Norm Greene; Hell's Angel (fascinating obit)
Hyfler/Rosner
Sunday, May 02, 2004
TOM HALLMAN JR.
The Oregonian
SANTA ROSA, Calif. -- The first pack arrived early in the
morning, the unmuffled roar from the engines echoing off
buildings and setting off car alarms as they raced their
choppers from the freeway off-ramp to the Sonoma County
Hells Angels clubhouse. At their destination, they squealed
to a stop, tires smoking, and carefully backed the bikes to
the curb.
Ray-Ray, the chapter president, heard the commotion. He
ignored a closed-circuit television monitor mounted on the
clubhouse ceiling just above the bar. Members always keep
watch over the street, alert to anyone who doesn't belong.
But on this day, Ray-Ray knew that only a fool would wander
down this street without an invitation.
A few citizens -- middle-class men and women, kids on bikes
and families jammed into sedans -- had tried getting a
better view of the clubhouse, a nondescript tan building in
the middle of the block. But they'd been turned away by two
beefy Hells Angels in sunglasses, who told anyone ignorant
enough to cross an imaginary line that the event was a
private affair. They didn't have to repeat themselves. The
spectators obediently moved across the street and waited in
a light rain for the spectacle to unfold.
More than 800 Angels from around the world had descended on
Santa Rosa for Norm Greene's April 18 funeral. The former
chapter president was the only Hells Angel ever to spend 50
years in the club.
Greene was one of the founders of a group whose roots reach
back to the years when World War II veterans were starting
motorcycle clubs. In 1954 one took the name of the Hells
Angels B-17 bomber group. By any measure, the Angels grew
into the world's most famous, feared and respected outlaw
motorcycle club. All of the rituals associated with outlaw
motorcycle clubs come from the Angels: colors, which are the
patches worn on leather jackets and vests; the patches that
read "1 percent"; and the requirement that members ride only
Harley-Davidsons.
The "1 percenters"
From the moment motorcycle clubs came into existence, the
police labeled them "bikers" and targeted them as
troublemakers and criminals. In the 1960s, the American
Motorcyclist Association tried to distance itself from such
groups, saying they represented only 1 percent of the
motorcycle-riding public. Many clubs seized on the 1 percent
label as something of a badge of honor and a way to mock the
establishment.
And while some Hells Angels have run afoul of the law and
served prison time, much of the public sees members as
modern-day cowboys who live in a brotherhood bound by
loyalty and respect. The club occupies a special place in
American culture. Weekend bikers who dress in leathers and
put patches on their vests want to be seen as "1 percenters"
even though they may be riding only to the local coffee
shop.
An autobiography by Sonny Barger, the spiritual leader of
the Angels, was a worldwide best-seller and is the basis for
an upcoming movie on his life and the club. The Angels have
incorporated and own a copyright on both their name and
their familiar winged death's head insignia. Individual
chapters have Internet sites and sell support items such as
stickers, mugs and shirts.
Even so, the world of the Hells Angels remains cloaked in
secrecy. Members don't use last names, even with one
another. Just a first name. More often than not, a nickname.
They greet each other with a hug, two pats on the back and
sometimes a kiss on the cheek. They don't welcome outsiders.
Walking "tall and proud"
When news of the funeral got out, the clubhouse phone
started ringing. Reporters wanted details. A Hells Angel
funeral always attracts attention. Members, usually just
from a chapter or two, appear en masse, leading a motorcycle
procession to the graveyard. But because of Greene's
stature, his funeral would be unlike any that had preceded
it.
Ray-Ray, an intense man with dark brown eyes, listened to
the reporters' requests. He swore, two curt words, and
slammed down the phone.
"We don't look for publicity," he said.
He moved out from behind the bar and made his way through
the clubhouse to greet his Angel brothers and swap stories
about Greene, who died April 9 of heart failure at age 75.
"He carried himself like Clint Eastwood in a movie," Ray-Ray
said as he stood in a doorway, surveying the street as it
filled with bikes and bikers. "He had a presence,
intimidating. He walked tall and proud. He was as active in
our chapter as the younger members. At the last party, he
was there until 2 in the morning."
Greene, according to his daughter, forged documents and
joined the Army when he was 15. After WWII, he drifted to
California and lost track of his two Illinois sisters. He
joined the San Francisco chapter of the Hells Angels,
literally fighting his way into the club, in 1954. At the
time, there was just one other chapter, in San Bernardino.
Now, there are chapters all over the world. And all of them
sent representatives to Santa Rosa for a funeral that would
be full of what the Hells Angels value above all else:
respect.
"We bury our own," said Smilin' Rick, president of the
Washington State Nomads, another Hells Angels chapter. "We
don't know the person doing the burying, and we don't want a
stranger throwing dirt on a Hells Angel. Every Hells Angel
at the cemetery shares in the burial."
