JOY IN THE WIND
My parents bought a one quarter crazy,
three quarters lazy, Appaloosa gelding for their kids. There were six of us and
they thought we were bored. We weren’t bored. We were too controlled. Our
parents kept a watchful reign on our activities, were selective on who we played
with, didn’t encourage us to mingle much, and there wasn’t a lot for us to do
after school that they approved. My father was a religious isolationist and
didn’t want us to socialize with our peers. His parenting bordered on abuse. Giving
his kids a horse allowed us to give him the gift of forgiveness. It also accomplished
everything he wanted. It kept us busy mucking out a barn.
B.K. Showtime’s name was soon shortened
to Bambi. He was a young red roan with white speckles and spots all over. We
thought he was adorable. My siblings and I learned gymkhana, western trail, and
halter class and entered him in local shows. When he was in a good mood, the
weather wasn’t too hot, or too cold, and he wasn’t in a temper, he puffed out
his chest, pranced his steps, and became the son of a national champion that
his papers said he was.
I fell in love with him and clung to
him as if he were my best friend. I was too young to have secrets but made some
up and shared my loneliness with him.
When Bambi obliged, I learned how to
fly. Jump up, swing over, adjust my body to his back, hold his mane, look up,
not down. Our muscles tensing, leaning in, ears pointing back asking for
instructions, get going, faster? Touch,
tug or pull on the reins, letting go, encouraging forward, follow the wind,
breathe, locks flowing, whipping my face, merging two spirits with the purpose
of life.
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| (classicjapcycles) |
When my younger brother Wayne was
sixteen, he began working as an apprentice for a mechanic. He wasn’t paid in
dollars, he was paid in trade. The mechanic gave him a beat up dirt bike that
Wayne rebuilt into a super stud ride. It took me about five minutes to learn
how to shift gears, brake with my feet, rev the engine, and adjust the speed
with my hands. We lived in the middle of nothing Mojave Desert. There were no
trails or rules or regulations as to where or when we could go. I tore up the
tumbleweeds, scared the lizards, startled the coyotes, rolled over sand and
rocks, and choked on silica dust.
When I was a child, I tasted abandon on
Bambi and that bike.
Adulthood hit early and hard until I
broke the cycle of abuse. After my second ex left me, I had to take a second
job. Except for two days every other weekend, I had our children full time.
They were nine and eleven years old. When I wasn’t at work, I mowed the lawn,
shopped, cleaned the house, washed clothes, and balanced the checkbook.
My ex’s betrayal ate at my mind. Anger
gnawed at my bones. In spite of how much I fought, I began to slip in the mud. I
needed to fly again but I was done with men. I had $5000 to spend.
A good horse cost more. A horse needed grain
and hay, a farrier, a vet, saddle and tact, a trailer, a truck, a corral, a
barn. A horse needed to be fed and watered twice a day. It needed to be ridden
and groomed – and loved. Horses are social animals. Having one by itself would
be lonely for it and cruel. I would need to find a safe stable but it would
have to be close to home where I could visit and ride every day. How much free
time did I have? Almost none. A horse is needier than a dog and would exacerbate
how overworked I was.
I could park a motorcycle in the
garage. It would need to be washed and taken to a mechanic occasionally, but it
wouldn’t poop or pee in my yard. It wouldn’t require the daily attention a
horse needed yet it would give me the autonomy and breeze I craved.
Wind, rain, pebbles, bugs, coming my way,
stinging my face, sticking in my teeth. Making slight body adjustments to stay
in the seat, looking forward and center, adjusting for the curve because roads
aren’t straight. Sight and sound are glorified: fear, exhilaration, fun,
freedom, stop thinking of doom or death if you hit a bump or hole. Exhilarate in
the power of your machine, glide with currents, flying through the world. Ride
easy. Ride afraid - not of your skills but with fear that four wheeled vehicles
who won’t see the two of yours. Ride with panic and joy. Crazy contradiction but
worth it when I throw my leg over, kick down the gear, roll back the throttle,
ease back into stitched leather, check the mirrors, startle the kid ahead in a
mini car, bellow, belch, thunder roll!
Randy roared up on a custom Heritage
Harley. We were two people who got together to talk about motorcycles. We
didn’t listen to the rules. We talked true about money, our ex’s, sex,
abuse. I saw the tears in his blue eyes when I heard him cry. With Randy by my
side and offered advice when I bought a Screaming Eagle ape hanger 1200 cc
Sportster. We rode single file. We rode side by side. We were wild.
We did survive.
Fifteen years ago, before a Justice of
the Peace, we married – for the last time.
For more stories on a memoir of
forgiveness:
https://www.aslongasibreathe.com/search?updated-max=2018-06-01T08:00:00-07:00&max-results=1&start=10&by-date=false
https://www.aslongasibreathe.com/search?updated-max=2018-06-01T08:00:00-07:00&max-results=1&start=10&by-date=false
 |
| (Randy, 2003, at our first bike week.) |
********
True Crime Memoir –
Survivor: As Long As I Breathe
is dedicated to:
survivors of emotional, physical, spiritual, or sexual abuse,
those who have had to bury a murdered child,
former members of a religious cult based on misogyny,
children born with Cornelia de Lange Syndrome,
and anyone who was falsely accused of a crime.
********
Joyce A Lefler is a true crime survivor and the author of
From Miracle to Murder: Justice For
Adam.
She is a facilitator for Parents of Murdered Children,
a bereavement counselor, registered nurse,
and an advocate against abuse.
Connect with her:
Website:
Facebook:
Advocacy
project:
Amazon:
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I would love to hear from you. If you have lost a child, if you have been falsely accused, If you are presently in or have recently escaped a controlling misogynistic relationship or religious cult, if you are being abused, you are not alone. I would love to hear from you. Please leave your e-mail address and share your story. Courteous, constructive comments are welcome. All will be monitored before publishing.