I don’t think it inappropriate to mention my father-in-law in the first post of a motorcycle blog. He did, after all, ride a Harley 45 over much of Europe during WWII and continued to ride Harleys for years after he returned to the states. I, typically on some “other” brand, provided material for a good-natured ribbing from him. If it wasn’t a Harley it was a “popsicle” and that was that.
He was in the 512th Military Police Battalion during the war crossing the Atlantic on the Queen Mary that had been converted into a troop ship. He went ashore at Normandy after the initial invasion and soon enough that the bodies of the fallen were still there. Years later, addressing his church congregation about his war experiences, it was when he came to this part that I saw him brought to tears for one of the few times in my life. He also saw duty at one or more of the liberated Nazi death camps and I don’t think he was ever able to fully understand the horror done there to other human beings. How could anyone? He had good memories too and enjoyed sharing them. Mostly of his friends he served with and his experiences learning to ride and wrangling duty on the Harley. I was able to attend a couple of army reunions with him and met some of those of which he spoke. Real men, all.
He came home from the war, married, worked, and eventually started a successful business. He raised three children and - I married his youngest daughter. I told him in the reception line at our wedding that I would always love her and take care of her. He squeezed my hand tightly looked me in the eye and said, “God bless you.”
Thirty years later I am still married to his youngest daughter and I had him with me longer than I had my own parents. In those thirty years neither he nor my mother-in-law interfered with my life one iota except to be supportive and loving to my own family. I never heard my father-in-law curse, never saw him wrong anyone, never heard a disparaging word spoken of him – wouldn’t have turned out well for anyone that might have.
This past Christmas Eve morning he passed away suddenly. I already knew before his passing that he was the finest man I had ever known.
I’ve never owned a Harley but I am beginning to look at them differently. I find myself noticing them more. Not so much the newer ones, shiny and without personality, but the older ones. The older the better with a patina of age and character. Something with some miles on the clock.
He was in the 512th Military Police Battalion during the war crossing the Atlantic on the Queen Mary that had been converted into a troop ship. He went ashore at Normandy after the initial invasion and soon enough that the bodies of the fallen were still there. Years later, addressing his church congregation about his war experiences, it was when he came to this part that I saw him brought to tears for one of the few times in my life. He also saw duty at one or more of the liberated Nazi death camps and I don’t think he was ever able to fully understand the horror done there to other human beings. How could anyone? He had good memories too and enjoyed sharing them. Mostly of his friends he served with and his experiences learning to ride and wrangling duty on the Harley. I was able to attend a couple of army reunions with him and met some of those of which he spoke. Real men, all.
He came home from the war, married, worked, and eventually started a successful business. He raised three children and - I married his youngest daughter. I told him in the reception line at our wedding that I would always love her and take care of her. He squeezed my hand tightly looked me in the eye and said, “God bless you.”
Thirty years later I am still married to his youngest daughter and I had him with me longer than I had my own parents. In those thirty years neither he nor my mother-in-law interfered with my life one iota except to be supportive and loving to my own family. I never heard my father-in-law curse, never saw him wrong anyone, never heard a disparaging word spoken of him – wouldn’t have turned out well for anyone that might have.
This past Christmas Eve morning he passed away suddenly. I already knew before his passing that he was the finest man I had ever known.
I’ve never owned a Harley but I am beginning to look at them differently. I find myself noticing them more. Not so much the newer ones, shiny and without personality, but the older ones. The older the better with a patina of age and character. Something with some miles on the clock.
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