Michael Esslinger
I smiled out loud when I read in Uncle Clark’s memorial about his love of “Honda motorcycles and fast cars.” My earliest memories of my Uncle Clark are looking through Grandma’s big bay window and watching him and his brother, Stan, drive their motorcycles up the driveway wearing jean jackets covered in BSA, Norton, and Honda patches. My uncles were so cool. My passion for motorcycles and sports cars had begun.
When I got my temps license Uncle Clark would let me drive his burnt-orange Camaro. I thought I was the shit. He took me to my road test (both times). After failing my first road test and seeing my disappointment, he took me to Jerry’s Bar on Ceape Ave., bought me a Coke, and let me beat him in two games of 8-Ball.
When I finally got my license, he helped me buy my first car from Giffy Gibson Chevrolet on Main Street, saving me $130, a huge sum for a kid whose only income was mowing lawns with his Grandpa.
As I grew older we lost touch, but every time I see a Camaro, turn the throttle on a motorcycle, or win a game of 8-Ball, I see Uncle Clark in his jean jacket, a big smile stretched across his face.
