Hippie Chick's Heavenly Ride

Avoid clichés. Any freshman comp professor will tell you this is one of the cardinal rules of writing, and this was certainly true when I stood in front of a classroom. However, I cannot help but start this post with the following statement: “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

I’ve met Loose Bruce on various occasions since embarking on this writing project. A self-proclaimed ‘crusty old biker,’ Bruce looks and dresses the part: his sun-tanned skin has the handsomely weathered look of a man who has logged thousands of miles on the open road, with windblown, pony-tailed hair never restrained by a helmet. One of the reasons Bruce migrated to South Carolina from Tampa, Florida was because there isn’t a helmet law here.

Clad in leather and denim, Loose Bruce is a quintessential outlaw biker. 

On the surface at least.  

Ask him about his wife, or his relationship with God, and that crusty façade crumbles – revealing an incredibly spiritual, sensitive and sage soul on a mission to reach others for Christ through his testimony and witness.

When I met Bruce, he was at Amber Island having some work done on a large skull piece on his stomach. Albeit an incredible work of art, what caught my attention was the tattoo located on his upper right chest. The piece depicts an urn cradled in the hollow of a dead tree and juxtaposed with these images of death are flower blossoms, a mushroom and the essence of smoke spiraling out from the top of the urn.

 

 

The tattoo is a memorial for Bruce’s wife Cynthia Marie Darty Harrison. She was killed in a tragic automobile accident in April 2011.

“That represents that with death you have life. Her spirit is going to Heaven via the smoke coming out of the urn. Then you have flowers and the mushroom growing out of the dead tree, see?,” Bruce explained. “That’s to represent the new life that comes with that death. That’s what that represents. And to me, in my way of thinking, she’ll ride with me you see? She’ll ride with me forever. Via that memorial.”

The way the story goes, Bruce came to Pickens County South Carolina, from Tampa Bay Florida, with a suitcase in one hand and a TV in the other. He landed a job in a local sawmill where he met a guy by the name of David.

David was a rough fellow, according to Bruce. Drunk. Since David didn’t have a car, Bruce offered to give him a lift home from work. There Bruce met Cindy, and the rest was history.

The way Bruce tells it, “his wife was my wife, only he didn’t know it yet. She was from Alabama and I was from Tampa and we met and fell in love in the Carolinas.”

When they first met, for Bruce, it was like love at first sight:  “She had them spandex bicycle shorts on, and I thought, man, who’s this foxy woman. Then she jumped over the table and punched her man David in the head for some infraction,” Bruce recalled.

“And I said ‘boy’ that’s my kind of woman. You know, back-up. Living the biker lifestyle you want your old lady to be able to back you up in case someone brings a chair over your back. You know?”

 

Cindy wasn’t as fond of Bruce. He says she couldn’t stand him, but his deep-seated sensitive soul eventually won her over.

On Christmas Eve the two went to see some light displays. Bruce looked at Cindy and said:” You know these lights are beautiful. But not as beautiful as you.” 

“That changed her way of thinking about me,” said Bruce. “And we got to know one another.” 

So another Christmas Eve rolled around and he said: “I don’t care if I have to whip your old man’s ass, I have to kiss you. I have to know. She kissed me and, boy, sparks flew. And the fella’s Dad was there that Christmas and he walked over and told his son – he says ‘that man right there is fixing to take your wife.’ Because he saw the connection."

Bruce grew up in an era where a man’s word was his bond. Cindy was a married woman, but eventually, her husband got in a bunch of trouble with the law. Busted for drugs. Cindy had three children, ages 5,6 and 7. After fate stepped in and removed Cindy’s husband, Bruce stepped up and made his move.

“I told her, well, Cindy, you know I love you. I’ll take the whole package. Kids and all,” he said. “So we moved in together. I was born in a time when your kids are your kids regardless. They were my children and we raised them the best we could.”

Bruce and Cindy Harrington were married for seventeen years.

There are times when I feel disadvantaged as a writer because I cannot capture in words, try as I might, the emotion an individual displays when they are talking about someone they love. The hint of tears in his eyes, coupled with raw warmth of his voice, overwhelmed me with the infinite love Bruce continues to feel at the very mention of his 

wife’s name.

Listening to him talk was like watching Love Story, Out of Africa or countless other versions of Hollywood love stories – only this story is true, and while it might not have been without flaw, it was genuine and tangible. I couldn’t help but feel tears well up in my own eyes and say a silent prayer that somehow, some day, someone would – could love me like that.

 

“We had our ups and downs, but every couple does. She knew what I was thinking before I’d say it. And she loved to ride – just like I did. Her motor-cycle name was Hippie Chick. She always wore fancy flowered shirts and beads,” said Bruce. “We’d ride around. We’d go to the flea market. We’d come back and you couldn’t see the bike for all the stuff. And she was back there. My passion. My soul mate. She was special.”

