I have just spent the last hour and a half copy editing one of my husband’s stories on why Harley Davidson is so stingy when it comes to supporting a race team. Basically, it boils down to this: why should they when it’s expensive and they’d rather just sell a lot of leather jackets. Would this philosophy make the founders happy? Probably not.
This is the problem with being the founder of something.
When I die, this blog dies with me.
Motorcyles are so not up my alley. I can’t ride one. I attempted to learn once (painful to recall), but then discovered I was expecting Kipp, which, thankfully, nipped the whole endeavor in the bud.
Although my husband and I don’t have a shared love of motorcycles, we do have a shared love of words. When I was single I knew I was looking for a man who, aside from liking books, also had a dream and the faith in himself to pursue it. The details were unimportant. So when I heard that this fellow had left a good paying job with benefits at the Malt-O-Meal factory, in spite of the protests of friends and family, (in spite of all the free Malt-O-Meal he could have had!), in order to dedicate himself to writing full-time about motorcycle racing, I was impressed. It didn’t matter to me that he only earned $8000 per year. He had the raw material. (This is not my husband.)
My dream was simpler: to make a life for myself in the small town where I grew up, near family and the landscape that I love. Nevermind that I didn’t have a profession. I never wanted be stuck, geographically, where a profession might have lead me. For some people geography is a calling. I didn’t want to spend my life teaching about Rosalia de Castro and her love of her homeland, Galicia, while situated a thousand miles from my own.
The trade-off for me has been isolation from the rich culinary life a city can provide. I read about Meg and Deb in New York City and sigh. Still, all in all, my sighs are fewer than my satisfactions; and now, with lemongrass at the local grocery store, the sighs are fewer still.
4:11:33 PM 
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