far and near

 

A few of us decided we should go attend the wake

We’d do it out of honor for our alma mater’s sake.

 

     The chapel was but empty as we peeked inside the door

Footsteps of fellow mourners didn’t scratch across the floor

 

The crypt to which they rolled his mass was deep and dark and cold

And soon he’d be forgotten like a story never told.

 

     ‘Twas sad indeed but sadder still is this dogged phrase complete

If  his legacy stays unshared, damned history will repeat.

 

 

Let’s not forget the tragic life that brought such pain and pall

And redouble fearless efforts to encourage good for all.

 

     Looking back, by backing down when he was just a kid

We underwrote the awful things he ultimately did

 

If one of us had glared him down then picked him up with song

Perhaps he’d have found the beauty in simply trying to belong.

 

     Our nation thrives on good will and our care for one another

In joining hands with those disdained – embracing like a brother

 

So hold with your friends those needing love, the sad misunderstood

For only in so doing will this land be truly good.

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

Chance Meeting with Arnold

 …people you wished you’d met on the road...

 

Lost to the dustbin of my memory is exactly why or when, other than Arnold Schwartzenegger was governor. Serving as the curriculum leader in a Sacramento area school district, and as an obligatory member of the Association of California School Administrators (ACSA), I found myself enrolled in a conference of educators focused on something-er-other and arranged for the ballroom of a hotel across from the state capitol. During a much needed afternoon break where perhaps 500 of us were milling about clutching store-bought cookies and sipping Coca Colas, the lights in the hall flashed on and off, on and off. The group quieted, someone took the mic and said, “Supes and Assistants, the governor wants a photo op with about eight of you.” 

         

I shrunk to the back of the venue, but my name tag label “Assistant Superintendent Curriculum and Instruction” betrayed me. Tapped on the shoulder, someone herded me and seven others into an adjacent room where we were instructed to line up. “The Governor wants to see you.”

         

A near-silent buzz coursed through the assembly of colleagues that I’d never met. Seventh in the line of eight, I straightened the tie I was wearing, a black something decorated with images of Crayola crayons. Very elementary school.

         

Mr. Schwartzenegger – a bit shorter than I’d imaged – entered with an aide, a broad smile and an outstretched hand. This should only take a few minutes, I thought. But it didn’t. To the superintendents this would be their less-than-fifteen minutes of fame. Each one grasped the governor’s hand and would not let go until they’d offered more-than-two-cents-worth on some issue or topic I was sure the governor either didn’t particularly care about or about which he’d already made up his mind. As he inched closer, I realized his smile was pasted on, the handshakes perfunctory and that this was simply one of the duties an elected person had to perform if they wanted to stay an elected person. It seemed artificial, fake. I decided not to play the lobbying game.

 

Months, maybe a year, prior, the governor had been riding his glitzy ‘Wide Glide’ motorcycle along the Pacific Coast Highway though Pacific Palisades sans the required helmet. 

The city cop pulled him over and issued the required citation. Rumor has it that Arnie thanked the officer for his service.

 

My turn came up and as Arnold Schwartzenegger grasped my hand, I looked him in the eye and quietly – so as not to embarrass him – said, “Jeez, governor. A Harley?”

         

His hand immediately pulled away and I felt a firm Austrian index finger pointedly poking my chest four or five times. “I bet you drives zee Bee Em Dawbue!” he said with a grin. An honest grin. 

 

I nodded as he clapped my shoulder. Making a different kind of eye contact, together we laughed and he said, “You be safe, now.”

 

With a wink he was gone to whomever was next and I was left with the impression that, in that moment, Arnold Schwartzenneger was anything but fake. 

I’ve always wished we could have done the Pacific Coast Highway together.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

A Visit to Hendy Woods

 Today’s Lesson?Visit those places you frequently pass by.

 

In countless times traveling State Route 128 to the Mendocino Coast, we’d passed signs for Hendy Woods State Park, but never pulled in. No more! Bordered on its north by the Navarro River, this gem serves as a respite from the normal cacophony of our so-called civilized lives. 

 

A mile past the entrance station ~ nine bucks for seniors ~ a trailhead invites visitors to pad into acres of pristine Coast Redwood forest millennia in the making. Level and soft, the path tunnels under towering samples of sequoia sempervirens that filter what sunlight makes it to the duff-covered forest floor. Dogwood and madrone dot those rare sunny spots. Sword ferns trace tiny whispering streams. 

 

Towering redwoods ironically have quite shallow roots. Many topple over leaving impressive natural sculptures for passers-by. The fallen giants are anything but dead as sprouts squeeze out of their bark, a century or so to become behemoths themselves.

