Little Honda — My Back Pages

“Son, I told you to get dressed! Now get a move on. We’re gonna be late! And put those catalogs back where they belong — you’re not getting a motorcycle any more than you’re getting an airplane!”

Daddy’s words, urgent and somewhat harsh, brought me up fast off my bed. Even though I knew that he knew I would be ready for church well before the girls, it was that last part that really stung. Three of those voluminous Sears “Big Book” catalogs were laying on the bed, two more were on the floor, and they were all opened to where the motorcycles were displayed.

For years I had dreamed of having my own set of motorized wheels. I drooled over the minibikes in the back of the Boy’s Life magazine when I was 9 and 10, I was green with envy when my cousins Mike and Jerry got a Honda 50 Cub scooter when I was 11. It got even worse when they received a Honda 90 motorcycle for Christmas a year or so later. This was back when the TV was telling us that “You meet the nicest people on a Honda” and the radio was blasting “Little Honda,” the top-40 hit by the Hondells. It seemed that everyone, even some of the Big Level boys my age, were getting their own bikes, and I couldn’t stand it. My mania had reached a fever pitch, even to the point that on this particular morning I was quizzing myself on some of the catalog specs and prices of the Austrian-made Puch models that Sears sold. To hear Daddy say that I wouldn’t be getting a motorcycle any more than an airplane struck me to my very core. The words stung because they sounded so absolute and so forever. That one statement, declared with adamance and without explanation, crumbled all my hopes of ever experiencing the youthful freedom that I knew awaited me if I just had my own motorcycle.

Later in the day, after Sunday dinner, I put all those catalogs back in the pantry where they were usually kept, all except the most current one. I hid it under my bed… dogeared to the motorcycle section.

Sears motorcycles, 2-page catalog spread, c. 1967 Yup, back in the 1950s and ’60s, when I was a youngster, long before Amazon made every book, boom box, and bowtie available with a mouse click, Montgomery Ward and Sears & Roebuck dominated the r… — **Sears motorcycles, 2-page catalog spread, c. 1967**
Yup, back in the 1950s and ’60s, when I was a youngster, long before Amazon made every book, boom box, and bowtie available with a mouse click, Montgomery Ward and Sears & Roebuck dominated the retail home-delivery business with massive printed catalogs. Everything under the sun was within reach of anyone with a postal address. You could even buy a DIY house kit and have it delivered to your Poverty Fork property. It was all just a mail-in form away, motorcycles included.

What prompted Daddy’s opposition? Was it the money? Was he against motorcycles on principle? Was it because of safety concerns? Admittedly, I had just turned 13, but I had been driving the tractor and pickup on the farm for a couple of years. Keith was 15, maybe he and I could have a motorcycle to share like Mike and Jerry had done. It didn’t have to be new, a used one would do me just fine. All valid considerations, I thought, but I knew better than to quiz Daddy on his reasons. I wondered if Mama felt the same way. Maybe I could talk to her when or if the time was ever right.

A few months went by and I hadn’t said a word to anybody about my obsession. Then there was Daddy’s car accident and subsequent death in March of ’67. I can’t describe all the changes that came about in the days and weeks following that sickening time, changes in me and my attitudes, changes in our family dynamic, but I can say that my obsession with motorcycles was displaced as other thoughts and considerations were forced upon me. Mind you, the desire was still there but it was no longer an all-consuming visceral yearning.

The weeks and months following Daddy’s death rolled by, sometimes in an impenetrable fog. I completed the 8th grade in May, finishing my time at Home School. Summer came and went. Our truck patch of cucumbers predominates my recollection of that time. It boggled my already-addled, half-baked adolescent mind to discover how many cukes one acre of new ground could produce and how often they had to be picked. I distinctly recall some of the fights Keith and I had that summer and the times I disappointed Mama with my incomprehensible and disrespectful behavior. In the fall, I started high school in Wiggins, an unsettling transition in which I found myself up against new priorities and fraught with new and perplexing emotions. I know now that I was suffering from the frightening consequences of early-onset Surly Teenager Syndrome. By all appearances it had the makings of a chronically severe case. Then came Christmas.

