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My mother, now eighty-nine, has
a scar on her leg that she received in the year 1929. When asked about it, the
details are always the same. Some days stick in one's mind, and for good
reason.
Her brother, Sanford, had
bought a wrecked Harley Davidson motorcycle and had worked on it to get it
roadworthy again. Naturally my mother, being an average teenager, loved to ride
on the back of it whenever she got the chance. On a nice sunny day in the early
summer they decided to take a trip to the resort town of Bar Harbor, a two hour
ride nowadays; who knows how much longer it took then with the rougher roads of
the time.
Now it should be mentioned that
my uncle Sanford was known for his carefree and unthinking ways of driving. He
was once driving a Model A and flipped a cigarette butt out the window. Instead
of going outside, the wind drove the lit butt into the back seat, and without a
moment's hesitation Sanford leapt over the seat after it. The car, let to its
own devices, went off the road and collided with a large oak tree. As testimony
to the way cars used to be built, he was able to walk away from that one.
The trip to Bar Harbor started
out great, with the weather just right and the bugs keeping a low profile. When
they entered the town of Hampden traffic increased. As the line of traffic grew
longer, Sanford's patience grew shorter, and he passed a car that was getting
ready to make a right turn and slammed into the rear of the one in front of it.
When my mother woke up she was
in the back of an ambulance. Today you will find lawyers chasing ambulances,
but in those days it was the press, and a reporter jumped in with her for the
trip to the hospital in Bangor. They talked all the way, so you can imagine how
surprised my mother was to read the next day's paper and find that she and her
brother were both reported as dead!
She got out the next day, while
her brother was in a coma from the concussion for a week.
Did the experience dampen the
enthusiasm of the two teens for motorcycling? No way. As soon as Sanford was
able, he straightened the cycle and got it running again.
In those days motorcycles were
not considered recreational—they were utility vehicles used in many varied
ways. Sanford worked with his father in wall papering and painting, and he was
able to purchase a used sidecar that he hooked on the bike. For all purposes,
this turned it into a small truck, and the two would service their jobs with
it. The sight must have been unique—my grandfather sitting in the sidecar
with a papering board protruding from it; ladders tied on wherever Sanford
could find a suitable purchase. This rig served them well until they were able
to buy a truck.
On the weekends, the Harley
turned back into a fun machine. With the sidecar, brother and sister could now
bring dates. My mother reports that it was great fun, going swimming or to
dances, even on nights like the one on which the magneto died, and they had to
push the rig fifteen miles to get home. It must have been fun, four young
people laughing and pushing on a beautiful summer's evening.
Eventually the motorcycle was
sold, a victim of the Depression. My mother points to her leg and tells me to
be careful when I take off on my Harley, but a smile still comes to her face
when she hears the roar of the big twin engine.
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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