NANCY TRIGGIANI

It was quiet. The evening, in its fourth hour of darkness, was enveloped in a sense of serenity. Teetering on the threshold of frost, the chilly air was warmed by small fires in the center of the teepees. Puffs of smoke billowed from the hole at the apex, vanishing into the night. The small, illuminated conical structures paled in comparison to the radiating full October moon. Its brilliance and magnitude gave it a regal aura as it floated amongst the dancing stars and twirling planets. This moon commanded reverence from all those fortunate enough to be in its presence. The night’s silence was broken by the occasional howling of a small pack of wolves, as though their song of praise.

Today marked the end of a full week of festivities celebrating the return of the earth’s nightly companion. The celebration, held every October, was especially significant this year for it marked the 200^th anniversary of the moon’s return. The week’s jubilant events, consisting of ceremonies, feasts, dancing, and athletic contests, tired the village’s people, who now lay slumbering beneath the big, round, glowing guest of honor.

Only one stirred. Running Wolf had been to fourteen Return of the Moon celebrations, although she had no recollection of the first few. With energy still soaring through body and mind, she tossed restlessly. Unanswered questions about the disturbing details of the festival’s origins circulated relentlessly in her mind. Overtaken by the taunting queries, Running Wolf slipped into her moccasins, wrapped herself snugly in a red woolen blanket, and pushed through the front flaps of the teepee, entering the cold night. Her lean figure, running effortlessly, was silhouetted by the brilliant moonbeam. With each exhale, she puffed out small clouds that lingered before her.

Soon, she reached the northern-most teepee in the village, a place of honor reserved for the oldest, wisest tribal elder. Sing Owl lay tucked inside with vivid, often prognostic dreams floating through her slumbering mind, while emitting a few intermittent, staccato snores. A very long life and an inquisitive nature gave her the insight and wisdom she now has.

Running Wolf knelt beside the protective flap of hide that served as the teepee’s door. Mimicking the howl of a wolf to announce her presence, she awakened  the elder. Singing Owl sat straight up, immediately recognizing the call of her young friend. Her single long braid, mostly gray with sparse evidence of her once black hair, draped over her right shoulder.  Her wiry, thin body and sparkling eyes gave Singing Owl the appearance of being much younger than her advanced 132 years. Although her mind was still as active and curious as in her youth, her body exhibited signs of aging. Nonetheless, Singing Owl greeted each new day with a prayer, followed by a slow run through the surrounding forest to take a dip in the nearby stream. A ritual since childhood, Singing Owl occasionally shares the routine with Running Wolf. 

“What are you doing up this late?” Singing Owl asked her friend, glancing at the sky to check the time. “Ah. Something is bothering you.” Singing Owl nodded before Running Wolf uttered a word.

“It’s the Return of the Moon Festival,” blurted Running Wolf. “I want to know what it really means. I understand it’s to honor our magnificent moon’s reappearance, but why,” she pleaded, “why did it disappear for so long?” Read more

My new bike search began with my fingertips furiously typing the names of different bike manufacturers in a Google search: Specialized, Giant, Kona, Trek, and more. I studied geometries, suspension, and components, and watched different bikes zipping along trails in YouTube videos.

After a couple more weeks of pedaling my old Giant NRS 1 around Rockland Lake, I was getting eager to hit the trails on a new bike. What happened next, which lead me to the bike of my dreams, is revealed in the letter I wrote to the district manager of Trek. It was quite a series of events, and nothing says it better than what I wrote to Trek!

“December 5, 2022

Dear John Burke,

Compelled by the stellar customer service I received while purchasing a new bike from Trek  Bicycle – Closter in Bergen County, New Jersey, I felt a strong need to convey my experience to you. I write this not only as a life-long mountain biker and consumer, but also as a business owner. My husband and I own Westwood Music Studios, a private music school located only five miles from the Trek store, so we share the same customer base, and I fully understand the dynamics of doing business in the area.

