|A guy up in Maine -- wish I knew his name -- did this and gave it to Rocky. It's very cool, right?|
|Rocky with Mom and me in pre-Harley days.|
Rocky was a neighborhood phenomenon – an adorable little boy in perpetual motion. Who better to trust with my life and my limbs? And although I know fate is an arbitrary thing, on that beautiful sultry night I easily abandoned my absurd notion of having some control over it, and relaxed into the wonder of the scene around me.
|Country roads where we grew up. We love them!|
|Rocky letting his hair down in Key West. You're so handsome, 'Bro'!|
|My best friends. Michael Keith and Rocky Mazza. In Tatamagouche.|
|Treen Cottage, Malagash. Another Nova Scotia summer with my boys.|
“I see why you love it so much,” I told him later, when my teeth stopped chattering. “It’s wonderful! It’s thrilling!”
“It’s not as thrilling as it used to be,” he said.
It was like hearing of a divorce, or coming close to the end of a book you were loving reading. I felt sad to hear that something so fundamental to his character had lost its thrall.
"Don't get me wrong," he said. "I love riding. But nowadays I don’t feel safe. People are in such a hurry. You have to be on the defensive every minute. It's not like it used to be.”
|Michael, Susan Pitts (our daughter) and Uncle Rocky. They look so innocent . . . don't believe it! I can't imagine what they're up to, but clearly, they're up to something.|