He looked out the doorway. A Santa Rosa cop -- a young woman
in a patrol car -- made her way down the street. She stared
straight ahead, not acknowledging the Angels.
"About an hour to go," Ray-Ray said. "At high noon, we move
out."
No need to act tough
While waiting for the order, the Angels mingled in the
clubhouse. When it got too full, they spilled out onto a
side patio and then the street. While some drank beer or
hard liquor, many drank bottled water. Few smoked
cigarettes. The ground rules in the clubhouse are simple.
They're not posted, but clearly understood by everyone. If
it's not yours, don't touch it. If it doesn't concern you,
stay out of it.
No one postures or tries to act tough. Everyone is tough. So
everyone is exceedingly polite, saying "excuse me" and
backing away to let someone else pass through the door
first. At the same time, an electric undercurrent flows. If
trouble breaks out, the Angels also live by another motto,
"Taking care of business," which they do swiftly and surely.
No one gets a second chance.
"I'd go anywhere to honor Norm," said Hammer Joe, a Hells
Angel from Switzerland who said he dropped everything and
flew to California when he heard about the funeral. "Norm
was a hero."
Greene had two grandchildren and two great-grandchildren.
Even to the end, he was cantankerous. When he was dying in a
hospital, a nurse tried to lift the sheet off of him. He
yanked it out of her hand and told her he didn't know her
well enough to let her see him that way.
"He was a man's man," said John-John, the Sonoma chapter
vice president. "He was intimidating to people who didn't
know him, and he wasn't close to most people. He was
bulletproof. And I mean that literally."
Ray-Ray laughed.
"He was cocky and cool, big and bad," he said. "Cowboy
boots, Levi shirt and a knife on his side. He was a complete
man, the good and the bad. He didn't hit anyone unless it
was justified. The man meant something. He was a legend in
our club."
The president shook his head, thinking back to the last time
he'd seen Greene.
"He didn't want to talk," he said. "He didn't want to lie in
a bed. He wanted to let go."
Members from Maryland and Illinois and Germany examined a
memorial platform built by the Sonoma chapter in the heart
of the clubhouse. Made out of hardwood, the memorial
features a photograph of Greene and a plaque honoring him
for his years of service to the club. His motorcycle, a gift
from the club on the 40th anniversary of his membership,
would be on permanent display. Ray-Ray planned to ride it
one final time, at the head of the procession, to honor his
friend, leader and mentor.
"He will be missed," Ray-Ray said, "but he will not be
forgotten. When some people die, they can't get more than 20
people at their funeral. One week notice, and look how many
people are here for Norm. He's gone, but his legend will
live on forever."
Remembering a rebel
Ray-Ray stepped into the street and walked to the end of the
block. He climbed on Greene's motorcycle and kicked the
starter. A prospective member stopped traffic on a main
street and the club president led the procession four miles
from the clubhouse to the funeral home. When they ran out of
room in the funeral-home lot, the Angels parked their bikes
on the street, sometimes blocks away, and walked. Nearby
neighbors pulled up chairs in driveways to watch and take
photographs.
Red and white flowers -- the colors of the Hells Angels
insignia -- filled the front of the chapel. Guests studied
photographs of Greene over the years and signed first names
in a guest book. His daughter and his sisters sat in the
front row.
"We hadn't seen our brother in more than 50 years," said
Marlene Werner, from Joliet, Ill. "We thought he had died.
About two years ago we searched the Internet and found him.
We sent him a letter and came out to see him. We didn't know
anything about the Hells Angels. It's been so wonderful
today to see how many people's lives he touched. So many
people have praised him."
Greene's daughter, Christine Carevich, said her father
"dedicated his life to the club.
"He lived and breathed the Hells Angels," she said. "He had
a soft spot in his heart for family, but he had a set of
values that he believed in, and he lived up to them."
The casket was open and Greene would be buried in his
colors. The Angels stopped, either one at a time or in small
groups, to say a few words to Greene, wiping tears from
their eyes, unashamed to show how they felt. Rusty, a Hells
Angel from the Sonoma chapter, led off the service.
"Brother Stormin' Norman Greene, we will miss you," he said,
"but the stories about you will be passed on by Hells Angels
forever."
He said he'd first met Greene when he was just a kid and saw
"patrons diving out the windows of a bar. I walked in and
there were only two people in the room," Rusty said. "The
bartender and a guy sitting at a table with his hands
hidden. That was Norm. I remember thinking that maybe he had
a .45 under his shirt."
The mourners laughed.
