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Am I the only one
who believes—or notices—that as one's years increase, happier
moments sometimes seem to decrease? And incidents that could
make happy long-term memories become even more rare? Someone
one said "Growing old isn't for sissies." Well, no, it isn't.
But last year, 2002, one of those biggie birthday years for
me, turned into one of my personal all-time favorites.
Although it didn't exactly start out that way, it gathered
momentum during the year, and ended with me in the position of
impatience as to what was going to happen next!
Those events led inexorably to my debut on this page. What
fun! Among other notable happenings in my year, I was given
the position of Staff Writer for the Cleveland Fusion, as well
as writing for a community newspaper called The Learning Post
which greatly honed my reviewing skills. My reviews have since
been given increased exposure on ArtsCleveland.com, and
finally, I began a part-time, permanent job at the 121 Fitness
Center in Cleveland's University Circle, where I live. You'll
be reading more about all of these things in the coming
months.
As a brief introduction, although I was born and raised in
Michigan, where my two adult children—daughter Kristi and son
Karl—still live, I've been a Clevelander for the last 40
years. By choice. I honestly cannot imagine anywhere in the
world with a better assortment of things to do and see and
wonderful surroundings. Other places may be nice to visit, but
I'll stay here, thank you very much.
Last summer, however, while on a visit to my daughter and her
husband, I discovered that although it really is fun to do new
things and create new memories, it may be even more fun to
erase older possibly unhappy memories by doing the same things
under happier circumstances.
With my former husband, I drove both racecars and 18-wheelers.
Trying out a motorcycle convinced me that I need at least
three wheels on the ground at all times. And, although the
last time I'd driven an 18-wheeler was not an unhappy one, I'd
not had the opportunity to try again for probably 26 or 27
years. Kristi and Brad had such a behemoth last year, and I
was startled to discover that it was way bigger than the ones
I used to drive! Kristi has been nudging me toward driving it
since the first day they had the darned thing, but since I'd
surrendered my chauffeur's license several years ago, I really
wasn't anxious to get myself into any more trouble than I'm
usually capable of doing, either, so I resisted that very
strong urge.
That day, however, the truck was in their driveway, facing out
to the street, and it needed to be pulled forward about 15
feet so Brad could park the bike behind it while we went to
lunch. Kristi handed me the key and said, "Here, Mom, go move
the truck, okay?" Well, gee, what's a Mom to do in a case like
that? Mom took the key out to the truck, unlocked the door,
climbed up into the cab—unassisted—put the key in the
ignition, and began to study the flight deck. Well, that's
what it looked like! Gee whiz. The trucks we owned had mostly
four or five gauges, plus of course, speedometer and
tachometer: oil temperature, oil pressure, air pressure, water
temperature and available fuel. This thing—a 2000 Western
Star—appeared to have at least as many gauges as a Boeing 747!
I finally located the air pressure gauge, then the air brake
release lever, so felt reasonably certain I could manage my
assignment. I turned the key in the ignition, and the blessed
beast fired right up, leaving me entirely tickled! Had I been
able to find the air horn cable, I'd have been sorely tempted
to lean on it, thus irritating their neighbors! I resisted,
however. I kept my eye on the air gauge, while trying to
figure out the transmission. It's an over and under (at least
ten speed) so I put it in low range for 4th gear (Brad told me
later it usually doesn't like to start in 4th gear, preferring
2nd or 3rd, but what did I know?) I reached for the clutch,
and discovered that as long as my legs are, they're nowhere
near as long as Brad's (he is 6'5", after all) and so I had to
scoot forward on the seat in order to get the clutch pedal to
the floor.
Once I accomplished that, I decided it time to quit fooling
around and move the truck! My darling daughter was standing on
the sidewalk in front of the truck to show me how far to move
it. What faith! I released the air brake, mashed in the
clutch, put the transmission into low/4th gear, and eased down
on the accelerator while letting the clutch up slowly. Oh, my
goodness! The truck moved! It wasn't the most graceful start
in recorded history, but it did move, and didn't stall,
either. But then, I glanced over to my right, and saw Brad
standing under the birch tree. Oh, dear. I got a better grip
on things, scooched forward a bit more on the seat and started
over. I'm proud to say I did get about 10 feet before it
stalled out, but there was enough room behind it for Brad to
park the Harley. I shut it all down, put the air brake back on
again, opened the door and climbed down and locked the door. I
was a very happy Mom, indeed.
We went out to lunch and that was fun, too. But when we came
back to their house, Brad took me for a ride on the Harley.
Oh, joy! Harley Davidson motorcycles and I go back a loooong
ways. I know I was on them before I was five years old,
because that year, 1942, the oldest son of friends of my
parents joined the Marine Corp (WWII vintage) and before he
left, Verlin used to take me riding with him on his Harley.
While he was gone, (and he did come back home again, safe and
sound) his Dad or his next younger brother acted as
substitute.
And then, for two years, I rode to Sunday School every summer
Sunday with another friend on his Harley, saving my Dad an
extra trip during those days of gas rationing. With that kind
of background, it's not so surprising that my second husband
rode a Harley. We had many happy experiences riding that bike
together. He tried to teach me how to drive one on my own, but
that was when I discovered that three or more wheels, I can do
just fine—two, I should leave to others. Still, though, I
trusted Tom on the bike with my kids when they were younger,
and he instilled in them the rudiments of safe riding.
After his third heart attack, though, he could hardly wait to
get back on the bike. One warm sunny October Sunday afternoon,
I agreed to go with him, and I've never been so scared in my
life. I conjured up a reason to go home again, quickly, and
once there, broke the news to him that that was our last ride.
I told him he'd lost his edge, and scared me silly, and I also
wished he'd give it up for the sake of himself and the other
folks on the road, but of course he wouldn't. I hadn't been on
a bike since that day in 1980. Until last summer.
Brad took me for a long ride—I'm sure it was nearly an
hour—and it was a ride I'll always remember, even though both
he and Kristi assured me there would be more rides in the
future. Well, maybe so, and I'll hope so, too, of course, but
that day was just purely special. Although a big Harley is
indeed big, this one seemed even bigger than the ones I knew.
Of course, with the raised passenger seat with backrest and
wrap-around armrests, it really is as comfortable as sitting
in a Lazy-Boy recliner. Kristi tells me she falls asleep on
the bike all the time. While wearing her helmet, thank
goodness. (So does Brad.)
Well, I don't think I'll be doing that anytime soon! I gotta
keep my eyes open. I mean, who knows what lies around the next
corner? I intend to be prepared, with memory book in hand,
ready to make note of more new ones as they happen.
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