dRAGONFLIES i LOVE

Dragonflies  I love

Above the water glistens

 metallic prehistoric stick of a dragon

It soars

Attacks

Watch the dragonfly

The Lady bug…..the victim

The hunter

Ladybug

Dragonfly

It spits the shell

Red hard protective cover of the afide eater

A mid flight attack over the water (a spring)

Spitting the hard red shell

Ladybug dies

Dragonfly survives

Again………..

They call me Krash.........Quite Rightly

When I was in second grade in 1966, I cut the end of my pinky finger off in a bicycle crash.  The doctor told my mother if I had been a boy he wouldn’t attempt to sew it back on. He didn’t think it would take. That is the difference in man and science in only a short 45 years. The finger looks great. Because I was a little girl an emergency room doctor made a decision that left me whole.

When I was in fourth grade while playing Hid-n-seek I broke bones in my foot and needed a cast. In those days doctors didn’t have fiberglass. It was plaster and went from my toes to my knee. I broke the cast.

 I will never forget the doc telling my mom that if it didn’t hurt me I could forgo another cast. I lied. My mother made me walk around the room once and I jumped back on the gurney and lied. She tapped my bare tan knee and asked me “Are you sure baby girl? It doesn’t hurt?” I lied! I was not going to get another cast on my leg to hinder my play.

In fifth grade I needed stitches. In sixth grade, I was twelve years old my father bought me a three speed bicycle with hand brakes. While trying to keep up with the boys I hit my front brakes to avoid collision with a car. I skid on my face and chipped my front teeth. They came back to pick me up and wipe back the blood. Lather that year I got stitches  again caused by a dog bite.

As a teenager I always had a spirit for adventure, I was one of very few females who loved motorcycles, crashed dirt bikes and drove as fast and free as I could.

I have been side swiped by an F 150 while on my Harley and landed on my feet.*

 I have hit a center divider and flew over the handle bars head over heels. Scaring my helmet but saving my life.*

I fell backwards into a pit of fire suffering third degree burns on ass and hands. *

I light a firework and it somehow it went up under my shirt and exploded leaving a string of scars from belly button to chest.*

I went through a “no-climb” fence, that is a fence constructed if 8 gauge wire wielded into 3” x 2” squares and stretched between steel t-posts, on my motorcycle and LIVED.

A hatchet got my pointy finger A causing a skin graft and a can of tomato soup got my thumb over 40 stitches on one hand alone.

* indicates stoies yet to be told....

zolpidem tartrate

That is generic for ambien..........it really helps you sleep but it plays  hell with the the sleepwalker in you, so if my rambles seem incoherant this would be why!!!!  
     I am 52 and love to ride my Harley my first street bike was a $200 Honda I bought from this old tweeeker who needed some dope money. It had a toggle switch and a kick start.  I bought it with my tax refund after my last kid moved out. I rode that rice burner 11,000 miles before I killed it ...Well wounded it, beyond my ability to repair. I will be telling this and other stories as the new year begins, as the nights turn to weeks and the weeks turn to months blabla.... Kitty Kat

Baby Biker

        This photo may expalin how I ended up being one of a small handful of woman who ride a Harley alone whereever it will take me, from California to New york, to New Orleans to Washington state. 

  The motorcycle is a Matchless, No longer made. I was two. 1960.

My memory is vague, it comes in short visuals, like flashbacks from a movie, with feelings from a time when that’s all I had.  My diaper was soggy, the rumble was loud, and the black gas tank hot!  When I was older my aunt  told me it was a Matchless, but what I remember was the way I felt.  lt,  the words were not in my vocabulary in fact at the time I didn’t have much of a vocabulary.   I don’t  know how old I was,  I just remember feeling happy,  feeling free and even though I didn’t know the word or the meaning , empowered.   My Uncle Tom sat me on the gas tank of that two wheeled machine and let me ride. He said things like “hold on baby girl”, which was needless, my heart was racing and I couldn’t have ripped my fat baby fingers from those bars if I tried. I never wanted to let go!  I held onto those handlebars and tried to move them in exactly the direction I wanted to go. My uncle Tom loved me so much he indulged me this pleasure whenever I begged, which is a sure sign of his love because at the time, like I said, my words were mostly gibberish; baby talk that later turned into the voice of a woman who still and forever cannot get enough of that excitement of the thrill of the wind.  Thanks to my Uncle Tom.

    That first ride was before helmet laws before child safety seats, before seatbelt laws even before the Women’s rights movement.  Thank god for the BEFORE days. If it had been for those laws, I may have missed the best days of my life. Not just the day of riding on the gas tank with my Unck but the days and  years to follow.