In July of 1953, after a small somewhat countrified church wedding and reception at our local Grange hall, I straddled tandem behind my new husband, a redheaded sailor, on his - now ours - Harley and set off for a honeymoon. Our destination was a rustic cabin on the shores of Canandaigua Lake, which lay about 100 miles to the northeast.

We tooled along for a while, maybe an hour. What meaning did time have for me? I snuggled close to my darling, my arms clinging around his waist, while the warm summer sun slid across the sky and erased any chill in the air streaming by us. My hair whipped and fluttered, free of the restraint of barrette, band, or helmet. The dreaded Pennsylvania Helmet Law wasn't even a notion in the Harrisburg lawmakers' heads yet.

Barely noticed by me in my bliss of a so-far perfect wedding day, clouds sprouted on the horizon and churned across the heavens. Soon though even I couldn't ignore the weather as the spatter of rain became a deluge.

Protective of his bride and as resourceful as any man in uniform should be, my Howard headed for some distant buildings set back a country lane. He eased the big machine into the shelter of the barn, where the doors stood wide open as if to invite us in.

With the grace of an English lord - or so it seemed to me, a little country bumpkin - he helped me dismount and ushered me to the comfortable seating of a hay bale. As I sat down, I smelled the sweet fresh mown scent of the dried grasses that made my chair. My dearest braved the storm to run further up the lane to the farmhouse beyond to seek permission for us to wait out the rain in the barn.

He returned, dripping wet and chilled, with the news that the farmer wasn't home. Howard glanced out into the squall, weighing necessity against politeness, and finally said that he didn't think that any Christian would object to sheltering a young couple - married couple, he added with a shy smile - in bad weather.

We sat on the hay bale in a lover's embrace, watching the rain and lightning from the open doorway. I shivered and laughed whenever thunder boomed and loved the way his arms tightened around me in reassurance of our safety. Our youthful imaginations had no trouble making the situation romantic and our eighteen-year-old hearts strained to contain this first love.

Some time later, headlights cut through the wet evening gloom as the farmer and his family arrived home. My groom explained our presence and, as he'd predicted, the good man wasn't angry about the legitimate circumstances that resulted in our trespass.

The rain tapered off and the sun peeked out from the edge of the last few clouds. A few moments later, the farmer's ten-year-old daughter appeared around the corner of the barn, carrying a tray. I saw a blossom in a vase, its head bobbing with the child's careful steps. Two generous portions of the family's dinner had been delivered to us, the newly-weds who spent a rainstorm in their barn, as a wedding supper.

The little girl placed the tray on the bale and dashed back toward the house. She giggled in delight and said, "Congratulations. Have a happy life," before disappearing from view.

Though Howard and I enjoyed the following days at the lake - and nights at the cabin - what I remember most fondly is the unexpected hospitality of complete strangers. The smell of fresh hay never fails to invoke memories of those pleasant hours, especially the thoughtfulness of adding a flower to the supper tray.

Far from being suspicious of a Harley rider and his momma, those conservative and conventional salt-of-the-earth folk gave us welcome, dispelling the misconception that most people regard motorcyclists as dangerous or untrustworthy.

I think - and doesn't it make me smile - that they considered us figures of romance and mystery. I can picture that little girl, grown-up and with children of her own, reminiscing about the sailor boy and his bride who spent a rainy afternoon in her pappy's barn and wondering whatever happened to us.

I wonder about her, too. In my mind's eye, I see her with both arms flung tightly around her man, racing into the wind as the motorcycle's bass thrum courses through her teen-age veins.

Maybe she now misses that freedom and feels a little thrill whenever she sees a Harley couple tooling up the highway behind her.

I know I do.

Copyright © 2003 Gloria J. Froebel
All rights reserved

About the Author

The third child of a brood numbering fourteen and the daughter of a subsistence farmer, Gloria grew up during the Great Depression and World War II. The hard times taught her how to share what little there was and how to do without.

Widowed young, remarried too quickly, and divorced soon after, Gloria supported her six children as a waitress, often working more than one job to make ends meet - which they often didn't, completely. During her third decade, foreseeing no future or security in restaurant work, she studied for her GED, passed the test on the first try, and found a new career doing what she loved best - childcare. She worked at and then supervised daily operations at a community daycare center for over fifteen years.

Now retired and living in a seniors' apartment residence, Gloria is an avid bird-watcher, bowler, and gardener. She enjoys reading and is a Scrabble fanatic, considering anything less than 300 points a disappointing match.

Daughter Lisa Binkley adds: My love of literature and words comes from my mother. Her courage and determination resurfaced in my youngest sister who is a lieutenant in the United States Air Force. My older sister who is a graphic designer and owns her own tee-shirt printing business inherited Mom's artistic talents.

Apples -and nuts- don't fall far from the tree and, in this case, I'm very glad that is so.

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