And in an instant, like a snap of the fingers, Bruce’s life was forever changed in April 2011.

Bruce, Cindy and friends of theirs were at a bike show. Everyone had been drinking. 

“We had a little argument about this, that and the other, and I said I’m going home. She said well I’m going with Steve [one of their friends and neighbor]. I went home and went to bed. I didn’t think nothing about it. Sleep it off you know,” said Bruce. “Policeman woke me up and told me she was dead. I didn’t believe it. He just kind of threw her rings on the kitchen table. I balled my eyes out. I cried. I asked God why. Then I loaded a gun and was fixing to go kill him.”

As he walked out into the sunlight of his front yard, Bruce, loaded rifle in hand, heard a voice. 

“It said, ‘Son, go put that rifle up. I’ve got things for you to do.’ And it didn’t come from my mind; it came from my heart. I went and hung it up. I walked back out into the yard and I fell to my knees. And I prayed for God’s help,” Bruce recalled.” He sent one of the brothers from my church over to my house the next morning. I come out looking like 30 miles of bad road – hung over. Hurting. In pain. The woman I loved dearly is gone now.”

Billy hugged Bruce and told him God loved him. Invited him to church that Sunday. Bruce hasn’t missed a Sunday service since.  

“Soon as I walked in that door, God was like – ‘Son. I got this,’ he said. “I get a little teary over it still. I know in my heart that it’s going to be alright. I miss her. I’ve got a lot of fond memories. The rose that’s tattooed there [and Bruce points toward his right upper arm] was on the back of her vest. Very same rose. She’s still riding with me.”

Bruce believes he has touched a lot of people with his story. I don’t doubt it. His story certainly spoke volumes to my heart.

“This has changed my whole life. I think of myself as a child of God. The way I used to think – I’d cut your throat in a minute. Screw with me and we’re gonna fight,” Bruce chuckled. “But now I think Lord help them, see, they know not why they do it. God has called me to witness to folks. To tell them what He has done in my life.”

“They look at a cat like me, and when they first see me, they think Good Lord! Outlaw biker. But they feel that presence when I’m there. That joy. They see the joy in my heart and want to see where I’m getting it. See that’s what God wants me to do. I like to hear myself talk. So I might as well talk about God.”

Bruce affectionately refers to himself as a crusty old biker, and in many ways he is. The label suits him. 

It would be easy to look at the leathered, crusty Harley exterior and make any number of stereotypical assumptions about the soul housed in the interior. I’m not a gambler, but I would be willing to bet that the majority of those would be misconceptions. 

Loose Bruce exemplifies the notion that one cannot judge a book by its cover.  As the Hippie Chick who loved him learned, sometimes you’ve got to take a leap of faith and hold tight for the ride. 

What's in a Name? A Mother's Love for her Children

I know several people who have had the names of boyfriends and girlfriends – husbands and wives – tattooed on their bodies – the ultimate romantic gesture. I’ve also seen these same people, years, months, weeks, days later, having the same names covered up.

I’ve heard it said before that having someone’s name tattooed on your body is the kiss of death to relationships. Is this true? I really don’t know. And I am not entirely certain where I stand on the issue. There is someone in my life whose name I would like to have tattooed on my body. Holding tightly to superstition (or, on a deeper level I have feared uncertainty) he has convinced me that this is a bad idea.

As with anything and everything in life, there are some couples whose relationships have survived having their partners name tattooed on their bodies. For other couple, perhaps it was the kiss of death.

Whatever the case, I would be willing to bet it is more a function of the relationship than the tattoo, but this one statement could turn into an entire essay or dissertation all on its own merits.

There are a lot of people who have the names of people they love tattooed on their bodies. As I think of the title of this project – “Soul to Skin” – I think of tattoos as visible reflections of those intimately important things we feel in our hearts and souls. Most of us have people in our lives that we love. People who have touched those deep and often inaccessible places in our hearts and spirits. In my experience, a love that strong – the kind that stirs our spirit in ways we never dreamed – is something I (you?) want to share with the entire world.

I have the initial ‘e’ in two different tattoos to represent my daughters, Emerson and Eleanor. Recently I had a tattoo placed on my ankle that is scripted in my Mom’s handwriting. My daughters and my mother are part of who I am – biologically, familiarly, emotionally, spiritually – it only made sense to want all of those internal love connections made visible on my skin. I am not alone.

It has been several months since I met with Tracey. She had several interesting stories to tell, and I will do so – one at a time. Even without knowing her or having a conversation with her, the art on her body speaks volumes about the love she has for her children and family. The depth of feeling in her heart and soul is recognizable to the naked eye.

Her children’s names are scripted on her wrists – a mother’s badge of pride and celebration for and in honor of the sons and daughter who mean more to her than mere words can describe. As a mother, and, I imagine as many mothers out there reading this, I can relate completely to my children being the center of my universe. Despite the mistakes we might make along the way as we hone our parenting skills, our children, my children, are the most amazing things I have done with my life. If I were to draft a resume of my life’s greatest accomplishments, Em and Ella would be at the tippy-top of the list above anything and everything else I have done.