 

There is nary a sound in this cool forest cathedral ~ on our visit, only a breath of air soughing above. The wide trail accommodated a chair-bound visitor (with pup on leash) who offered a soft and pleasant “Isn’t this simply lovely?” as we passed. Indeed it was ~ and is ~ well worth an hour or a day’s respite from the above-mentioned normal. It serves as a reminder to check out those places we so frequently drive right past, lest we miss something beautiful.

 

Getting there: West on 128 from C’dale through Boonville and Philo. About 2-3 miles past Philo, look for a state park sign alerting you to turn left on Greenwood Road (toward Elk). Hendy Woods is just over the bridge a half mile from the 128 junction. Pack a picnic and bring a camera.

WALKING TO MY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

the first of about 60

first days of school for me

 

 

 

My first day of public school would be my first day in first grade. Rosedale, my neighborhood elementary, was impacted for Kindergarten and Mom was told she’d have to cart me 20 minutes across town to Sierra View which she would not do because she knew with certainty, “All they do in Kindergarten is let kids play.”

     So with Roy Rogers lunch pails at our sides, Mom walked Beebo and me to the confluence of Stewart and Bidwell Avenues, there rubbing both of us on our Butch-waxed, slick-backed hair, telling us to walk up Stewart Avenue because it was straight and it didn’t go along the creek which she deemed dangerous even when reduced to a September trickle, and that she’d see us when we got home that afternoon. Adding, “Now don’t tarry along the way.”

 

As soon as she turned her back, Beebo and I winked at each other ~ me with both eyes ~ decided to ignore Mom’s instruction and ambled along Bidwell Avenue, passing the muddy trail down the Chico Creek embankment ~ the one with the stinging nettles we braved when, during the just-ended summer, we went down there to wade; rounding the big bend and the pool in the creek known as the Log Hole where the bigger boys often drank beer and swam naked and probably peed in the creek; sneaking through the sinister tunnel of black walnuts and oaks that arched over the road and the stream; tiptoeing past Jim, the crazy man’s house ~ Jim, a shell-shocked World War II vet sometimes was found in the middle of Bidwell Avenue on all fours, coughing and spitting up something; turning onto Highway 32 at Chico’s original La Hacienda Mexican restaurant ~ a place that emitted aromas making my mouth salivate and water involuntarily (maybe this explained something inexplicable about poor Jim to my six-year-old satisfaction); crossing Chico Creek on the highway’s bridge ~ tossing pebbles and bits of glass and road debris into the water; descending into the parking lot of the Triumph motorcycle dealer where we placed our noses against the shop window so we could peer into the darkened showroom ~ Mr. Brownell also carried lesser-known brands like Honda and Lambretta; passing Smitty’s Hudson, right next door ~ though Smitty went out of business along with that make years before, his Hudson sign still attached to the old, vacant building; heading west on to Oak Street; spying the alley where the bracero gleaners who picked up culls from our almond orchard lived in ramshackle hovels; and pausing, finally, in front of the Hoobler warehouse where Dad took our almonds to market ~ Hoobler, we were told, once ran sheep on what would become our five acres. 

     Beebo and I waited there until a big man in a suit and tie on the other side of the Oak Street told us we could cross safely. The big man turned out to be Mr. Self, the Rosedale School Principal who drove a light blue Lincoln Continental and who would later sell a Siamese kitten to Mom for ten dollars.

     Over in the parking lot, Mom sat behind the wheel of our ’54 Ford Ranchwagon waiting ~ making sure we’d made it to our first day of school okay.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

The Story of Peach

 History: unlearned

.

.

The wind was hot and fast and immediate. It kicked up right after the flash. In that instant, Peach knew what was up. At 74 he’d read a lot, seen a lot.

     Eighty years ago, the Enola Gay dropped its payload and commenced ticking of something sinisterly ~ or maybe sincerely ~ called the doomsday clock, something that measured the metaphorical seconds between now and some presumed midnight oblivion. Twenty years later, two constructs became real, even common. One was a series of missile bases dubbed ‘Nike’ dotting every fifty or so miles across the American landscape. The other was the backyard-built fallout shelter, plans of which were readily available at the library or newsstand. Both John Hershey, who authored a book, and Slim Pickens, who starred in the final scene of an early Kubrick comedy, perhaps inadvertently reinforced the advisability of digging such a vault.

 

    When the Nike base was nearly completed just north of town, Peach’s father broke ground on a fallout shelter positioned near the water well in his five acres of peaches. (Peach, the son, never forgave fully Papa, the papa, his little nomenclature joke.) The hole was deep and square and, initially smelled like Vina loam, rich and dark. Cinder block and mortar changed the odor to a minerally musk that would infuse the cavity for years. Entry to the shelter was gained through a circular, hinged lid like you might see on the deck of a submarine: crank wheel one way on the outside to open and the other way on the inside to seal shut the underground space. A neoprene rubber ring prevented the inward seepage of radon in the event of... 

