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Legend

Frank’s been gone these many years, having ridden the Hanging Trail into the next life. He was a good old boy and his son is cut from the same cloth. I knew Frank had played music but a conversation with said son revealed that, as a youth in the Texas Hill Country, Frank’s sole means of transportation had been a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. He would secure his guitar to the bike and putt on over to his gigs in the different towns.

Now, all that sounds pretty romantic till the seasons of the year are taken in to account. Winter can be danged cold in the THC.

One such winter Frank had a gig a few miles away at a drive-in restaurant, such as were popular with the younger set in those days. Being a hearty type, he bundled up, strapped on his guitar and got in the wind.
 It’s just as well he did, too, as there were patrons under the drive-in’s canopy awaiting his arrival.
Nothing less than a spectacular entrance would do, especially since a goodly portion of those patrons were of the eyeful, Hill Country honey, persuasion
As he entered the lot he gunned his engine, then cocked his wheel and performed a lovely power slide across the lot and right up to the canopy, where he promptly fell over, boots frozen to the foot pegs.