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Late in my college career (checkered) my then girlfriend (now orchestral flutist and music prof), Susan Royal, convinced me and several others of our gang to go skydiving. She’d seen a flyer for a place in Seneca Falls, maybe an hour north along Lake Cayuga, upstate New York. She woke me early on a Saturday morning, and since the other guys were going, I had to go. Vastly hungover, I slept in the car, woke to discover I was in a tiny airplane, a snide and mocking instructor reminding us what to do and what to think as we leapt from the strut of the plane: jump, one thousand, arch, one thousand, reach, one thousand, pull, one thousand. Susan was calmest in our group; a big jock from Cornell was most panicked. So the big jock went first. I’ll never forget his face as he let go of the strut, the instructor having pried his strong fingers loose, cursing. I mean, abject, screaming, wide-eyed, hair-in-the-air, no-atheists-in-a-foxhole, complete and utter terror.
I was next, and managed to let go of the strut on my own, completely forgot all the stuff about arching and counting and pulling the ripcord, just did a cannonball, no memory recorded until the chute opened heavenly. It wouldn’t have — I’d done nothing right — except there was a static line attached to my ripcord at one end, to the plane at the other. After me was my friend Jeff, who was perfect, cool customer. After Jeff was Susan, ditto. Then the rural-tragic instructor, who had an eye for my girl.
The jock landed in a swamp a half-mile away from the target. I landed near the hangars, which was only a few city blocks walk back to the lesson area, parachute bundled in front of my vibrantly living self. Jeff landed in the parking lot, on top of his own car, a big old Volvo wagon, not bad. Susan landed square on the target, a big X, and then the instructor landed on top of her. I could hear her slapping his face under there as I ran to the rescue — she didn’t need my help.
The place was closed down a few weeks later after a death blamed on unsafe practices — they were packing chutes drunk, among other violations. I believe some jail time was involved for the owners of the place.
Anyway, afterwards, exhilarated, Susan and Jeff and the Cornell jock and I stopped at the Rongovian Embassy, a very eccentric new bar and restaurant in Trumansburg, more than halfway back to Ithaca. To life! To being alive! To be! The Rongo was one of the only businesses in the little town, which had come to ruin like most of rural America at that time (and of course continuing), just a string of empty storefronts. But the Rongo served as a static line, pulled the ripcord, saved the town from hitting bottom, brought new life. These thirty-five years later Trumansburg’s vibrant again. We college kids, back there in 1974? We vowed we’d go parachuting every weekend for the rest of our lives, but after a few days the high wore off and the fear returned and that was the end of that.
The road to town from my house here on the other side of Maine follows Temple Stream, then, after three miles or so, takes you through West Farmington, which is not exactly a suburb, just part of Farmington, little more than a neighborhood with its own Zip-code, more or less walking distance from the college and downtown Farmington, half a mile or so, tops. But once it was a stop on the narrow-gauge railroad, and a crossroads in its own right, still has a four-way stop at its heart and center. Stores there come and go there with alarming regularity.
West Farmington needs a nickname. How about WestFar? It’s Brooklyn to our Manhattan, or maybe Queens to our Brooklyn — lower rents, student housing, hip (and excellent) video store, couple places to tan and get a haircut, brand new dance supply store (in the old logging supply store), post office, underused grange hall, Army recruiting station, tack shop, and of course Joel Bridges and the controversial-but-beloved, billboard-size, first-amendment-protected letter sign on the front of his house (until recently proclaiming that God would make Farmington his new Jerusalem! No word on what He’d do with WestFar). Before this last spring, the only eats in WestFar were at Maxwell’s store, now Madore’s (and much improved — though people will probably call it Maxwell’s for many decades to come). Pizza, sandwiches, that kind of thing, to go with your gas and six-pack.
Posted on Wednesday, August 27, 2008 in Permalink
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Reader Comments:
Big Mouth Burrito sounds divine! Every small town should have a Chuck, "a kind of hippie with the hair buzzed off," a person commited to making food with love, to taking that leap out of a small plane into the great blue unknown! Good luck to you, Chuck. And as always, I look forward to Roorbach's next blog--his meandering, vibrant lists are their own Temple Stream of words: rushing past the eye, refreshing the body and soul with a similar kind of love.
Have eaten at Big Mouth Burritos a few times and agree with everything Roorbach has written. Chuck and Big Mouth Burrito will make it because of all that love that goes into the food served there and the support of his friends ,family and loyal customers.
Bill Roorbach 10/21/08
Hey MissKris, Thanks for the kind words. And it's true about the love. Chuck's still talking to me, and he's looking less rattled these days. I tried the falafelrito the other day and then several times more--spectacularly good. He's got this tziki sauce (I think it's spelled) that's out of this world. Made from yogurt in the Greek style. Very scary starting a business at this time. But if anyone can make it happen in Westfar, it's Chuck.
Howdy from the great blue sky!
Still waiting for the chute to open but enjoying the view while I'm hurtling dirtwards!Bill's article pretty much nailed my situation and in a most entertaining way and" sweetly opinionated" is one of the nicest things anyone has called me lately!I always love to read Bills writing and this piece is no exception it is hands down the best ever resturaunt review and regardless Big Mouth Burritos surviving or not he reminded me that it is the love that counts in the food and in life and I'm a lucky guy to have both.Thanks Bill and see you soon!