When I Couldn’t Afford My Wife’s Funeral, My Biker Club Stepped Up in a Way I’ll Never Forget
I didn’t have the money to pay for my wife’s funeral, but what my biker club did brought me to tears
I had never anticipated that I would have to tell twenty grizzled old bikers that I was unable to pay the funeral of my wife, but as I stood in that clubhouse, I felt something that I hadn’t felt since I was in Vietnam: something that was entirely broken.
I had outlived the majority of my generation of riders by the time I was 74 years old. Despite years of scrubbing, my hands were permanently stained with oil, and my body was covered in scars that formed a roadmap.
Just like the recollections of my younger years, the tattoos that had formerly been prominently displayed over my arms had become less distinct and more blurry.
However, there are some things that continue to be completely transparent. Like the day I first saw Margaret in 1975, when I rumbled up on my helicopter outside the diner where she worked, and her eyes literally rolled back and forth.
The words “You’ll have to do better than a motorcycle to impress me” were spoken by her without a smile on her face. I have been married for forty-six years, and I have never been able to figure out what it was that ultimately won her over.
She had been my rock through everything, including the nightmares I had after we returned from Vietnam, the years when drinking had the potential to drown me, and the extended periods of time I spent traveling with the Iron Disciples MC.
Margaret simply incorporated the lifestyle into ours, whilst other brothers were forced to walk away from their marriages as a result of it.
The motorcyclists knew that they could find a hot supper and a safe place to crash at our house, which became the spot where they could find both.
Even after my hands were too rheumatic to function as a mechanic, she never once voiced any objections to returning to her previous position as a waitress.
She would read to me every night throughout the eight months that I was in rehabilitation after I had a bike accident.
We supported one another through a grief that was so profound that I now find it difficult to find the right words to describe it. Our son passed away in Afghanistan.
After then, she had vanished. A heart attack has occurred. There is no prior notice. When she was laughing in her garden one moment, she fainted in the middle of her most cherished flowers the next.
On the night that she passed away, I sat by myself in our modest home, surrounded by the life that we had created together. Photographs of our son are included.
My old riding shirts were used as patches in the homemade quilt that she had sewed together.
Her reading glasses were still sitting on the side table, and while she was reading a mystery novel that she would never finish, she was holding a bookmark.
I was able to locate them at that moment – the bills. She had a drawer in her dresser that contained stacks of them.
The medical expenditures she incurred from her “minor procedure” from the previous year, which turned out to be not so minor. Statements of all credit cards. Paperwork for a second mortgage.
Over the course of several years, Margaret had been keeping us afloat without informing me. Our savings had been depleted.
We were completely indebted on our home’s mortgage. As I compared the amount of money we had to the amount that would be required for a funeral, I realized that the math was not just inaccurate; it was also impossible.
My Margaret, who is arrogant and obstinate. Always taking care of things so that I wouldn’t have to worry about them. Never failing to defend me, right up until the very end.
It was because of this that I found myself standing in front of my brothers at the Iron Disciples clubhouse, my voice breaking as I shouted words that I had never believed I would say.
“I am unable to give my wife a proper burial.”
The clubhouse went completely silent. A group of twenty men who had previously fought against rival gangs, police raids, and highway disasters looked at me with something that was more than just pity; they were understanding. All of them were in the same situation.
In those days, receiving Social Security and working odd jobs didn’t go very far. The cost of medical care might wipe out decades’ worth of savings.
After sitting in his chair for the past fifteen years, Buck, who has served as our president, stood up.
His white beard reached the middle of his chest, and his arms were covered in tattoos from the wrists to the shoulders. Even at the age of seventy, he still displayed an intimidating appearance.
Do you require a certain amount, Ray?
I decided to name a number that appeared to be insurmountable. Margaret had always made it plain that she wanted to be buried next to our son, despite the fact that cremation would be more cost-effective.
After a hesitant nod, Buck turned his attention to the treasurer of the club. How much money is in the fund?
Tiny shook his head, remarking that he was anything but. “It is almost not enough. We have been assisting Shooter with his co-pays for his chemotherapy.
The atmosphere in the room became eerily silent. Despite the fact that the brotherhood had always looked out for its own, resources were becoming increasingly scarce. On a fixed income, the majority of us were living from one month to the next.
Finally, Buck remarked, “We’ll figure out a solution to this problem.” Margaret was a member of the family. Over the years, she has provided sustenance to fifty percent of the males here in this room. Provided us with medical attention when we were too stubborn to go to the doctor.
Taking a look around, I noticed the men who I had traveled with for many years. After I returned from Vietnam with no one left but ghosts, I sought out men who would eventually become my family.
Their eyes always carried the same loyalty that they had always had, despite the fact that their features were worn and their bodies were damaged from harsh lives and harder accidents.
The tone of my voice was hard when I said, “I appreciate it.” The club is in pain, but I am aware of it. There is a solution that I will find.”
Buck responded with a resolute “No.” We are going to work it out. All at once. Since the beginning, that has been the focus of this.
There was a knot in my throat, and I was unable to talk past it. I nodded.
