Uncle Bubba swivels, lifting his leg back over the black seat of his mighty iron steed. He enters the shade of the garage returning quickly with a soft polish rag to rub down the gleaming sliver chrome of his now statuesque motorcycle, not moments before a rumbling high-spirited stallion. While working over his heated, ticking machine, he recalls the images that played in his mind just moments before. He rode that long two-lane highway that borders the State forest; the deer hunter’s cars and trucks parked in clumps among breaks in the trees. He remained more attentive as he rode, aware that at any moment a frightened deer may bolt across the road in a mad dash to gambol across the pastures on the other side of the highway to escape the restless hunters. They may find false refuge in the calmness of the lowing cattle in the rolling tawny fields, but they will return to the woods too soon.
Out past the silent battle ground the highway rises and falls. Behind the white cotton clouds the bright azure sky fades to baby blue towards the horizon. The air smells of earth and wholesome musty winter trees. He rode on beyond, beyond time, before his memory. Encroached upon by the greedy glut of golfing developments, with their sardined, mimicked rooftops and unnaturally green lawns; sprinkled among vast acres of sparsely scattered rednecks with cluttered, overgrown yards littered with plastic and metal monuments are the older homesteads of the salt-of-the–earth; the farmers and ranchers. Their houses, though showing their age are neatly appointed in facade signifying that their inhabitants may no longer be able to keep up appearances, yet still live with a dignified demeanor. They are of another era, when a person was considerate of their neighbors, cherished their belongings and honored their commitments. A time that understood that with out decorum, no matter how crude, chaos ruled. They relied on the earth and change of seasons for their independent survival, and knew that only with respect of all would they create the longevity to not only live a full life, but retain enough to pass on to their younger generations.
Throttling on, above the rumbling roar of his exhaust, the wind pressing against his skin; Bubbie’s heart swells in fear and hope for this country that he loves. He knows that we have become far removed from those values that he so admires in those country folk and wonders if we’ve gone too far. Have we taken away a man’s independence with too much regulation and too much consumption? We’ve definitely taken away his manhood for the sake of political correctness. Yet these folks still survive, they still exist, they still have a vote. But is it enough to hang our hope on what remains of them? With the wondrous rolling landscape spreading out mile after mile, with the hunters in the woods, the farm houses standing as sentinels over the fields, Bubbie recalls the history of the American Indian who forever lost their country and culture by losing their identity through assimilation and the eventual conquer by the white man. The same Indian that galloped across this same landscape not so many years before; that so loved the earth and sky and change of seasons; that loved his family, his home, his powerful steed; who hunted and worked the land.
His metallic statue cleaned and polished, he fires it back to life and it rumbles into the shadows of the garage. Bubbie looks it over one last time, knowing that they have many more miles to travel together, and many more great adventures to share. In Bubbie’s view, life is good.