It is important to first give you a brief synopsis of my cycling background, as it has great significance to Trek, the bike industry, and my recent experience. My first mountain bike, purchased in 1989, was a Trek 7000, fully rigid bike. At the time, I thought it was the greatest thing ever created, and that together, my bike and I were invincible – able to ride over anything and anywhere, and so we did! We did …. until my beloved Trek 7000 was stolen from my home. Fortunately, the police found the bike unscathed, arrested the thief, and returned it to me. Yes, my Trek came back to me, so I named it, Boomerang! After years of grinding and pounding through the rough, rocky terrain of northern New Jersey, Boomerang was grinding to a halt. When discussing marriage with my future husband, who I had introduced to mountain biking, he asked if I wanted a diamond engagement ring, to which I replied, “No, I’d prefer a new mountain bike.” Read more

My life on two wheels began with three, a tricycle that I rode in circles and zig zagged through my small urban yard. With the passing months, which were like years to a toddler, I ventured longer distances, pedaling up and down the long, narrow alleyway between my house and the neighbor’s. The cement corridor was barely wide enough for the tiny trike’s three-point turn. Up and down and more tours of the backyard, I was getting adventurous but wanted more. At the end of the alleyway, one large step leading down to the sidewalk marked the absolute boundary, the line I dare not cross. Pedaling back to the yard, I was boxed in by wire fences separating the properties. The neighbor’s yard on the alley side, a double lot property with a grassy yard and a boy a couple of years older than me, was especially appealing. If only I could break through that fence!

Before long, my knees were coming up to my chin when pedaling the tiny three-wheeler. It was time for a big girl’s bike, a bike with only two wheels, well, two plus another two miniature wheels mounted to the rear axle – training wheels. For my inaugural ride, my father wheeled the pink and white Schwinn Pixie down the alleyway, crossing the forbidden threshold, the big step down to the sidewalk. I was free – sort of. Instructing me in the physics of motion in four-year-old terms, my father trotted behind me as I pedaled up and down the sidewalk, sometimes leaning to the left, and other times tipping to the right, giving each training wheel its chance to prop me back up. The faster I went, the more I stayed up on two wheels. Soon I was zipping along with my handlebar streamers fluttering in the breeze.

My big rite of passage came a short while later when, with screwdriver in hand, my father removed the training wheels. I was on my own, free to ride up and down the sidewalk …. but no further. Rounding a corner on our block, where I’d be out of sight of my mother’s watchful eyes, was forbidden. After all, these were the city streets of Paterson, New Jersey, not country lanes. On occasion, my father would take me to the schoolyard on the next block where I could ride in the enormous concrete yard surrounding the red brick building, a building I would not enter for another year when I would start kindergarten. The schoolyard, enclosed with a green wrought iron fence topped with spikes that seemed to pierce the clouds, kept me safe – safe and confined within its perimeter. Read more

Zucchini flowers! Standing in the train station in Naples, Italy, with a large suitcase at his side, a friend recorded an audio message to me, while waiting for the train home to Vienna, Austria. He explained the contents of the suitcase represented the things he most loved about the land of his ancestors: sausage, zucchini flowers, buffalo mozzarella, and boutique shop items, all evoking a sense of nostalgia. Upon hearing zucchini flowers, excitement and nostalgic feelings raced through me. I barely listened when he recited the names of the other items; all I could think about were the zucchini flowers.

Growing up in the industrial city of Paterson, New Jersey, known for its silk mills, I was surrounded by densely stacked houses and concrete, not exactly a place you’d expect to find zucchini flowers growing. The houses on my block were mostly the same, two-family homes with tiny backyards, separated by narrow alleyways. However, there was something different about the house directly across the street where my childhood friend, Fran lived. Lifting the latch of the green wrought iron gate, I often hiked up the eight steep cement steps to her front yard, and then up another set of six, leading to the front porch, where I rang the bell, eagerly awaiting my young friend to answer. The resonating ring was typically followed by the call of a middle-aged woman with a thick Italian accent. “Franz-a! Nenzi is here”! Such is how Rosina pronounced our names, Fran and Nancy.

