A Fetching of Firsts, Part 8: First Long-distance Solo Ride

Gold Beach, Oregon

First Long-distance Solo Ride 

                                 

Big Red, my ’92 Honda GoldWing, and I ventured out on our first long-distance solo ride in 1996. I’d made a few plans, plotting a route that would take us up the California and Oregon coasts. Our destination was Port Townsend, Washington, where an elderly, treasured friend lived. After a few days’ stay, we’d head south to Seattle, stop to see friends in Albany, and then ride down the I-5 corridor to Ashland, Oregon, for the Shakespeare Festival, then back to Bakersfield.

Kicking off my journey, I rode out one June morning for an ABATE rally at the Paso de Robles fairgrounds. I would meet up with several of my California Sunblazers friends and other women from around the state for a women’s-only ride. Sixteen of us rode in tandem to Morro Bay, pulling onto a wooden pier and lining up our bikes for a group photo after lunch.

After bidding the group good-bye that afternoon, I set off to spend the first night on the road at a little motel in San Simeon. The introspective evening alone allowed me to concentrate on the adventure to come, reviewing maps and remembering the safety tips I’d heard from fellow riders.

Excitement and the anticipation of a thrilling day riding the coast woke me up early. It was exhilarating to take in the beauty, be responsible for myself, and focus on my route and destination. I navigated my way through Monterey and on to Oakland, arriving at my daughter Asila’s apartment, where I would spend the night. From there, the next day I’d be at the American Youth Hostel in the Redwoods.

On the coast at Monterey

Hostel hopping up the Pacific Coast Highway to Bandon and Seaside, Oregon, added both mystery and comfort. Along the way, I had the freedom to experience coastal towns and villages, knowing that I’d have safe, inexpensive lodging for the night. The mystery was in not knowing exactly what the hostel would be like and what other travelers would be there. I delighted in this environment in which fellow travelers shared stories, book recommendations, recipes, and travel tips.

On the fourth day out, I rode into Gold Beach, Oregon, about 11 AM. Hungry for lunch, a welcoming-looking seafood restaurant, The Chowderhead, on the west side of Highway 101, looked promising. I made the left turn into the empty parking lot and found a flat spot for my bike. Upon entering, waitress greeted me and showed me to a table. 

I was still reading the menu when the door flew open to reveal a man dressed in motorcycle gear and holding his helmet. He did what motorcyclists do: surveyed the room to locate the owner of the bike he’d spotted in the parking lot. I motioned to him to join me.  He was riding a white GoldWing and heading south. This chance meeting with John from South Carolina became a lovely encounter that turned into a friendship. Several years later, when I rode across country, John was away, but I stopped and visited with his wife Millie.

Port Townsend and my friend Brick greeted me on the sixth day. Brick and I were both proud of me. Several days later, after showing me around his boyhood home and Friday Harbor, Brick waved me good-bye from the restaurant where we met his family for breakfast. It would be three days to Ashland, including a stop at Richard and Roberta’s in Albany, two days of Shakespeare, and one long riding day home. 

Shakespeare Festival, Ashland, OR

I’d made it through fair weather and rain, back roads, ferry crossings, big cities, two-lane highways, and congested freeways; over 3,000 miles. Big Red had performed beautifully, never causing me a moment’s worry. Being able to find my way and to handle my motorcycle and myself in the world made me proud. It showed me that I had inner strength as well as stamina. It set me up for future solo cross-country rides.  

“I am woman; hear me and my motorcycle roar!”

~ xoA ~

A Fetching of Firsts, Part 7: First Defining Moment

First Defining Moment

Eighth grade, 1957

Marcy, our neighborhood elementary school in Detroit, served students from kindergarten through eighth grade. I began there in 1952 as a fourth grader when our family moved from Columbus, Ohio, to Concord Street.

Even in the younger grades, students went to special subjects classrooms for science, physical education, art, and music. These were the days before Title IX, so it was common, in the upper grades, for physical education classes to separate into boys’ and girls’ teams.

One winter during 7^th or 8^th grade, each Wednesday, instead of being teamed up with another class, we were the only group scheduled for physical education. This meant that there were not enough students to have two boys’ teams and two girls’ teams to play against each other. We had to play co-ed soccer.

During this era, a school rule existed that girls could wear only dresses or skirts to school. This made those co-ed soccer games difficult, uncomfortable, and painful for us girls. “If only we could wear jeans or slacks for gym class!” we all grumbled.

I decided to write a petition to try to get an exception to the rule. I cited the freezing temperatures and how our legs were numbed by the cold, the robust games with the boys, the girls’ discomfort as we worried about falling, and the limitations on movement those straight skirts posed. The next day, I talked up the petition in class. Every girl signed it. I delivered the document to the principal's office, leaving it with the school secretary. A day or two later, we got word that our request had been granted.

The following Wednesday before physical education class, we girls strutted into the large restroom, our jeans in paper bags, and changed out of our skirts. Then we marched onto the field and played soccer, uninhibited.

I still remember how proud I felt about the petition and the outcome. I’d experienced the “power of the pen” firsthand. I remember how the girls played full-out, into the game, and how good it felt to be heard.

This experience was a defining moment. It showed me that I was a leader. I could do things to effect change; I didn’t have to settle for the status quo.

What was your youthful defining moment?

~ xoA ~

A Fetching of Firsts, Part 6: First Job

First Job

I never babysat or washed cars for pocket money when I was a kid. My mother told me, “Be a little girl as long as you can. You’ve got a long time to be a grown-up lady.” So, I had the chance to experience the freedom of childhood.