As I was turning to go, Snake, who is our oldest member and is 82 years old, emerged from his corner and beckoned out. Hello, Ray! Do you remember Sturgis in 1983?
When Margaret appeared and hauled you out of the bar by pinching your ear, what happened?
The tension was lifted by a rippling sound of laughter. Whenever I thought about it, I couldn’t help but smile.
“He said that if you were sober enough to ride, then you were also sober enough to dance with her,” Wrench continued and added.
Shooter had a chuckle and said, “I have never seen a man look so terrified.”
All of a sudden, the stories began to flow effortlessly. Members who are hospitalized are receiving food from Margaret. A police officer who had been pestering us was reprimanded by Margaret. A Christmas celebration for children whose fathers were inside was organized by Margaret.
I retreated to my seat and allowed their words to permeate my being. In their accounts, she was still alive at the time. However, she remained the fierce and loving lady who had become the center of this rugged brotherhood community.
As the night drew to a close, Buck made the following statement: “I’ll call the funeral home tomorrow.” “There is nothing worrying you about at all.”
Although I was grateful, all I could do was worry. I bowed my head. Despite the fact that they pooled their resources, the club was unable to afford what Margaret deserved. I was aware of that. They were aware of that.
But anyway, they would give it a shot. Due to the fact that this is what families do.
The following three days seemed to fly by in a flash. Just as I was about to leave the house, I found myself sitting in Margaret’s garden and conversing with her as if she could still hear me.
expressing regret for not being aware of our financial situation. as a result of not taking better risks. in light of the fact that I am about to betray my pledge to properly bury her.
When we were getting ready to celebrate what would have been our 47th wedding anniversary, there was a knock at the door.
Buck was standing on my doorstep, the only thing he was wearing was a clean button-down shirt rather than his typical riding gear.
As I turned around to face him, I noticed that my street was lined with dozens of bicycles. It is not just the colors of the Iron Disciples; it is also patches from teams in three different states.
What exactly is going on? I inquired about it.
It was Buck who urged, “Get dressed.” There is something worthy. There is a place that we need to be.”
It was too exhausting for me to fight, so I put on the one suit I owned, which was the same suit I had worn to the funeral of our kid. As I emerged from the building, I found that the riders had established a pathway by forming two lines that extended from my door to the street.
A package was shown to me by Buck. The ring that I had provided to the funeral home included Margaret’s wedding band, which was found inside.
Putting it in your pocket was what he advised. Her desire would be for you to preserve it.
My uncertainty and anguish made it difficult for me to think clearly, but I did as he asked.
Don’t Throw This Away
The words “Ray,” which Buck spoke softly, “I need you to come with us.”
I was taken along the lane that was in between the riders by him. Throughout the years, I had ridden with, disagreed with, and sometimes battled with members of several clubs, including both men and women. As I walked by, each of them gave a serious nod.
There was a shining tricycle at the end of the line, and I immediately recognized it as Snake’s pride and pleasure. It was a motorcycle with three wheels.
According to Buck’s explanation, “I can’t have you riding pillion today.” “You have to take the initiative.”
“Where should we take the lead?”
“so that we can part ways with Margaret.”
It caused my heart to tighten. “Buck, I did tell you that I couldn’t—”
“You should just have faith in the brotherhood,” he interjected. This is the final time.
Unable to move, I climbed upon the tricycle. There was the key still in the ignition. While I was turning it, the engine began to roar to life, and one by one, the other bikes that were following me began to start. What may be described as a rolling thunder of solidarity, the rumble was deafening.
Buck positioned his motorcycle next to me and motioned for me to take the forefront. As I struggled to get my breath, I retreated, and the procession came crashing in behind me.
Although we were riding through the town, people were stopping on the sidewalks to watch the parade of bicycles. Despite the absence of a hearse, some people recognized the funeral procession by placing their palms over their hearts.
We made a turn onto the highway, and then into the winding road that led up to Overlook Ridge, which was Margaret’s favorite site, and where we would frequently ride to watch the sunset after it had set.
As we got closer to the peak, I noticed that there were cars parked along the road. The individuals are arranged in tiny groupings.
In addition, there was something that I was unable to make out at the top of the hill, beneath the ancient oak tree.
When we finally arrived at the peak, I finally understood what was going on.
There was a grave that had been dug. Adjacent to it was a straightforward wooden coffin. And in the vicinity of it stood what appeared to be half of the town.
Don’t Throw This Away
I was able to kill the engine, but my legs suddenly became too weak to hold me up. Buck helped me to steady my arm.
What exactly is this? It was a whisper.
His words were straightforward: “Margaret’s funeral.” It was exactly what she deserved.
One of the men, Tom Wesley, who was the proprietor of the funeral home, approached. This was the same gentleman who had subtly indicated to Margaret that the service she desired would not be covered by my limited financial resources.
He addressed him as “Mr. Brennan” while extended his hand. “When you are ready, we will be ready.”
In response, I looked around at the others who had assembled and remarked, “I don’t understand.” Margaret’s voluntary work at the hospital was accompanied by healthcare professionals.
