She had her own motorcycle, a Norton, when she was sixteen years old. She could take it apart and put it back together. Her father had always wanted a boy, but after three girls, he had given up, but this daughter was different. She was a free spirited, fearless tomboy, and became her father’s favorite. He called her “Jackie,” even though her given name was Florence. She belonged to a motorbike “gang,” did her own repairs, and took her own mother out for rides in her sidecar. Several years later she gave up her bike because in that part of the world, it was not considered “seemly” for a married woman, but she never lost her love for the wind in her face, and no motorcycle passing by escaped her admiring notice.
Florence was about 5 feet, 4 inches tall, but always thought of herself as much taller. She was a beautiful woman and a force of nature, ready to take on any challenge, as she raised her two sons and daughter by herself when her husband decided he loved someone else. When her seven-year- old daughter needed expert medical help for an injured eye, she picked up her children and moved from the north of England to London to get it. She taught herself whatever skill she needed to make a living, while her growing daughter excelled in athletics and drama.
Several years later I had the honor and the pleasure of becoming her son-in-law, when I married her amazing daughter. Florence and she were best of friends, and she visited us in the United States quite often. Once, on a grocery shopping trip, my wife had gone into the “Stop and Shop” and suddenly realized that her mother was not with her. She went back outside to find her, and discovered a group of teenagers gathered around a motorbike. Seeing a glimpse of white hair in the crowd, she went to investigate and found her 80-year-old mother sitting on the motorbike, holding forth about the differences between her Norton and their bike. She knew what she was talking about, and her audience was rapt. When it was time to go, she dismounted by throwing her leg over and walking away, head held high. But when she was out of earshot, she groaned “ouch,” and limped a few steps after they entered the shop. That was Flo. At 96, she was still full of life, with a grip of iron and a beautiful heart that ironically, failed, and we lost her.
It’s been over twenty years now, and it seems at times that she is still with us. We live now in a remote community in the Blue Ridge mountains. We have a post office, a gas station/grocerette, a volunteer fire department, and a community center. That’s it. There are two industries: Trout Farming and Christmas Trees.
One day we needed something or other at the grocerette. There was a group of maybe five bikers getting gas. Big fellows. Maybe a little attitude, but no big deal. We parked our mini-van, I went into the store, but my wife strolled over to the biggest biker with the most forbidding face. By the time I came back out of the store, he was all smiles. She had told him the story of Flo and her Norton.
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