Palisade Pedicab hoping to expand across Valley

For two years one man has been taking his business to the streets of Palisade. Now Shawn Robinson is expanding into the streets of Grand Junction.

Peach and wine festival visitors often stop and stare at the tall, sandy-haired driver peddling by in a lime green, three-wheeled bicycle with a two people seated behind him on a bench seat.

 “Palisade Pedicab” printed on the side of the bicycle cab proclaims Robinson’s pedal-powered taxi service designed to give passengers a safe, relaxing and eco-friendly ride anywhere they want to go.

Nine months out of the year, locals are familiar with the sight as Robinson is busy working downtown festivals, parades, Farmers’ Market Sundays, and touring through the wineries through the spring, summer and fall.

He only has one pedicab, but he and his wife Linda plan to grow outside the Palisade events. Shawn Robinson feels his cab can be enjoyed at many Grand Junction events.

“Last year I took my ped to JuCo for three nights. The first night was successful. The next two nights were not for various reasons, but I intend to be there again this month,” he said.

            When the Grand Junction Rockies start their season in June, Hamilton will be there with his pedicab services, taking riders leisurely and safely to and from their homes, cars or just peddling around downtown GJ.

            So, how and why did this couple start a second business?  

Robinson’s first job is in construction, but in 2010 when work slowed down, he and his wife needed to boost their income.

“I read about pedicabs in a cycling magazine. We had seen vehicles like this in Denver taking people to and from Bronco, Rockie games and other events, as well as Peds used all along 16^th Street Mall area,” he said.

 “Living here in Palisade surrounded by the orchards and wineries, we just felt it was another way for visitors to enjoy the beauty at a gentle pace. So we talked to Wine Country Inn about offering our services to their customers, just touring the wineries. Then I began driving passengers to and from the Palisade Peach Festival and the Farmers’ Market each Sunday during the summer.

“I have driven Santa through the Parade of Lights and then taken him back home,” he smiled as he talked about the fun aspects of his job.

The Palisade Pedicab man peddled its first wedding last year, delivering the bride in a beautiful outdoor wedding.

 “Who knows, maybe if this business keeps growing, we may have to buy another ped for the Valley,” Shawn considers.

He still feels, “It is a unique way to make a living, that’s for sure.”

Palisade Pedicab rates, pictures and more information is on Facebook, his webpage www.palisadepedicab.com, or contact him whenever he is peddling around Palisade. Shawn Hamilton loves to talk about his taxi business.

A favorite quote for the day.

Although I have no sister,
 I still like the sentiment.

Remembering the Stories

The 100^th Anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic has passed.

I have been so caught up in the stories: the one I wrote for the Beacon, the new TV movie, TV documentaries, the old movies from 1921 to 1998, the numerous books, to the on-line websites and video tributes.

Fifteen hundred souls went down with the ship. Seven hundred plus survived. 

Each had a story to tell.  

Fewer than 100 had their stories told, personally or by someone else, but the number of untold stories amazes and saddens me.

All are gone now. Their stories are dying with the passing of family members who knew and didn’t tell. We fabricate what they might have thought or done or experienced, but now we will never really know the truth.

I feel honored to have been written one person’s story, Charles Eugene Williams. There is no personal link to me or my family, but I feel a kindredship with him after learning about his survival from the sinking ship.

Yet, the basic facts of his personal life and career were few. Williams remains a Titanic victim with a mystery about how he continued on after this major event in 1912.

Charles Eugene Williams, World Champion Squash Racquets player from Harrow, England and Chicago, Illinois, traveled on, just as we all do even after we lose so much.

There are memorials around the world, but none lists the names of the passengers, who died or who survived. Even if they built one today, who would know all the stories of the 3rd class, crew, or upper class persons.

In Washington, D.C. the Vietnam Memorial Wall displays 60,000 names of those killed or missing. Millions more soldiers fought or participated in that conflict. Each one has a story. Like the Titanic tragedy, major battles and major names will generate stories in the movies and documentaries, but who will tell the stories of the loved ones' personal lives?

Don't wait for the 100th anniversary of any tragedy, remember each person and his/her life story and struggles through it. Write now.

Keeping the Receipts

          When old teacher friends call, we greet each other jokingly, “Hey, do you still have your receipts?”

            “Of course I do. Do you?”

            “You know it. I’m goin’ to keep them ‘til I die.”

