🏍️ Loretta Mae and the Long Goodbye (But With More Leather and Less Dignity) 🏜️
Filed under: Loretta’s Wild Dispatches
It was supposed to be a quiet farewell.
Just me, Mama’s ashes in a Folgers can (because she’d haunt me if I paid retail for an urn), and the open road. The plan was simple: drive The Kitty — my ’72 Mercury Cougar — out to the Grand Canyon, say a few tear-choked words, and let Mama ride the wind like she always threatened to do after tax season.
Instead?
I crashed a biker funeral at a defunct dude ranch.
🚫 The Rusty Spur Ranch & Poor Life Choices
Google said “scenic retreat.” What I found was fifty bikers, twelve Harleys, a suspicious amount of smoked meats, and a bounce house. Apparently “The Chrome Widow Riders” hold an annual memorial barbecue there in honor of one of their own named Lizard Dave (may he rest in leather).
I pulled up, funeral poncho flapping in the breeze like a majestic raven in mourning, and stepped out into the dusty lot. The entire crowd paused mid-bratwurst.
“This ain’t the scenic overlook,” I said, “but I got a dead woman and a full tank of gas, so scoot your asses.”
💀 Meet Butch and the Teacup Hellions
Butch — their leader — looked like if Santa Claus had been raised by wolves and forgot how shirts worked. I think he saw the ashes and sensed kinship.
He handed me a folding chair, a plastic cup of Fireball, and said,
“You wanna say a few words before we light the bonfire?”
I did.
I gave Mama the kind of sendoff she’d have hated: loud, smoky, surrounded by strange men in leather, and accompanied by a three-chihuahua harmony yapping under a picnic table.
Her ashes caught the wind — majestic, wild — and smacked directly into a biker’s custom-painted Vespa. (Sorry, Trixie.)
🎶 The Revival
Somehow it turned into a full-on spiritual experience.
We sang “Dust in the Wind”, off-key and weeping. A biker named Muffin passed around a casserole. Someone tattooed “MAMA FLIES FREE” on their calf.
I delivered a sermon. I think.
✨ The Aftermath
I was offered honorary membership in The Chrome Widow Riders. I declined. I’ve already got Thursday night bingo and an HOA summons I’m ignoring.
But I kept the embroidered patch:
“HELL HATH NO FUR LIKE GRANNY’S CHIHUAHUA.”
It felt right.
Till Valhalla, Mama.
May your ashes haunt the Grand Canyon gift shop and your sass echo through every soul brave enough to wear fringe with conviction.
💋
— Loretta Mae McGillicutty
Official BADGMA Founder, Unofficial Spiritual Guide to the Disorganized Arts
