Recently a friend of mine’s father passed away. He lived a colorful life. To say V was the white sheep of the family is putting it mildly.
V has told me numerous entertaining stories about her family, but this one takes the hall of fame.
After the funeral service, all of V’s father’s friend came to pay their respect. An old friend showed her and old beat up denim vest. The edges frayed by aged and a history of hard-living.
You see, V’s father had been a member of a motorcycle gang in his younger years. He would fill his children’s ears with their exploits. Raising hell in the wild of Wisconsin. Breaking the law in town. Chasing the coppa’s to show them whos’ da boss. V grew up on these stories.
As her father’s friend loving unfolded the vest, the crease marks were crisp down the front of the vest where it had sat in a drawer over the years. With hands that had aged and matured, he turned the vest over to show V the logo on the back.
Her father’s wild stories let her to believe that their gang’s logo would be something worthy of terror. A screaming eagle, a roaring bear, a menacing wolf.
No, not quite. One of the wives had lovingly embroidered on each vest a kitten, sticking its tongue out at the world. No wonder they zoomed around Wisconsin at high speed on their motorcycles!
V’s father was a Hell’s Kitten. Somehow that put a whole different spin on his storytelling.