The High School of Commerce, the school I chose while still in the eighth grade, offered programs in secretarial skills, retailing, and accounting. My thought was that, if being an office worker turned out not to be the career for me, I would at least be able to get a job to pay my way through college. 

Commerce was known for its Co-op Program in which students worked at real jobs for half a day and attended classes during the other half. The first few years, I was too busy studying, working on the school paper, playing basketball, and being involved in the biology club to work. By senior year, I decided to participate.

The placement office set me up for an interview with the Detroit Edison Company. I remember the night before the job interview. I sat on the living room floor in front of Mom’s chair while she pin-curled my long hair. I’d already selected my outfit: a straight dark skirt and white blouse beneath my flared, lime green winter coat. I’d polished my black high-heeled pumps and laid out the feminine torture tools: garter belt and nylon stockings. 

Detroit Edison hired me and a girl named Minerva to share the job. We didn’t know each other and never met since I worked the mornings and she worked the afternoon shift. We communicated by leaving notes that told each other where we’d left off in the day’s work. 

Our duties spanned two offices on the first floor of the building, Employment and Employee Services. Sorting and delivering the mail, answering the phones, and cleaning and servicing the mimeograph were our main responsibilities. 

All was good until the first payday. The interviewer had shown me a pay scale and pointed out what the job paid. Over the next two weeks, I spent the money in my head, dreaming of cute angora sweaters, the latest Elvis album, and a new purse. When I ripped open the pay envelope, my face and heart dropped to my kneecaps. The numbers on the check were only a fraction of what I’d expected. 

Sitting down at my desk, I examined the paystub and began adding the payroll deductions to the amount of my check. They totaled exactly half of the number I’d expected. That’s when it dawned on me. The interviewer had shown me the amount the job paid a full-time employee. As part time workers, Minerva and I would split that figure. Not letting my disappointment show, I quickly adjusted my attitude. In later years, remembering this experience led to clear understanding of how and what I would be paid.

I enjoyed working at Detroit Edison. It was gratifying have adult co-workers and to be a responsible participant in the grown-up world of business. I gained valuable work experience and references to take to future job interviews. I made a little money, too.

Tell me about your first job.

~ xoA ~

A Fetching of Firsts, Part 5: First Dormitory Living

First Dormitory Living

On a high school field trip to the Eastern Michigan University campus, I knew right away that this was where I wanted to go to school. Known as the “first teachers’ college west of the Alleghenies,” Eastern’s programs attracted students from all over the United States. 

I filled out the application with the help of my teacher and mentor, Sophia Holley. She also proofread my application essay and pointed out my over-zealous use of Roget’s Thesaurus. I toned down that essay, making it sound like the real me, and submitted everything to the Admissions Office. It was the only college application I sent.

EMU was a mere 35 miles west of Detroit in Ypsilanti, Michigan, but it seemed like a long journey when I left home for my freshman year in January of 1961. I looked forward to experiencing the freedom and independence that living away from home would offer.

By today’s standards, there was little freedom or independence. The university rules required women’s dormitory entrance doors be locked at 10:30 pm. Each student resident had to be inside and available for nightly room check by the Resident Assistants. Men were allowed only in public areas, and if you sat on a sofa with a male friend, an RA might remind you, “Both feet on the floor.”

Our parents had to sign a “permission” card that instructed the dorm office staff on our freedoms and limitations. The form requested names of whom we could visit off-campus and asked whether we could have later hours on the weekends. Near the bottom of the card, there was a statement that read “up to the student’s judgment,” which my mother designated. Her faith in my ability to make those choices for myself filled me with pride and ensured I would be worthy of her trust. 

Though Buell Hall and all the rest of the dorms were integrated, actual living arrangements were still segregated. We submitted our photos with our dorm applications and were matched with roommates on the basis of race. There were more than 400 women assigned to Buell, a dozen of us black.

Ours was an all-freshman, ground-floor suite that housed me and three other students. Barbara and I shared one narrow bedroom that contained foot-to-foot twin beds and two closets. Shirley and Alberta co-existed in the other. A larger common study room with four built-in desks separated the two bedroom areas, and we had our own bathroom with shower.

Aside from a few petty squabbles, the four of us got along with each other. If one had to label us, we’d probably have been known as the nerd, the straight arrow, the baby, and the party girl. 

There was one incident that brought us up to be made an example before the entire residence hall. I’d brought a hot plate from home so we all could heat water for instant coffee, tea, and soups. We kept it on the bathroom counter. One evening, Alberta left it on, one or both of the other girls had noticed it, but said nothing. The hot plate remained on for several hours into the night, and by the time anyone realized it, the Formica counter top had melted. We were scared, embarrassed, and darn lucky that it wasn’t worse. So, of course, our mess-up was the subject of an unscheduled all-residents meeting, and we bore the expense of replacement counter top.

My sister Reenié came for Little Sisters Weekend in the dorm. Eleven years old, she thought that dorm life was wonderful. The organizers had set up fun activities for the sisters to do together, and we had a terrific time.

Living in Buell Hall that first semester of college taught me about sharing and getting along with people who were not family. Maybe we didn’t share the same interests or values, but we could compromise or figure out some way that each could fulfill her needs. Dorm life was a valuable part of my growing up, and I am grateful to my parents for those lessons.

Remember the first time you were on your own?

~ xoA ~