Page 4 of A Mountain to Climb

EIGHT YEARS LATER

“When did they get so damn big?’ Butch asks, taking a swig of his beer.

“Good fucking question,” Skynyrd responds before I have a chance, but his answer is definitely not wrong.

I turn around to flip the burgers and brats I’m grilling. Today’s a bright and sunny July day, and we’re having a club family cookout. That means our backyard is full of Brothers, their Old Ladies, kids, club girls, and a few select hangarounds. I’ve got the meat on the grill and some of the Old Ladies and club girls worked together to wrangle up sides to share. It’s not often the two bunches of women get along, but for occasions like this, I don’t give them any other choice.

If a club girl was to say, or do, something inappropriate in front of an Old Lady or one of the kids, she would be up shit’s creek without a paddle. I don’t take kindly to bad seeds. They learned very quickly who takes priority around here, and it definitely isn’t them.

Brrraaaaaappp!

Damnit, Connor! I let him out of my sight for ten minutes and he’s already raising hell.

“Those boys are gonna give me gray hairs,” I grumble to whoever is listening.

“That’s why I shave my head. No hairs mean no grays,” Butch laughs back.

“Why did we agree to let those boys get dirt bikes?”

“You got Connor his first, then we had to listen to our boys whine and complain until we gave in,” Skynyrd barks back.

“Yea yea. They could be doing worse things. I’m just glad Connor is over his tree climbing phase. Two broken arms were enough for me.” I think this kid was put on the planet to try and give me a heart attack.

I flip the burgers one last time and yell out, “Food’s done. Come and eat.” The group as a whole swarms toward the patio as I get the meat on the platters and carry them over to the row of tables.

Looking around, I don’t see Connor.

Brrraaaaaappp!

Oh, but I can hear him just fine. Next thing I know, Connor and his dirt bike come whipping out of the tree line, and I wave my arms to get his attention. He must see me, because instantly the bike comes to a skidded stop, the back tire digging a huge rut in the grass.

I stomp over to him, and when I’m within arm’s reach, I smack him upside the helmet. My palm hits the plastic with a thud and Connor rips it off his head.

“What’d you do that for, Pops?” He stares at me like I’m the idiot.

“You just ripped a huge chunk out of the yard with your little daredevil stop. If you would’ve slowed down the right way, you wouldn’t be on clean-up duty after the party is over.”

“Clean-up? But isn’t that what the club girls and Prospects are for,” Connor whines.

“And what exactly do you think you’re gonna be in a few years? That’s right, a Prospect. Just because you’re my son doesn’t mean you don’t have to go through the process like everyone else who joins this club.” I rip the helmet out of his hand and point him to the garage. “Go WALK the bike back to its spot, then come find me. We’re gonna eat this food I cooked and hang out with our club, together. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Pops.” I hand him back the helmet and he starts his slow walk to the garage. You’d think I just asked him to walk to the moon. Dramatic much?

When everyone has a plate, and Connor reappears, I take my plate and beer to the picnic table in front of my cabin. I have the perfect view of the whole back and side yards. Every time I sit here, it reminds me of how lucky I am to have found this crazy group of people.

I’ve been home from the Navy for about a year now. Honestly, it’s a good thing I came home when I did. Shortly after we buried my dad, things around the farm started to take a turn for the worse. We’ve been having a string of bad luck that doesn’t seem to want to stop.

First, we had a bunch of cows die from some rare bacterial bug, then two of our tractors died within days of each other. My last string was when lightning struck a giant maple tree in the yard and it split clean in half. One whole half of the tree came crashing down onto Andrew’s truck.

As a family, we decided to keep the farmhouse but sell the land. The farms on either side of our property split the acres down the middle. My mom, Sheila, was able to pay off the remainder of the mortgage and bills, with plenty of money remaining. Andrew and I lost our minds when she gave us each a hefty check. We both tried to give them back, but she wasn’t having it.

A few days later, Andrew and I had a talk about what we were going to do next. I was twenty-seven years old and basically starting all over. Again.

“What about starting a motorcycle club like you always talk about? We have plenty of money to find a decent building, even if we have to do some fixing up,” Andrew asked.

“It’s always been just a thought. I never imagined we’d have this kind of money.” The check had more zeros in a row than I’ve ever seen.

“That’s how things start, Jethro. With a thought. Don’t you have that chaplain friend you can call? He grew up in a club, right?” I’m thinking Andrew may have put more thought into this plan than me.

---