Late 1970's - Photographer unknownBrooks Donavan Green
This is the small flag that represented me, my father's only daughter, at his graveside 25 years ago.
This is the small flag that represented me, my father's only daughter, at his graveside 25 years ago.(There were 3 small flags - one for each of his children - I still treasure mine.)
In honor of my father, Brooks Green, I rolled up the flag and attached it to my motorcycle for a Memorial ride.
This is the scanned entry from "The Off-Road Racer" (1976)
Sept. 1975 - Photographer unknown
Late 1970's - photographer Mike Rehler Santa Monica, CA
August 20, 1984
I was only 10 years old when my mother came back from a routine check-up with out my father. I grew up knowing my dad would die. From as far back as I could remember, us kids were told of my father's cancer and how he might not always be there for us. I grew up with an older brother (4 years my elder) and a younger brother (18 months my youger), we all were well aware of our father's cancer and how it would someday take him from us. I guess when you grow up knowing someone is going to die you become hardened to the fact with each passing day that they are still alive. After a while you begin to believe that they will out live the illness that you were told would take them from you. You become a nonbeliever in their death; or atleast that's how I remember it. I was young, I was "daddy's girl", or so I preceived in my innocent mind. I was often angry growing up because my father missed out on the normal things - my first pair of glasses, my braces, my first date and so on. I grew to realize that while I focused on all the immediate negatives I was failing to recognize all the things he was there for - my first steps, my first words, learning to ride a bicycle, school days and so forth. I was a lucky girl to have a dad, even if it was only for 10 years. My memories may be askew as all childrens' are but I never recall my father as a harsh man. He loved all his childern and his wife very much. He supported us in all our crazy endevors, like my flailing attempts at BMX racing. Oh, I raced don't get me wrong, I just never won or even cared too. I realized at a young age that I am not a competive person. This is a hard thing to swallow when you grow up in a racing family. My father raced off-road cars until his health didn't permit him to any longer. My younger brother raced BMX, so successfully I might add that he was sponsored. My older brother raced BMX and slot cars (how's that for an '80's flashback?). Heck, even my mother tried her hand at the Powder Puff Ladies Off-Road races in the 1970's. I, however, never discovered my "fast gene" until I was older.
This year I got my first motorcycle. I think Dad would be proud at the way I have progressed in my riding and "fastness". So many times, my thoughts drift to him as I am zipping along through the mountains with the wind in my hair. I look at my life, my husband and my son and truely believe he would be proud if he were here today. I remember my Dad letting me sit on his lap and steer his big ol' Ford pick-up down dirt roads and sippin' on his Budwieser. I remember my Dad as being fast. In fact, I remember him once saying if he ever died in a racing accident that we should drag him out of the car, kick some dirt over him and somebody should get in and finish the race. Unfortunately, dad didn't die going fast. He died slowly yet bravely from cancer. However, I must say that he was buried in his racing suit so atleast he looked fast. Thus, today in honor of my father, I took him for a ride. The day he was buried there were three small flags at his grave, one for each of us children. I have kept mine over the years. Through all my moves and crazy adventures, I have kept this small flag rolled up and by my side. Today, I decided to take it for a ride. I carefully tied it to the cables on my handelbars and went fast. (Yep, Dad we went FAST!!)
Now, in preparation for this Blog entry I realized I don't have many pictures of my father. I dug through boxes and scoured albums to no avail. I have yet only a few race photos which were given to me by my Uncle Dale (my father's brother) but that's all. I can't scan my brain and insert all the wonderfull memories that I hold so dearly there. So please forgive the old photos.
For all those that still have a father to hug, do so. Let go of all the anger and strife and be thankful for what you have. Call them up and tell them how much you love them and appreciate them for being in your life... even if you don't see eye to eye on everything. Their your father, they are allowed to be critical of you. They only want what's best.
In honor of my father, Brooks Green, I rolled up the flag and attached it to my motorcycle for a Memorial ride. This was my Father - my Dad.
This is the scanned entry from "The Off-Road Racer" (1976) by Norman T. Johnson & Gordon Grimmis
Sept. 1975 - Photographer unknown 
Late 1970's - photographer Mike Rehler Santa Monica, CAAugust 20, 1984
I was only 10 years old when my mother came back from a routine check-up with out my father. I grew up knowing my dad would die. From as far back as I could remember, us kids were told of my father's cancer and how he might not always be there for us. I grew up with an older brother (4 years my elder) and a younger brother (18 months my youger), we all were well aware of our father's cancer and how it would someday take him from us. I guess when you grow up knowing someone is going to die you become hardened to the fact with each passing day that they are still alive. After a while you begin to believe that they will out live the illness that you were told would take them from you. You become a nonbeliever in their death; or atleast that's how I remember it. I was young, I was "daddy's girl", or so I preceived in my innocent mind. I was often angry growing up because my father missed out on the normal things - my first pair of glasses, my braces, my first date and so on. I grew to realize that while I focused on all the immediate negatives I was failing to recognize all the things he was there for - my first steps, my first words, learning to ride a bicycle, school days and so forth. I was a lucky girl to have a dad, even if it was only for 10 years. My memories may be askew as all childrens' are but I never recall my father as a harsh man. He loved all his childern and his wife very much. He supported us in all our crazy endevors, like my flailing attempts at BMX racing. Oh, I raced don't get me wrong, I just never won or even cared too. I realized at a young age that I am not a competive person. This is a hard thing to swallow when you grow up in a racing family. My father raced off-road cars until his health didn't permit him to any longer. My younger brother raced BMX, so successfully I might add that he was sponsored. My older brother raced BMX and slot cars (how's that for an '80's flashback?). Heck, even my mother tried her hand at the Powder Puff Ladies Off-Road races in the 1970's. I, however, never discovered my "fast gene" until I was older.
This year I got my first motorcycle. I think Dad would be proud at the way I have progressed in my riding and "fastness". So many times, my thoughts drift to him as I am zipping along through the mountains with the wind in my hair. I look at my life, my husband and my son and truely believe he would be proud if he were here today. I remember my Dad letting me sit on his lap and steer his big ol' Ford pick-up down dirt roads and sippin' on his Budwieser. I remember my Dad as being fast. In fact, I remember him once saying if he ever died in a racing accident that we should drag him out of the car, kick some dirt over him and somebody should get in and finish the race. Unfortunately, dad didn't die going fast. He died slowly yet bravely from cancer. However, I must say that he was buried in his racing suit so atleast he looked fast. Thus, today in honor of my father, I took him for a ride. The day he was buried there were three small flags at his grave, one for each of us children. I have kept mine over the years. Through all my moves and crazy adventures, I have kept this small flag rolled up and by my side. Today, I decided to take it for a ride. I carefully tied it to the cables on my handelbars and went fast. (Yep, Dad we went FAST!!)
Now, in preparation for this Blog entry I realized I don't have many pictures of my father. I dug through boxes and scoured albums to no avail. I have yet only a few race photos which were given to me by my Uncle Dale (my father's brother) but that's all. I can't scan my brain and insert all the wonderfull memories that I hold so dearly there. So please forgive the old photos.
For all those that still have a father to hug, do so. Let go of all the anger and strife and be thankful for what you have. Call them up and tell them how much you love them and appreciate them for being in your life... even if you don't see eye to eye on everything. Their your father, they are allowed to be critical of you. They only want what's best.
