It talked about a house in a camp that my great grandfather built over 100 years ago that is still in the family. The house was filled with sturdy, locally sourced furniture. The Stickley factory was only 100 miles away, so that’s what he bought. When I furnished my first house, that’s what I filled it with too, but I kept buying. Some of you might recognize this behavior.
I owned the Harley–Davidson dealership in Albuquerque for 20 years. The dealer, bringing back a receipt for my deposit on what would have been my first Harley, asked, “How would you like to buy the dealership?” I drove 10 miles in the wrong direction after that before getting my bearings and correcting course. When I presented the idea to my wife she said, “I don’t want those tattooed guys drinking and passing out on our front lawn.” Somehow, the idea prevailed and slowly took hold.
Over and over again, when I asked a customer about their bike, they said that they just liked to go out to their garage with a beer or two and just look at them. Older bikes, and Harleys to this day, always had an exposed engine with careful detail and attached bits that mirrored that affection, producing volcanic rumbles that some of my more literary friends joke would draw even the reclusive Mr. Kurtz out of his cavernous “heart of darkness.”
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Issue 99 Fall 2019