From 1982, we move directly to 1985, and my big push to get out of town. I find a page of plans. Top of the list: Accumulate capital! I owned 2 cars and a truck. The truck was an antique, belonging formerly to a former boyfriend, who bequeathed it to me when he left for New Mexico. It was sitting in a ditch somewhere up north. The car was a Chevy Nova, with no power steering, a removable hood, and half a radiator. The lock was busted on the driver's side door, and you could only open the passener side from the outside. So, to get in, you would unlock the passenger door, climb in and over the gear shift, and start the car (oh, right, the starter was hanging by a wire from the steering wheel post). Yeah. You groped around and found the little starter key thing, shoved the key in, and held it in both hands while you turned the key and started the car. It always started and the heater always worked. When you got where you were going, you rolled down the driver's side window and climbed out. I don't think it had any windshield wipers either. I seem to remember driving down some side street in a blizzard with a windshied wiper in one hand, reaching out through the open window (where snow was blowing into the car and piling up on my lap), trying to swipe the windows clear by hand while I drove. Life was so much more exciting in those days.

The back window of the car had an enormous Harley Davidson sticker on it. Extremely handsome. Somebody bought that car from me for $50. He wanted parts and that window.

I think I gave the title of the truck to somebody, but I don't remember getting any money for it.

That's okay. I gave an "everything's for sale" party, and got the flock out of town.

ohmyohmyohmy....letters from Andy. March 1982. These are from before I actually went to St. Paul. I didn't hear from him again after that.

He is working, going to school, getting his life together, coming home from the 'Nam. He sounds so very positive. He writes: "I'll lay one on ya and then let you go. Remember that there are bikes and bikers everywhere, that there are grad schools and silence and time in Minneapolis/St. Paul too, and that you can darken my doorway any time you please, even if 'you' are a pair. You'll always be one of the souls that smiles at me through my memory. Enough."

Yes. There are tears in my eyes even now, 20 years later. I hope the disaster of that visit didn't dim his memory of me. I hope I sometimes smile at him still. He certainly grins at me. If I still smoked - anything - I'd "smoke a beer" to Andy!