Sometimes life reminds you that it’s gift, it’s not forever. It gives you a swift kick in the ass and says “Hey! Pay attention nub. Your missing me” Sometimes we forget how precious a gift it is and well, sometimes we don’t.
This post isn’t about how we all forget the gifts of life, it’s about some of us, who remember. I remember that life is short, but hope for longevity. I remember that life is tedious so I can recognize the simple. I remember that life is a million laughs and therefor, I know when to cry. I remember that life is a journey, a long winding country road, so hope for the highway stretches to be short. This is why we are bikers (and biker chics), the origins of the saying “It’s not the destination that matters, its the Ride brother.”
This past weekend someone that I know brought us all together in one place, colours aside and unimportant. He brought my sisters and their sisters and more sisters still, all to one place where we could smile at each other and share some good times. He brought Gypsy’s brothers together, past and present, in an attitude free moment in time. Not many men can say this in our world, that they brought together many colours and beliefs, even if it was for just a day. Almost everyone there, set aside the politics and the protocols, to just be there and to be there because of my friend. Those very very few who couldn’t bring themselves to lower their noses for just the day, aren’t worth my time to mention anyway.
There were a lot of stories that floated around on Saturday and some of them were funny enough to bring tears to my eyes, hand slapping tables and hoots n hollers of joy. Many people there told stories that just brought a glimmer of memory or hope to our minds, taking courage by the throat and making it stand there beside the stage with them, until their story was done. Some people, had to have courage, and courage’s sister… her brother, aunts and uncles standing with them while they told their stories, but damnit, we are a tough ol bunch of people. We didn’t let courage sit down again until we were finished.
Courage was so busy that day, floating around all over the place and working pretty hard, I didn’t have a chance to snag her for holding the mic while I told stories. It’s ok though, there were so many storytellers that day, I don’t think I could have stopped laughing long enough to get it out. So unfortunately, you poor saps get to listen to my story and it’s one that courage can take a break for.
Hi, my name is Pontiac. Yup, that’s right, Pontiac. You know, that big ol floating boat on 4 wheels? That’s it, you got it. How, you might ask, did I get this most dusty-old-beat-up nickname? Let me tell you. I have a friend who I met just about two and a half years ago who has a hearing issue in his one ear. He hears words all wrong in that ear and most of us know, to just talk to the other ear. We do have two of them after all. Well when I was introduced to this crazyass man he obviously didn’t hear my name correctly and kinda stood there looking at me for a minute with his eyes all scrunched up and red whiskers just twitching.
“PONTIAC!? What kind of name is Pontiac?! Your mother disliked you didn’t she.” No matter how many times I told him my name and for sure he knew exactly what it was, I still got Pontiac. I tried for a year or so, to get him to change it to Tequila, or Rox, or damn just about anything besides Pontiac! I am NOT a big old boat of a car! Finally I just gave up, and he always did call me Pontiac. We had some hilarious good times and I didn’t mind being called Pontiac, as long as it was by him. Even his crazyass woman called me Pontiac and well, that was just ok too. I love the chic. No one else though, and I fought like crazy to make sure that was known. Still, enough people remember Pontiac for sure.I can’t say I fared poorly with the name though, at least it wasn’t sofa or beergut or any of the other names he heard in that one bad ear.
One night in Dover, Gypsy and I were kinda assigned to make sure the drunk bugger made it safely to where he was staying the night. We partied and listened to bands and walked the streets until about 3am him and his woman, Gypsy and his woman. Trying to get him to work his way to sleep, we ended up visiting a couple houses. Did we know who the people were? Oh Hell no, but a friend of a friend of a friend…..but hell it was our friends Birthday so anything was game.
Eventually we did get to the point where he was going one way and we were ready to go ours and damn but 5:30 in the morning was disappearing fast, but we made sure he was going to make it to a bed, sleep, and be around another day to call me Pontiac and lean on Gypsy’s shoulder. As pissed as he was that we were trying to take care of him, I know the bugger didn’t mind all that much.
So, I am forever saddled with “Pontiac” and I don’t mind so much. As someone pointed out to me on Saturday when they gave me a big hug and said “I betcha don’t mind being called Pontiac now” and truly, I never really did. I lost sight of courage then, sneaky little bitch disappeared pretty quick.
So in amongst my rambling, the point of this post to day is to tell of one man who brings life to a party. One man who loved life and lived every moment full. One man who didn’t give a rats ass if you agreed with him or not, but had respect for your opinion and demanded the same from everyone he met. He was a man of his word, made his decisions then kept to them regardless of if they turned out as planned. He was a brother, a father, a husband, a son and a friend. Even now, he has the power to make us smile and if I am right, is sitting around somewhere drinking all the damned whiskey and giggling away at us all. He believed in brothers and old world biker respect.
He puts it best “I am Scot-to-be-me, who the hell else can I be?”
You will always be remembered Scot-T by us all and I’ll always be Pontiac.