Putts On Hogs

I married a biker. This came as a surprise to those who knew me back in high school. I was the quiet girl, the opera singer and on the lookout for a cowboy. But life is full of U-turns. I traded in my Stetson dreams for a bandana and the open road.
For anyone who has never hung around bikers of the Harley variety, the lifestyle and lingo can be a bit confusing. For instance, I am the Ol-Lady. Even back in 79’ at 18 years of age that was my official title. My husband is of course my Ol-Man. The bike is referred to as a Hog a sled, or a scooter. When it is running badly the ol-man sometimes calls it a Pig. Bikes that are run down, rusty or generally un-cared for are Rats.
Here is our 1979 Lowrider.

A "Putt" is the biker’s main goal, to be “In the Wind”. The road is the prize and miles are the key. If you’re the kind of rider that likes to spend a lot of time in a bar or standing around looking pretty in your leathers then some may call you a sidewalk commando.

Here we see our Hog dressed for a long Run. Note the helmets stowed for use in states with helmet laws. My Ya Ya’s will appreciate the bright Orange T-Shirt with customary Harley emblem. In the background you can also see the ramp for easy storage of the bike on the porch, except for winter when the sled lives in the living room of course.

Any self respecting biker has a wardrobe. Here’s mine in the summer of 1980

Biker Nuptials with a ride off into the sunset.

Clocks

If you’re like me you have a lot of clocks in your life, clocks tangible and those that are purely internal. They are representations of our very existence wrought out in metal glass or plastic, tools we cherish, ignore or curse at.
One of my internal clocks wakes me nearly every morning around 8:30. I don’t know how it does that. I have tried to shut it off but the program is embedded.
I also have a nagging internal clock. It’s the kind of clock that has a habit of going off when you least expect it. I’m strolling down the sidewalk and I catch the reflection of a middle aged woman wearing my clothes, or I cross a bridge I have crossed a hundred times and I feel suddenly overwhelmed by the water passing underneath, that’s when I hear it ringing loudest. I could hear it ticking now if I pause to listen but that usually makes me melancholy.

Here is my grandmother’s wristwatch given to her on her wedding day. I use to wear it daily but have given up watches for a season.

My kitchen has a vintage Westclox. It makes a warm humming sound but still keeps perfect time.

I was given this wind up alarm by a friend. I leave it stopped at five minutes before two. That’s just enough time to grab a snack before General Hospital.
I even have a broken clock from my daughter. Its battered face reminds me that no matter how run down I feel, I have another clock, an Eternal Clock that never runs out of time.

Homebody Meets Caravan

I’ve always been a homebody, desiring at a young age to have log cabin high on a hill. I also have an unhealthy attachment to belongings when sentiment is involved. I guess that may be one of the reasons for my growing collection of all things vintage.
From time to time I do get restless. I dream of far away places, roadside attractions full of history, adventure and yes, more vintage stuff to buy. That is why I love the word Caravan. A caravan can bring up thoughts of merchants in a string of camels carrying spices from the orient or gypsy feet dangling from the back of a brightly colored wagon. But there is another, probably less know definition of the word, chiefly British: a house on wheels; a trailer.
How wonderful! Finally I can be a homebody nestled in my caravan full of vintage memories, antenna up and rubber down ready to see the world.
Gosh, I got to get me one of those Spartans, a Shasta, a Pathfinder or even an Airstream.
My first excursion? Maybe The Shady Dell in Bisbee Az.