Fran ran to greet me in a dress with the big bow in her hair bopping to the rhythm of her feet, clad in little leather shoes and lace socks. There I stood in shorts, a T-shirt, sneakers, and most likely, a scab on my knee, frequently sustained when running around and rough housing with the boys. We were as different as night and day but, when not playing football with the boys or riding bikes, I liked spending time with Fran, playing with dolls, although mine were Teddy Bears and stuffed dogs. Read more

“Yes! That’s for me”! I didn’t have to think twice when the salesman at the bike shop showed me a mountain bike for the first time. Standing before the knobby-tired dream-come-true, images of me as a young girl, trying to pedal my tiny-tired Schwinn through the dirt in my back yard leaped to the forefront of my mind. Clear as a bell, I recalled my childhood wish that a bike would be invented to ride over rocks and through mud, as my little Schwinn succumbed to the terrain. “I’ll take it”! I announced. Adding a helmet and bike rack to the bill, I happily forked over my hard-earned cash, as a bike shop employee attached the rack to the back of my car. Next, my new prized possession, a Trek 7000, fully rigid mountain bike was mounted to the rack and I was off to a new life.

The year was 1989 and I was a young adult albeit still the same mud-loving, rough and tumble Tom Boy as when I desperately tried pedaling my Schwinn around the yard. I had no idea what mountain biking was truly all about, except that it meant I could finally ride a bike over virtually anything nature threw my way. After convincing a friend to plunk down his cash on a mountain bike, he and I ventured into the woods of the hilly, rocky topography of northern New Jersey. With my long ponytail dangling out the back of my helmet, I raced up my first trail. 

A competitive judo player since the age of twelve, I was in top shape, ready to combat any mountain and all of its rocks and roots. Zipping along the trails, our rides always began with a steep climb that seemed to go on indefinitely until we were rewarded with scenic views, snappy single tracks, and white-knuckled descents. The sound of rocks, spun free by the knobby tires and sent pinging against the bike frame, was music to my ears.

Propelled by the confidence that my Trek could roll over and eat up anything thrown in front of it, we were unstoppable – invincible! With my feet secured to the pedals in toe clips, I took on anything, including a few things that weren’t exactly meant for a 1989 vintage, rigid mountain bike that sent me sailing OTB – over the bars – or smack down in the dirt more than a few times. One such time was when pedaling through a winding trail that opened into a wide, flat region of the forest. Off to the right was a steep cliff, rising sharply up about twenty feet. It was pure dirt and resembled half of a half pipe looming above the flatlands. Getting a running start, I pedaled furiously, convinced I could make it to the top ledge. Several failed attempts didn’t deter me but on my final try, I nearly made it up and over when my bike slide out from under me, and with one hand on the top tube and the other digging into the dirt, we slid, face down, to the bottom. The result was a bruised ego and a totally torn to shreds biking glove. Read more

When the coronavirus pandemic first began weaving its way through American society, it sent people scurrying to the supermarkets, filling their carts with everything they needed and didn’t need in preparation for a life of quarantine, locked down and hunkered down for an undetermined period of time. At the checkout counter, behind roll after roll after roll of toilet paper swiftly gliding down the conveyor, sat bags of flour. It wasn’t long before the only flour left on store shelves was the white powdery residue that had spilled out, marking where they once stood. People sought comfort in returning to the basics of baking. Soon kitchens across the country were wafting of fresh baked breads, cookies, and pies, harkening back to simpler times.

It was the work of a microscopic organism that forced people from the bustling streets and over-scheduled schedules to shelter in place, to slow down, spend time with family, relax, stay in touch with friends on Facebook, WhatsApp, and Instagram, google recipes, and to breathe, breathe in the aromas emanating from their ovens. A wave of soothing calmness soon washed throughout the land.

Recipes calling for nature’s own ingredients: apples, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, vanilla, honey, lemon, butter, and of course, flour, burst with flavor, tantalizing pallets, filling stomachs, and satisfying souls. Minus the additives and fillers, excessive sugar, and hair-raising doses of sodium, the all-natural, home baked recipes not only tasted good but didn’t threaten one’s health. Relying on old trusted recipes and sometimes altering them with a little of this and a little of that from pantry shelves, gave birth to new variations and new flavors. Perhaps there’s a deeper underlying lesson in this. Maybe we can learn something from that simple apple pie recipe and experimenting with it. Read more