     The unspeakable was often spoken.

 

Finished, the rust tinted metal stairs echoed with each foot fall. The space was stocked with a month or more’s worth of freeze-dried backpacking food ~ Papa being a hiker ~ and gallon glass jugs of water should the line jury-rigged into the well fail. The provisions bill from the Ski Hut in Berkeley, where Papa got his back country supplies, almost equaled a month’s wages. Mom had been appalled and said so many times, shaking her head and gasping exasperated gasps, as they drove north in the Ford Fairlane with their boys in the back.

     Peach and his late brother, Charlie set up their S-gauge American Flyer electric train on the concrete floor, using one of the two duplex outlets to connect the transformer. The single pull chain light cast comic shadows that grew from foot to shoulder. Peach and Charlie’s neighborhood pals, the ones who didn’t make fun of Peach’s name in front of him, liked to trace their oblique shadows on the concrete floor with chalk and then laugh at their masterwork. Once, Peach started down the stairs to surprise Charlie as he attempted to move beyond first base with Yvette ~ secretly known by classmates in high school as Yvette the Corvette ~ and was told to knock, Goddammit, before coming into the shelter. Never mind that there was no place to knock on that heavy circular hatch door. Later, when Charlie shipped out to Vietnam ~ Charlie said he’d be the good Charlie over there shortly before he left ~ Peach plugged in an IBM Selectric, set it on a rickety desk made of two sawhorses and scrap of plywood and typed his college term papers. 

     There would be no Yvette for any kid named Peach. 

     Dammit, Papa!

 

Peach was standing next to the orchard pump house maybe forty feet from the submarine hatch when that wind blasted into being. He glanced at the opening which was now always open: too much a pain in the ass ~ and maybe too heavy ~ to push down and crank shut after each visit even though each visit had become less and less frequent. Besides, the neoprene had rotted off long ago so the place and all of its contents was always coated in a powdery film of loess. Peach faced the furious gale that was coming from just north of town.

     Not so long ago, there would have been children to shepherd in. Little ones. Ones that toyed with Barbies and GI Joes; ones that played both house and Rat Patrol; ones that practiced violin and brass tuba because they liked the acoustics even though they didn’t know the word.  Ones that needed the strong arms of Peach and the caring heart of Carah to find their way from time to time. How quickly those moments passed. And now: how well they were doing!

    Peach and Carah had taken ownership ~ there was no one else in line ~ after the accident. Some moron driving on a frigid pea-soup morning without his damned headlights on crossed a center line. He couldn’t make out Peach’s folk’s station wagon tiptoeing carefully through the tule fog heading somewhere, nowhere. Peach was amazed at how many townsfolks knew Papa or Mom or both. 

     Kids and trains and tubas and term papers now gone, the cool of the underground made a good place for storing peaches before market. Peach’s peaches ~ perhaps that was the punchline Papa was shootin’ for all along ~ were renowned for their sweetness, delicate skin, and ample dimension. A robust pie would need but four of them. Wearing one of Mom’s old handmade aprons, Carah discovered she could reduce any recipe’s sugar allotment and did so before filling crusts ~ crusts she’d perfected. It wasn’t simply the fruit that gave rise to renown.

Inheriting the place was never in the plan. Once Peach earned his credential, he and Carah immediately lit out for a different horizon, one less agricultural, maybe a bit more foresty. Jobs for history teachers were a dime a dozen especially if the candidate could coach, so Peach claimed he could coach wrestling and maybe volleyball. Thus, he spent three or four years prowling the sideline of the mountain town’s football field as an assistant never quite figuring out the difference in the roles of a defensive guard and a defensive tackle. Then, one late-October evening, they received the call. Taking leave, Peach never returned. With a bit of a resume, some experience under his belt, he figured he could venture home and substitute until something came up locally. 

     The dime a dozen adage held. Teaching history at his old high school, now ‘Mr. Peach’ hired boys and girls to tend the orchard paying each a little in cash along with firewood and in-season fruit. When asked about the submarine hatch, he simply responded “Rumpus room.” High School curriculum mentioned little about Hiroshima and most years, Peach didn’t get that far in US history, which, he rationalized, was a good thing recalling the terrifying nights when, as an eleven-year-old, he had to crawl into bed with Papa and Mom after reading pages from John Hershey’s account of the world’s first wartime atomic blast. 

     Standing in the orchard with dust pellets and grit peppering his eyes, Peach wondered how many other US history teachers had made a similar miscalculation, leaving how many now in charge to pass off history unlearned as simply fiction.

     Facing the wind and under a dust-cloaked sun, Peach struck out north toward the long abandoned Nike missile base and wondered who among the townsfolk would attend his memorial, knowing the answer would likely be none.

     It being midnight and all.

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press