End Of An Era

Something odd is going on with me.  Lately, I’ve found that I’m becoming much more charitable.  Oh, not in my view of the world or in my view of particular people (I’m still a bit pretty ungenerous in that way), but literally.  I’ve noticed that I find myself giving a lot more to charities than I normally do.  I appear to have entered a phase that I’ve never come across in any of those overly earnest books on the “passages” in one’s life. Seemingly, I’m now waist deep in a philanthropic stage. (I’m really hoping that’s not the stage just before a very serious illness.)

For example, a few weeks back I decided it was time to give up my motor scooter.  I haven’t been using it much and ever since my accident I’ve lost any sense of abandon while riding that I might have enjoyed prior to that mishap.  So after an affair that had lasted seven or so years, I prepared myself to say goodbye to (for purposes of finishing this sentence I am sooo regretting that I never gave him/her/it a name) the vehicle.  (See why?)  I had heard an ad on the public radio station that I listen to and try to support –WFUV– suggesting that listeners consider donating their motor vehicle to the station; and buoyed by my newly discovered generosity, I decided that’s what I would do. Just give what’s her/his name away.  Just like that!  Wouldn’t ask for a tote bag, a sweatshirt or even a tee-shirt. Not a thing.

In happier times

In happier times

So I got in touch with the station and started the process.  For some reason–call it naiveté or moronicness– I had hopes that one of the DJs at the station, maybe Dennis Elsas or Vin Scelsa, would wind up becoming the proud owner of this 2004 Yamaha.  Visions of  one or the other of them motoring to work in the Bronx on lovely spring mornings filled my head. But apparently, it doesn’t work that way.  What happened was that the station subcontracted with some outfit that sold the damn bike with a portion of the sale going to the station.  Jeez, if I had wanted to give them money, I could have sold it myself and given them the proceeds. This was just so . . . so . . . so crass and unglamorous.  And sadly, poor what’s his/her name probably came to some inglorious end.

Surprisingly, this de-scootering has left me a bit bereft.  Almost as it’s filled with symbolism of another kind of loss. Who knows . . maybe it’s my entry into yet another stage of my life.  Boy, I just hope it’s not the one just before I . . . well, you know the rest.


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