This story, and I apologize for the digression, is about Tracey.

In January 2008, Tracey, her three children and her cats, packed up their belongings and memories, gently placed into a U-Haul and moved from Maryland to Liberty, South Carolina. Her husband, at that time, remained in Maryland preparing the home they had lived in for sale.

He finally made it down to Liberty the following August, and almost immediately upon his arrival, announced that he wanted a divorce. Tracey and her husband had been married for 17 years, and despite hindsight which has made her think that he had been planning the divorce for some time, 17 years is a long time to love another person, to share a life, to share children. 17 years’ worth of memories (good and bad), love, laughter, tears, worries, victories … no one but a robot could wipe these things out of her heart and mind in a matter of minutes.

No matter how poor a marriage might be divorce is painful for all parties involved. Bottom line.

As I talk with Tracey, I am impressed by her compassion and tender-heartedness; within her I also see a fighter and a strong woman. Someone who is capable of grieving yet simultaneously picking herself up by the old proverbial boot-straps and getting on with the getting on. Frankly, as a mother who has children depending on her, Tracey (and other women like her) had no other option really. She picked up the pieces and started to reconstruct a life without her husband.

Possessing a new found freedom, Tracey decided that she was going to start living for herself instead of making choices that centered, primarily, on pleasing her husband. Because he had never been a fan of tattoos or the amazing artistry brought to life in their indelible placement on a human canvas, one of the first things Tracey decided to do for herself was to get the tattoo she had always wanted.

Tracey has always had an appreciation for art. Her home is decorated with paintings done by her step-dad. Her appreciation of art extends beyond traditional forms of paint, watercolor and charcoal sketches, evidenced by the fact that she had always wanted a tattoo. After seeing the 1981 film Tattoo – staring Bruce Dern and Maude Adams – her appreciation of tattooing morphed into a deeper love for the artistry.  Tracey recalls that “it was kind of a spooky movie,” but she loved the way the tattoos looked.

On October 17, 2008, Tracey got her first tattoo. The significance of the date: it was her wedding anniversary. She and her husband were no longer together; rather than succumbing to sadness, Tracey decided to make the day an opportunity to celebrate the positive aspects of this new chapter in her life.

Located on her lower back, Tracey’s first tattoo celebrates the bond she shares with her children, parents and sister.

 

“It’s a heart with wings and Sam did it at Amber Island. Underneath of it - it has starting at my youngest son’s initials, then my middle son, then my daughter, and then my sister and then my parents. Because first of all, they lift my heart, so the wings are them,” said Tracey. “Your children will always be your children. Your siblings will always be your siblings. Your sister is always going to be your sister and your parents are always going to be your parents, but there is no way in hell that your husband [is always going to be] your husband. So his initials are nowhere. Even though he [her son] is a junior, it always says ‘jr’ after his initials.”

Inspired by another woman with whom Tracey worked, she decided to have her children’s names tattooed on her wrists.

“I thought, I want something to stand out because my children are my world,” said Tracey. “So I had my daughter’s name and my sons’ names done.”

Funny story: In March 2008, before she moved to South Carolina, Tracey had to have three discs in her neck fused (This would not be the funny part). She and her husband had planned a trip to SC to visit her parents, but because of the recent surgery, Tracey was prohibited from traveling. Her daughter, Alyssa, stayed in Maryland with her and her husband brought their boys down to visit with their grandparents.

“Of course I was on pain medicine,” said Tracey. “Alyssa had her cell phone and I had my cell phone. She sent me a text one night and it said ‘Good night. I love you.” And the next morning, she said mamma, are you ok? And I was like, yeah, why?”

“She said did you see the text message you sent me? And I said ‘no. What did I say?’”

“She showed me, and it said “luv vavt.” That was the text message I sent her. And I’m looking at my phone and I’m thinking I don’t know what that was. And that became just a little thing between me and Alyssa,” said Tracey. “And she’ll send me a message through the day and she’ll say “luv vavt.” And it’s our little thing mother-daughter.”

Recalling this story, Tracey went back to Moto at Amber Island (who had done the tattoos of her children’s names) and she had the words “luv vavt” added with her daughter’s name.

Although Shakespeare’s Juliet might not place a great deal of significance in a name [Juliet: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."] there are those of us who do – especially when it comes to our family and significant others – our children and loved ones.

Having a loved one’s name tattooed on the body is an outward expression of the bond and relationship shared between the parties. I imagine there is less likelihood that anyone would have a family member’s name covered up or removed – compared with the name of a romantic love interest – but I am still not convinced that having a lover’s name tattooed marks the beginning of the end of the romance.

True love, I believe, transcends words and has forever been a subject tackled by artists and writers alike. Again, I imagine this is another topic for another time.