In 1950s Minnesota, where I grew up, the guys who wore black leather jackets and motorcycle boots were called "Hoods." I never knew where the name came from and little did I care. According to my mom, all Hoods were dangerous, with few morals, and always ready to take advantage of a young girl. Being the obedient kid that I was, I stayed away from the guys who rumbled past our high school on their noisy motorbikes.
How on earth could a good girl ever conceive that her future in California would not only include a Hood, but a marriage that would last more than fifty years?
By the time I met Jim, he had traded in his motorbike for a '55 Chevy. In the years following, his taste in clothes changed. So did his choice of vehicles. During his long career at our local gas and electric company, he was always a picture of decorum and drove a sensible family car. Once the kids were gone, he bought a truck. Horrors! Would a motorbike be next? Sadly, the advanced Parkinson Disease put an end to that dream, for I have no doubt in my mind that Jim would have taken to riding the streets as he had done when he was young.
But I'll let you in on a little secret. There was always this part of Jim that refused to let go of those bygone days. His closet held black motorcycle boots that he loved wearing and a black, leather jacket to make the outfit perfect. The last year of his life was still studded with times he wore his "Hood" outfit. I always smiled, figuring one can take the man out of the motorbike but you can't take the motorbike out of the man.
In a few weeks, Jim would have had another birthday. While I've never believed in celebrating the birthday of one who's passed away, for obviously, they get no older, I would still like to honor the love of my life, the moral man God sent to protect and cherish me. So I decided to write this short reflection of his past--that part of him few know about, and to set the record straight that those "Hoods" weren't all cut of the same cloth.
Blessings,
Sandy
