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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| PROMPT November 3rd You live in a tourist town. There's always an 'interesting' mix of visitors. But this year they are especially... different. In what way? The rumble of several hundred engines reverberated through the lakeside village and announced their arrival. Strollers on the main street stopped and stared open-mouthed as a parade of Hell's Angels bikers disturbed the sunny afternoon. Motorcycle after motorcycle rolled to a halt crowding the scant stretch of businesses. A sea of chrome blinded the gawkers. Black leather clad beings gathered to slap each other on the back and shout greetings. Most of these interlopers were men, men with frazzled hair tied back in one tail, men bristling with all manner of beards and moustaches, men flaunting full arm tattoos. Their raucous appearance and army like numbers marked them as outsiders. To the locals these bikers stuck out like a sore thumb. To the villagers' dismay, the unexpected bikers were not the only invaders to ratchet up the tension and set tongues a'wagging. Earlier that morning curious residents had made note of an unusually large police presence. Squad cars with their roof racks of red and blue lights plus squawking radios were parked at each intersection and along the shoulder of the nearby highway. Uniformed officers patrolled the area on foot. Even a leashed canine , or two accompanied them. Citizens gathered in whispering clusters to exchange theories. Their number one question asked what was going on? This had never happened before and why now? With the arrival of a sleek black limousine in front of the one church's open doors people began to nod in understanding. As a white-gowned bride stepped from the car the rough bikers formed an honour guard which she traversed with a smile. The alert officers raised cameras and clicked away. Every person entering and later exiting that house of worship endured a gauntlet of flashes. This particular and peculiar anomaly had stunned a hamlet that boasted year round residents of about one-thousand bodies. Biker nuptials here? Surely this was a one off. This spectacle could not ever reoccur, right? Years later a similar scenario once again played out in their urban village. Hundreds of thunderous bikes piloted by Hell's Angels in black leather descended upon the serene streets and they congregated again at the same church. This time one motorcycle towed a glass-sided coffin in which lay a woman's still form. The radiant bride had died. Her friends had decided to see her off in the only manner they knew. As they had years before for her wedding, the bikers formed themselves into an honour guard as her coffin was carried in and out of the church. |
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