Christmas had always been a delightful and congenial time at our house, with the exchanging of modest, inexpensive gifts we had purchased with our pecan money. Some of the best presents were handmade and many were often decorated with handmade wrappings and adornments. Further, none of us expected anything too lavish or extravagant from Santa, as we knew that money was typically tight and that Daddy and Mama were challenged to keep the six of us children fed and clothed. A few years before I had gotten a BB gun, the most expensive gift I’d ever found under the tree. Last Christmas there was a plastic chess set and a model car kit, and a few clothes. There were always a few clothes — nice, but sheesh! This year was about the same — Santa left me a board game, a book, some socks, and a sweater.

Truthfully, I was grateful for it all, for having turned 14 in October, I had an increased awareness of the new realities of our lives. For days, it was readily apparent to me that Mama was doing her best to rekindle the jovialities of Christmases past. Judy helped — in fact, she may have been leading the effort. Though we were all trying to put on our happiest faces, each of us knew that Daddy wasn’t there to enjoy it with us and never would be again. But just as we had a bit of time to discover what Santa had left each other, and before we exchanged our wrapped gifts, Mama announced to Keith and me, that she thought that Santa may have left something for us on the front porch. Really? That had never happened before.

With the lawn still covered in frost on that unseasonably cold Christmas morning, there it was. A brand spanking new, shiny black Honda 65. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This was no minibike or scooter; this was a real motorcycle! I was taken completely by surprise — such an extravagant gift wasn’t even on my radar.

Later that morning Keith and I traded turns taking the bike out for a spin. But with no gloves or helmet, just stocking caps for either of us, we didn’t stay gone long and after a couple of times out Keith claimed it was too cold for him. That was just fine and dandy for me. Despite chapped hands and frostbitten ears, I continued to venture out until it was time for us to go down to Papa and Grandma Bond’s for the big family dinner and afternoon get-together.

Over the next few days, I quickly discovered that sharing the bike with my older brother wasn’t going to be the problematic prospect I had initially feared. To my delight, Keith was content to use Daddy’s old pickup for hunting and fishing, for ball practice, and all the other things he and his buddies were into. As a result, by default, the Honda was solely mine. As I had the time, my road trips grew longer and longer. Through the spring and summer, riding solo or accompanied by Jerry and his bike, I explored parts of the county I had never been to before, at times following roads that led into neighboring counties. Many of those roads were not paved, some were not even roads.

If I’ve painted those days a bit too idyllic, I’ll have to say that they really were some of my best times. That bike and all the new-found freedom and maturity I felt did much to cure my case of Surly Teenager Syndrome. Was that Mom’s intention all along? Or was her extravagance simply an over-compensating attempt to make that first Christmas without Daddy a special one? I’m pretty sure the answers to both questions are Yes and Yes. What I don’t know is if Mama knew about and agreed with Daddy’s motorcycle stance and later changed her mind — I’m willing to bet she didn’t know about his ‘airplane’ comment. This is a question that didn’t concern me enough to ever ask.

But with time deeper questions surfaced, and they sometimes haunt me still. Without a doubt, that little Honda and the larger model Mama later helped me buy, coupled with the other freedoms she permitted me to have, did much to color my teenage personality and to shape my later adult life. For one, she never belittled or objected to my relationship with Sharon, allowing me to visit her house on my motorcycle and even letting us solo car-date as soon as I got my license upon turning 15. I’m certain that this is something Daddy would not have allowed until I was a few years older. Sad as his death was, I was a happy teenager and I have no regrets about the way my life turned out. But I’ve often thought that it surely would have been different had he lived. Would it have been any better? My fear is that it could have been worse. I guess it’s good that there are some things we cannot know. I can’t bring myself to even speculate about it; it’s a road of thought I’ve never been brave enough to motor down…

Oh, by the way, when I moved out of the house to attend college, I found that old Sears catalog still under the bottom bunk.

Notes:

“Mail Order Motorcycles” https://www.poetmotors.com/bards/2019/2/5/sears-motorcycles
“People Used To Order Sears ‘Home Kits’ From A Catalog” https://www.boredpanda.com/20th-century-diy-kit-sears-house

A WORD TO PONDER

e·mo·tions (noun): a natural instinctive state of mind deriving from one's circumstances, mood, or relationships with others, typically accompanied by physiological and behavioral changes in the body.

A fundamental difference between feelings and emotions is that feelings are experienced consciously, while emotions manifest either consciously or subconsciously. Some people may spend years, or even a lifetime, not understanding the depths of their emotions.
Source: www.merriam-webster.com

SONG OF THE DAY

“You're Gonna' Ride With Me” by the Hondells (The Origins, 1964)