Born To Ride News

It’s always a good reason to fight. Thanksgiving that is. I remember how I was raised, and taught the real meaning of thanksgiving was to celebrate the Pilgrim’s moratorium on eliminating Indians. In the old days, it was prophesized that the original celebration involved sharing food between long-standing adversaries. This tradition, in my life has never changed.

I awoke that morning with a pounding in my head. When I shook off the alcohol induced sleep, I remembered that the ol’ lady had intentionally struck me in the back of my skull with an iron skillet the night before. This painful memory was becoming more and more prominent as I walked down the narrow hall to visit the 5 gallon joint compound bucket that we call a toilet. But before I got to the door that used to house our fancy “indoor plumbing” bathroom (including a stand-up shower) I was again met with the rage of a woman. This time the ol’ lady was unarmed, with the exception of an extremely loud voice. This voice however was as painful to my aching head as the 5 pounds of steel that had bid me sweet dreams the night before. Evidently she was still pissed, but I couldn’t understand why.

After a seemingly unending barrage of verbal abuse, I learned that I had once again not lived up to her expectations. She had invited no less than 10 of her family members to our trailer for the holiday to enjoy a Thanksgiving feast with us. At that time I reminded her that we didn’t even have 10 chairs or milk crates, much less a table to seat all of her expected dignitaries in the manner that they were accustomed to. While she raced to the bedroom to retrieve the baseball bat, I stumbled down the steps out of the front door, and ran across the yard to my motorcycle. I should have attempted my escape in the pick-up truck, but I knew that it was cold-natured, and the cool November weather would make it even harder to get started, and running.

I heard a loud crack as the bat came down on the back of the tour pack. But for her it was too late. I covered her with dirt and gravel, as I dumped the clutch at full throttle and hauled ass down the cow path that the owners of the park call a ‘road.’ Once free of the threat of bodily harm, I quickly remembered that I still needed to take a leak, so I pulled off the side of the road a mile or so later to relieve myself. It was at this time that I realized that most of this confrontation could possibly have been my own fault!

You see, the night before I remembered that she gave me her monthly government check. I had initially intended to spend the entire $213.11 on groceries for the Thanksgiving dinner that she had been planning for the last year. But you my dedicated readers, as well as I, know the difference between fantasy and reality. Instead of going to get the groceries, I did what I normally do, and went to visit all my friends at the local taverns and gentleman’s clubs. Around midnight, I remembered my original mission, and spent the remaining $42.00 on a gourmet take-out from someplace called the Jerk Hut. (It was the only joint open at that late hour.) I also remembered that she was somewhat dissatisfied when I arrived back at the trailer with the several Styrofoam containers of burned chicken and mystery meat. It had all the sides you would expect – baked beans, cole slaw, and some un-identifiable liquid that resembled regurgitated sea snakes or something like that. Even though there was enough to feed everyone she was not impressed. I did my best to explain to her the burned looking chicken was really turkey, and the sea snake sauce mixture was really gravy. I also explained to her that we could dig enough potatoes out of the yard to feed her flock. I later learned that “Jerk” food was some kind of really foul tasting Jamaican stuff, and the “potatoes” growing around the park were a variety of poison gourds that were only there to ward off the raccoons and possums. I actually would have enjoyed a dinner of raccoons and possums, but her family would not stand for it. I then went to the fruit stand on the main road and bargained for a sack of potatoes on credit.

Around noon, the hungry hoard began to arrive. I had returned only an hour earlier, greeted with the shouting of my name (expletives deleted for the sake of the kids). A near miss from a small hatchet reminded me that she was still pissed over my menu selection. The already blackened chicken and mystery meat was being warmed over our “redneck fireplace” in the front yard. The sack of potatoes was boiling in our turkey deep fryer bucket. A sharp stench of un-identified spices wafted through the air. At this time I‘m figuring “life is good” But the worst was yet to come.

Go to www.borntoride.com for the rest of the story … Craven Moorehead … good day!