America is a beautiful thing…
This morning, I’m on the Lake Express ferry going from Milwaukee to Muskegon, the Harley Davidson’s strapped down on the car deck below. I’m riding to a trout farm in Cleveland for my cousin Betsy and her beau John’s wedding. The extended, the sibs, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, cousins, spouses and hangers on, will be there. This will be the biggest Banks family event in years, we’re going to have a blast and the gossip’s going to be great. And enough of us will drink enough to make the memories memorable.
From the fish farm, I’ll ride south to Stanton, Kentucky to visit Titus, a friend and former job superintendent and project manager (he quit my company and moved to Kentucky, I hated losing him), then to Niota, Tennessee to visit Ursula, a beer-drinking, pot-smoking, bird-farming, god-fearing, Trump-supporting, one-legged, Harley-riding friend, and then on to Pensacola to visit Colonel Sawyer, my former commanding officer from the Army, now retired (he was a captain in my day). I admired him enormously.
From Pensacola, I’m riding to Louisiana to try to get a fingernail under Cajun culture and peel it back. I had a Cajun friend in the Army. Bobby grew up in the bayou and swore in French. I’ve long since lost track of him, but he told wonderful stories, bragged about the food, swore beautifully and I want to visit his culture. It’s swampy down there so I’m a little worried about the bike.
