I arrived at the home of Ken and Marilyn Holland in Fairhope, Alabama on June 26, 2011. I met Ken at the Dog River Marina in Mobile, Alabama in 2004. He lived on a sailboat at the marina and I was there working on Simba. We rode bicycles together a number of mornings, often ending up at a local McDonalds for coffee and an egg mcmuffin.
Ken is extraordinary in a number of ways. To begin with, back then he led what I felt was a unique life. He would work for a couple of years as an electrical engineer and then sail off to wonderful places until his kitty was emptied, returning once again to somewhere in this country where he would restart the cycle.
Later on I learned more about Ken. He was raised in the hill country of northern Alabama. His parents were sharecroppers, meaning they were allowed to till another man's land in return for paying him a portion of their crop proceeds. They were “dirt poor”.
Ken's uncles brewed bootleg whiskey. They built their stills back in the woods on other people's property; when the revenuers periodically came searching for stills, they would not find any on the uncles' property. When scarcely teenagers, Ken and a buddy delivered home-brewed whiskey to metropolitan areas in mason jars concealed under the car seats. They were never caught.
These days we suburbanites may boast that we rode a Beemer GS model off-road. We think we're adventuresome, but GS bikes were designed for off-road riding – not so Harleys! Ever hear of a Harley GS? Ha!
However, starting at a young age, Ken fiddled with Harleys, tearing the motors down to learn how they functioned, then modifying them and the bike suspensions. He rode his Harley's in the woods where the irregular terrain forced him to often jump obstacles. Word of his exploits got around: “He's jumping a Harley?!”, asked the kids in town. “Sure, and my pig can fly!”, they'd shout. But the rumors of Ken's off-road exploits continued. Finally the townies had heard enough and issued a challenge. They set up a jump which few bikes (and certainly no Harley!) could possibly manage, and staked a week's wages on the outcome.
Ken picked up the gauntlet. At the jump site, his challengers had selected a five foot high mound which they figured would be his Waterloo. But the only thing that Ken could see that he would consider a real jump was a 10-15 foot high hillock many yards behind the mound. He couldn't see the other side of the steep-faced hill, so asked what lay behind the “jump”. The townies thought he was trying to belittle the mound, their challenge, and ignored him.
Gunning his motor, Ken flew over the townies' “jump” with ease and then, to their consternation, sped on and up the steep face of the hill behind to soar out of sight. Although the backside of the berm dropped precipitously, Ken landed safely on his rear wheel. There were no more challenges issued.
Ken has been a ham radio operator for many years. The requisite antennae of various shapes tower over a large portion of his expansive back yard. And while from the front the Holland's attractive brick single story house and two car garage seem similar to their neighbors', there is a unique difference. At the rear of the garage is a door which leads to a room as large as the garage itself, and then a door at it's rear opens to an even bigger room. The first room houses motorcycle repair equipment (Ken has ridden the top-of-the- line Honda Gold Wings for decades), and extensive shop equipment including three sizes of drill presses (six foot, three foot, and a one foot tall model he uses to work on printed circuit boards). Upon entering the second room, one walks past several substantial pieces of. exercise equipment, then tables and shelves laden with electronic gear, and finally enters a ham's “radio shack” with the customary impressive black boxes faced with meters and gauges. The “shack” doubles as an office and Ken uses not one, but two, flat screen monitors to more efficiently utilize his computer.
Most impressive were the radio power supplies already built or under construction. I don't know the correct terminology, but let me say that where I might use a 7 volt supply for a computer accessory, Ken's power supplies are on the order of 10-15 THOUSAND volts. Yikes!
I had recently purchased a Garmin nuvi for my car. I was able to mount it on my bike and it served to tell me where I was and how it thought I could get from there to another point. However, Ken and I tried to install routes of my own design on it and failed despite numerous attempts. We finally determined that only a few of the nuvi series could perform this feat and that my 200 series unit was not one of them. I located a nuvi of the proper series in a neighboring town and purchased it. Ken found software that we also needed and downloaded it to my new unit. Through trial and error we learned how to create a route map on the internet Mapquest program that could be downloaded to the nuvi. So thanks to Ken, since leaving Fairhope I have been able to almost faultlessly follow scenic routes I design prior to taking to the road. Many thanks, Ken!
I am humbled and delighted to know this living proof that America is truly a land of opportunity. Ken, the son of sharecroppers (who clawed their way up the socio/economic ladder to own their own farm(s), is now in demand as a designer of chemical plant electrical systems.
One never knows where a conversation will lead in the Holland's house. For example, one day over lunch Ken and Marilyn spoke informatively about the Civil War, Martin Luther King's duplicitous actions in Birmingham, Alabama, and Custer's Last Stand. I listened in awe and felt like an ignoramus.
The little boy in me identified with Ken's newest toy: a six foot long blow gun. It arrived while I was there. Ken had seen a picture of one on the web and just had to have one. He wasted not a second to test it out. He dropped a four inch dart down its gullet, inhaled mightily and puffed out his cheeks like a five-year-old determined to blow out all those candles. With a noise like that made by old men aiming for barbershop spittoons, Ken propelled that dart 30 feet where it tore a hole in the target we had hastily drawn on a carton leaning agains the wall. “Bulls eye!”, we cried.
This unique man talks with a southern drawl and charm that puts one at ease immediately. I was gratified to learn that his wife Marilyn has the same fine qualities. In fact she is so generous and emblematic of “Southern Hospitality”, that I fear my waistline grew by two inches during my stay!
Clearly, I had an exceedingly pleasant and fruitful time at the Hollands!
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