The Big Red Box

Twenty-five years ago in June, my father gave me what still ranks as one of the best presents ever.

When I graduated from high school and set out for Florida in an old Camero, dad thought it would be in his son's best interest to be properly prepared.

Unlike many things in my life, the tool box has remained a constant. It kept my car, my friends cars, and numerous bicycles alive. It built flat packed furniture and fixed leaky sinks. It crossed the country twice.

The set is still has most of its original parts. I've had to replace the 1/2 inch wrench several times. Why is it always the 1/2 inch? I have two now—just in case. And since the BMW is metric, I've made the preemptive purchase of a second 10mm.

I'd like to think that with age comes experience, but we all know that's not the case. It's only a mater of time before the 8mm walks off to find that 1/2 inch wrench I lost in 1997.

The contents of the box has grown over the years: a torque wrench, extra pliers, vice grips (you can never have too many vice grips), picks and probes, and one of those little magnets on a telescoping rod—very useful.

When my grandfather passed, I took in his orphans.

Over the years the tools have given me confidence and taught me patience. They made it easy to meet the neighbors in a new building.

Guys know what the red box means. Thank's dad.

The Great Race

What else would do you do on a cold day in March?



It's the week before Easter and the start of the paddling season kicks off with the Red Mo river race at Grassflat. It's a seven and a half mile run through class II rapids. Rocky and swift it a good time and a great run for beginners. The water however, is very cold.

The river and the event have changed over the years. Hurricane Agnes rearranged the boulders in 1972. And according to some, took some of the fun of certain bends. The race itself has evolved from a collection of crazy's in anything that would float (Did I actually see someone launching a bass boat with lawn chairs one year?) into a well organized opening to the competitive paddling season complete with divisions classed according to boats and ability.

My father and I first ran the Red Mo when I was 11. Mom had no idea what we were up to (one the advantages of having parents living 120 miles apart). We had a home-made canoe. Dad had put it together the year before in the greenhouse next to my grandfather's home. It was fiberglass and wood, and very heavy. I learned several things that year: how to build a canoe, how to paddle, and how not to chew tobacco.

The Red Mo was my first stretch of white water, and a test of sorts of my ability to understand risk. When I am out on the bike and heading north, I like to stop and pay my respects.

Fooling Trout

On foot, and off the black top.

The bike is still down. It is something that will press the limits of my patience. So I've bailed on the idea of getting any riding done in the immediate future and have taken to the back country—on foot.

Somewhere off the Ridge Road, a mile or so deep in hemlock, is a little trail my father showed me. It follows a small run that drops into the west branch of the Susquehanna. It smells of age and cool earth. The stream is clear and cold. The native trout are dark and wear a red stripe.

They live alone—one per pool.

I hiked here often as a child and come back when I need to escape. This is where my father taught me how to fish the small pools. To sneak up low and not cast a shadow. To set the hook on the first hit because there are no second chances.

We used worms or crickets—the natives were hard to fool. But now, as an adult, I fish the nymph. Somewhere along the line, it became less abut catching a fish and more about fooling the trout.

Hands-on

I had forgotten how much fun you can have with a wrench.

My father is a practical gift giver. As a kid I had received countless pocketknives for Christmases and birthdays. Fishing rods, sleeping bags, and all things outdoors would appear wrapped in the Sunday comics. At 13 I became the proud owner of a Ruger 10/22, skipping the BB gun and proceeding directly to rapid-fire plinking.

But the best present, the one that has traveled with me to every dorm room, attic apartment, and summer rental, was the Craftsman 250 piece mechanics tool set dad gave to me for my high school graduation.

As a kid, the mysteries of the internal combustion engine escaped me—as did my father's sense of irony.

During the years of working for my dad’s tree service, I had managed to avoid the wrench. When pressed I could change the plugs and distributor cap in the old Ford, or swap out a starter or the occasional water pump. On rainy days I learned how to tune chain saws and change the blades on the M&M. But generally, I avoided vehicle maintenance—too many parts, not enough patience. For most of their life, the tools had gotten away with the assembling of flat-pack furniture and light bicycle maintenance.

But people change. Our lives get busier, and we look for things that force us to slow down.

I bought an old bike because I wanted to do my own maintenance—to get dirty, to tinker. The airhead, with its heads and carburetors exposed, seems to be the perfect match.

Don’t Pick Up the Phone

Living within twenty miles of your father means you can never sleep late again.

October has arrived and with it the last of the warm days. The days that remind me why I bought the bike in the first place. I should be riding. Instead I’m on the mountain cutting wood with dad. He likes to start early.

Doing Things Other Than Riding

My father lives in a cabin about a mile down a township off of route 144. I met up with him at the Sunset West (a little diner on the edge of Pleasant Gap) for a Saturday breakfast with a few of the guys that come up from Philly to hunt deer on his property. They drive up every year at this time to help cut wood for the winter, get the last of the hay into the barn, and shut down the nursery. In return, he lets them hunt for a few days in late November.


Fall with dad has a way of making me feel as though I never left Central Pa. It could be the smell of the greenhouses or the saw dust and exhaust from a two stroke engine. Maybe it's the cheap lager that he keeps in the bunk room refrigerator, I don't know, but it adds to the magic of autumn.

This is my favorite time of year and I'm ashamed to say that I haven't ventured out on the bike in nearly three weeks. Days like last Saturday were perfect, and we had a string of them here in October. I've missed riding, but is sure has been nice to catch up with my father after a long summer.