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Aug
Wed
19th 
Llewellyn MERRICK.Part 2 Lifting his arms to animate his stories, a silver watch slid from Mr. Merrick’s wrist leaving a strip of pale white skin where the watch used to rest, a souvenir of a weeks worth of farming. The work Mr. Merrick described was tedious and difficult, but he spoke with a sense of love for the tasks he did as a farmer. My sister and I were just asking Mr. Merrick where he had learned to drive when the obvious answer hit us over the head: the tractor. “I did get a motorcycle license,” said Mr. Merrick. Our ears perked up. Visions of Marlon Brando in “The Wild Kid,” cruising the roads with an infamous motorcycle gang, took hold of my imagination. Tara and I sensed the beginnings of a radical story. A story of rebellion and craziness. “I remember when I first went to work with my bike on the highway.” Mr. Merrick’s blue eyes lit up. “First, 15 miles per hour. Then, 20 miles per hour,” his voice was gaining the momentum of the bike. “Then, 30 miles per hour!” Something was about to happen, I was on the edge of my seat. “I was going so fast and I suddenly realized there was nothing between me and the road!” Face alight and alert, Mr. Merrick stared into our faces with intensity. “I’ll tell you, that was a scary feeling!” Tara and I were still waiting for the end of the story when we realized it had already ended at 30 miles per hour. “At least get to 60 miles per hour,” I thought gruffly, frustrated at the “cool story” false alarm. Mr. Merrick seemed to sense my thoughts. “Of course, thirty miles per hour doesn’t seem like much now, but it was fast back then—it was scary!” he said again. “You get used to it, but the first time you realize there’s nothing between you and the road, it’s really something…” |
