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"Dad," she screamed over the roar of the engine - I had deliberately removed the muffler so that I could enjoy the sound in peace."What?" I could see in the rearview mirror that she was rubbing her eyes."I'm feeling sleepy."Now that's one thing an ordinary motorcycle is not built for. A sleeping passenger. I made a mental note to install a backrest and a seatbelt once we got back home. Still, for the moment, an alternative would have to be sought."Want me to pull into a motel?" I shouted back."No," came the immediate reply, "There is no need for that." Silence as both of us tried to think of something. Lisa's voice broke into the steady sound of the engine. "Can you ride with me in front of you?" Backwards?" I asked stupidly."Forwards, silly! Can you accommodate me on the tank? It is padded, isn't it?"I thought it over. At face, it didn't seem like such a good idea - a person in your view of the road is not exactly conducive to safe driving, but even as I thought about it, variations. She embraced me with a strong hug. ‘Nannie’s sick, son.’ She told me through a veil of tears. Nannie was my grandmother. I don’t have too many clear memories of her. My childhood was very stressful and distraught at times, so some memories that I wish were clear to me are not. When I think of my Nannie I have a very clear image of her sitting in a faded white rocking chair on the front porch of her tiny little Tallassee house. Her hair was mostly dark, shot with silver and grey in places. I believe that every time we visited her there she was waiting for us on the front porch. A can of snuff was always tucked discreetly behind the chair. Sometimes, I think I can faintly feel the unique warmth I felt when she would embrace me. Old and frail, yet strong and masculine somehow. She was a survivor woman in the heart of the dirt-poor old South. She saw the turn of the century as a child, and witnessed the country change from a meandering network of dry dirt roads into a bustling machine.
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