            It’s a private joke, but Rhonda, Jeri and I still have the receipts from an unforgettable trip in 1986. Even 25 years later, we still expect the Tribal Office will call, asking for that debt to be repaid. We are ready. We keep our receipts.

            That summer the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma sent us, three Tribal boarding school teachers, to San Francisco to do training with the National Reading Teacher of the Year. Not to a conference with hundreds of other teachers, we went to his high school classes, sat in front row desks and learned the techniques personally.

 Our principal handed us plane tickets, a detailed agenda, and one American Express card to pay for everything: meals, rooms, and transportation.

            “Of course, you must turn in all receipts with the card when you return,” he advised us. “You are not allowed to use it for personal purchases.”

            Checking into our rooms in Healdsburg, California, we learned “American Express” is not welcome 82 miles north of San Francisco. Between us we had $1500 cash for souvenirs; now it paid all expenses: motel, meals, and transportation.

Back in San Francisco waiting for our plane home, I spoke up, “Okay, I can’t go home without souvenirs for my kids. So,” dramatically I pulled out the blue-silver card, and said, “If we keep our receipts and don’t spend over the allotted amount the Tribe owes us for our cash, we won’t have to pay them any thing.” I smiled at my reasoning. They agreed.

            We dashed from vendor to vendor, buying sweatshirts, tee shirts, and postcards, keeping the receipts.

            Of course, all heck broke loose weeks later. We had to report to the Tribal Complex. A financial officer yelled at us for illegal use of Tribal money. The only comment the Assistant Chief  made was, “The Chief will talk to you about this.” 

Subdued but stubborn, we knew Chief Wilma Mankiller had the power to fire us or make us pay, with our jobs or the money. We stuck to our reasoning and receipts.

“After we spent our cash for the trip expenses, we had to use the card for souvenirs. But we kept track of everything. We spent $1500—our cash amount. You don’t have to reimburse us any money,” I said.

Expressionless, Chief Mankiller asked, “So we don’t owe you any money? It came out exactly?”

            “Well, it might be off two or three dollars, but we will call it even.” Jeri responded.

            Her loud laugh surprised us. “Okay, let’s call it even. I’ll tell the finance office. But, don’t ever use our card like that again.”           

As we left, I whispered, “The Cherokee Nation will never trust us with their American Express credit card, will they?”

            Rhonda laughed before saying, “They won’t trust us, period.”

            Really, it was not our fault, but we hold on to our receipts, just in case.  (508)

Waiting for the punch line?

I’m terrible at remembering the punch lines of jokes, or even the whole joke, so it came as no surprise with my oldest son inherited the same trait. But we both love jokes, so we continue trying to tell the funniest jokes that come out not funny at all.

##        

   

Each summer we would drive 20 hours across country to Grandma’s house. In the days before DVD players, cell phones or hand-held games, we listened to the radio, slept, talked, sang or finally told jokes.

            “I have one! I have one,” seven-year-old L.J. called out from the middle row seat. The baby watched from his wooden porta-crib. His 12-year-old sister just rolled her eyes.

            “A man wanted to learn how to jump out of a plane,” he began.

            “You mean with a parachute?” she interrupted.

            “Yeah, Don’t ‘rupt me,” he frowned but continued. “So he went to the sky jumper school. . .”

            “Sky diver, school.” She persisted.

             “. . . after you jump wait 15 minutes before you pull the string.”

            “Fifteen minutes! Don’t you mean seconds? “

            “Leave me alone, Sister. I’m telling the joke.

            “So the man got in the plane. When it was up in the sky, he jumped out. He started saying, ‘plenty of time,’ plenty of time,’ plenty of time,’ plenty of time.’”  L.J. continued over and over. After more than a few minutes his repetition became sing-song maddness, going on and on and on.

 “L.J.! Stop!

“Plenty of time, plenty of time, plenty of time. . .”

“Don’t make me stop this van!” Dad pronounced over the continuing litany. Nothing stopped him, so his dad pulled the van over.

“. . . plenty of time, plenty of. . . SPLAT!” L.J. finished with a slap of his hands.  His grinning face faded to our quiet reaction to his joke.

“Spat, spat, spat,” rang out from the back of the van. Stunned silence became laughter as Baby Justin patted his hands and sang, “Splat, spat. . . ” 

We never forgot L.J.’s punch line.