I always wondered how my baby sister, Marcia, became a biker babe in her 20s. She has forgotten more about motorcycles than I ever knew. Oddly, it seemed to have been instigated by our grandfather, McKinley Green.
He was the one who taught her about cars, including, and I only recently learned this, that he took her for driving lessons out on Airport Road near Binghamton, NY. She may or may not have had a driver’s permit, and she mightn’t have even been old enough for one. Almost certainly, my parents had no idea.
In retrospect, my two sisters and I all thought we each had a special relationship with Pop. And we all probably did. Even though he lived only a dozen and a half steps away, Pop’s apartment was an oasis from our dwelling, and he was fun.
For instance, Marcia spent more time planting items in the garden. He dubbed her “farmer Green,” I guess because she was wearing overalls. (Why don’t I remember this?)
My time with him involved watching boxing and other sports on his television and playing cards, mostly gin rummy. We all remember seeing Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and smelling his vile Fatima cigarettes.
By comparison, my mom’s mom, Gert Williams, was the antithesis of fun, always trying to fill our heads with fear. But as the youngest, she saw through her nonsense.
One of these days, I’ll have to have a face-to-face with Marcia, not just the weekly Zoom chats. Happy birthday, baby sister.