The waitresses working at the diner. The neighbors. Every club within a hundred-mile radius sent riders to participate.
Buck applied pressure to my shoulder. As soon as you left the clubhouse, we immediately began making phone calls. It turned out that everyone had a story like Margaret’s. Everyone was eager to lend a hand.
Tom indicated that the site that was adjacent to your son had already been paid for. It was the responsibility of the carpenters’ union to ensure that the casket was crafted by hand. These blossoms originated from each and every garden in the city.
I couldn’t help but marvel at the gorgeous wooden casket, which was decked with flowers that had been gathered from hundreds of different yards. The funeral that I couldn’t afford was not the extravagant one that she had. It was a more superior product. There is something genuine.
“What is it?”
He spoke the word “community.” Margaret had a deeper comprehension of that than anyone else. Throughout all of those years that she was caring for other people, she was also working on something. To this day, it has paid off.”
This was unlike any other funeral service that I had ever been to. Nobody in a ministerial capacity, simply people telling their stories.
When the administrator of the hospital spoke, she mentioned Margaret’s twenty years of experience volunteering in the children’s ward.
Margaret had paid for her textbooks when she was unable to finance college, according to a young woman whom I had never met before.
A number of riders remarked on her unwavering allegiance to the brotherhood and how she had supported individuals that society had disregarded. When our neighbor’s wife was ill, she had planned meal deliveries for him. He recalled how she had done this.
And throughout it all, the unending rumble of motorcycles, which marked the arrival of additional motorcyclists who were standing silently at the perimeter of the crowd to show their respect.
At the appropriate moment, eight of my elder brothers were the ones who carried her casket to the cemetery. I brought her favorite book, which was a worn edition of Jane Eyre, inside with her, and I also included a picture of our kid beside it.
While they were lowering her into the ground, the bikers began their motors in unison. They were doing this next to the son that we had lost. The sound grew louder, a resounding salutation that reverberated throughout the valley; it was a farewell from a motorcyclist.
A handful of dirt was picked up by me, and I allowed it to fall. I hushed, “Rest easy, Maggie,” as I spoke. “At this point, you are at home.”
Subsequently, when we returned to our home, which is now just mine, a group of people gathered with food and beverages. The kind of gathering with friends and family that Margaret would have planned herself after the funeral. While I was sitting in her garden, feeling overwhelmed by the day, Buck came across me.
As he extended an envelope to the audience, he stated, “There’s something else.”
The mortgage stamp that said “PAID IN FULL” was found inside the envelope, along with the deed to my home.
“We were unable to raise sufficient funds,” Buck explained. “However, Snake immediately recalled that he did, in fact, possess something of value.”
“What is it?”
His territory. Those ten acres far away from the city. Been a member of his family for many generations. He made the sale to the developer who had been interested in it for a number of years.
I was bewildered and shook my head. Snake was a big fan of that place. Said that he would never sell.
Buck responded in a straightforward manner, “Said Margaret was worth more.” You also stated that you were.
I looked across the yard to where Snake was sitting with a beer in his hand, appearing completely satisfied despite the fact that he had handed up his most valuable possession.
Additionally, Buck continued, “There is something else.” Letters were left by Margaret. Appears to have been writing these for a number of years. There is one for you, and one for the club.
He placed two envelopes in my hands. It was the one that was labelled “Iron Disciples” that I returned. “Read it to them,” I instructed them. “I require some time with mine,” she said.
I sat in Margaret’s garden as the sun began to drop, and while my hands were shaking, I eventually opened her letter. Everyone else had left by that point.
“My dearest Ray,” it started off with. In the event that you are reading this, I have already completed the last ride. Apologies for the costs, I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to be concerned. Nevertheless, I do not feel any regret for the time that I spent with you.
“I would like you to know that being married to a biker was the best choice I have ever made in my life. The fraternity was not a factor; rather, it was a major factor.
You guys have it right in a world that places the wrong values on things like loyalty, sacrifice, and standing together when it matters the most.
Don’t let your grief consume you. Discover tranquility in the garden. Keep riding for as long as you possibly can. It is important to keep in mind that love does not cease when breathing stops.
In the same way that it has done in the past, the brotherhood will bring you back home. Have faith in that.
My love and best wishes to you, Margaret, till we meet again.
At this point, tears were streaming freely as I folded the letter. In the distance, I could hear the sound of motorbikes approaching my brothers as they were making their way home. They were carrying with them Margaret’s final words to them, whatever those words might be.
At that precise instant, as I sat amid her roses and watched the sun set, I arrived at the realization that Margaret had been aware of all along. We never really focused on the bikes as a priority. It’s the leather. These are the patches.
The only thing that counted was the connections that we shared with one another, and those were only symbols. The guarantee that no one will travel by themselves. Not in this life. Then not in death.
In addition, regardless of the distance that lay ahead of me on my voyage, I would never be truly disconnected from her. mostly due to the fact that love, much like brotherhood, does not end when the ride does.
This merely alters the roads.