"Just kidding," Rusty said. "The point is, Norm was around
way back then, one of the men that started the Hells Angels
legacy. The old-school legendary Hells Angels who set the
standards that we strive to live up to every day. The
standards that define a Hells Angel today, tomorrow and
forever."
He paused to gather his thoughts.
"Hells Angels are not the Boy Scouts," he said to more
laughter. "And I doubt Norm ever compared felony convictions
to merit badges," he said.
"He never whined about how unfair life is. If he screwed up
and got caught cracking safes, or accidentally put a bullet
through a guy's head in a crowded bar, he paid the price
like a man does.
"If Norm was convicted of a crime, he would try to make the
most out of doing time, further his education while learning
a new trade and come out a wiser man," Rusty said. "With 54
felony convictions, he had the time to take a lot of
classes." The crowd roared.
Rusty said Greene had a "memory for detail that a lot of
ex-members found to be their undoing and the reason they are
ex-members.
"If a brother was honest with him but in a pinch, he'd give
the shirt off his back without thinking twice," Rusty said.
"But Norm never could or would tolerate a liar or anything
trying to rip off a brother."
Several women then spoke about how Greene took them under
his wing.
"He helped me get through college," one woman said. "He
helped me with my three daughters and give them a better
life. He taught my daughters how to be strong women."
A Hells Angel walked to the lectern to tell about the time
he and Greene were in what he called a "hot chase."
"A car had run over our brother, and we chased it and caught
up to it," he recalled. "We got the guy out of the car and
were working him over when the cops showed up. There were
some billy clubs, and then a cop pulled out a gun. Norm put
his hand on the gun and told the cop, 'I wouldn't do that.'
I kid you not. That was Norm."
Funeral rites
The funeral director, a man in a suit and tie, stepped
forward and gingerly asked if anyone else wanted to say
anything. When no one did, he announced that the hearse was
leaving for the cemetery. The Angels left the funeral home
and fired up their bikes.
The streets were lined with spectators, many of them waving
when the Angels roared out of the funeral home. Ray-Ray and
the Sonoma chapter members led the way, surrounding the
hearse. Other bikers raced ahead to intersections, blocking
traffic so that the procession, which stretched out over two
miles, could stay together. Police watched from a side
street. A highway patrolman staked out a freeway overpass. A
biker blocked traffic on the freeway, but the patrolman
didn't intervene. The procession drove down the freeway for
three miles, then looped back and headed to the cemetery.
Hells Angels wearing white gloves lifted Greene's casket
from the hearse and carried it to the plot. They set it on a
silver stand. Members came out of the crowd to touch the
casket and put stickers identifying chapters from around the
world on the front of the casket.
The casket was lowered into the grave. A Willie Nelson
song -- "Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground" -- played on
a portable stereo. Then the Angels dropped the white gloves
onto the casket and threw flowers into the hole. Ray-Ray
drank from a bottle of red wine and passed it to another
member, who took a swig and then poured the wine into the
grave. The cemetery crew lowered a cement slab onto the
casket and then Greene's brothers began burying their own,
shoveling dirt and handing the shovel from brother to
brother.
When the plot was nearly full, a Hells Angel called out to
Greene's sisters, sitting nearby.
"This is what it's all about," he said. "Honor. Devotion.
Respect."
He bowed his head.
"That's Norm Greene," he said. "Hells Angel forever."
Robert Feigel (aka Bob)
wrote:
>Burying a Hells Angel legend
>
"I wanna be free. Free to ride my machine and not be hassled by the
man. Free to get loaded and do what I wanna do.
Let's tear up this church."
Heavenly Blues at Loser's funeral - Wild Angels 1966
"When weaving nets, all threads count." - Charlie Chan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wax-up and drop-in of Surfing's Golden Years: <http://www.surfwriter.net>
SYSYPHUS' SISTER
I am, SYSYPHUS' SISTER
kentuckyfriedcolonel
wrote:
>Hyfler/Rosner wrote:
>> Burying a Hells Angel legend
>>
<Kentucky Fried snip>
>> He bowed his head.
>>
>> "That's Norm Greene," he said. "Hells Angel forever."
>>
>>
>This is my 2nd cousin.
>
>I am, SYSYPHUS' SISTER
Don't you wish it was you instead of cousin Norm? We do.
BTW - try a bit of sniparoonie next time SILLYPUSS.
kentuckyfriedcolonel
wrote:
>Kentucky Fried Colonel wrote:
>>
>>
>> Don't you wish it was you instead of cousin Norm? We do.
>>
>> BTW - try a bit of sniparoonie next time SILLYPUSS.
>
>Dear KFC:
>You suck and I wish your father had been snipped. Eat me.
>
>SYSYPHUS' SISTER
Your learning.
Hoodoo
wrote:
>Burying a Hells Angel legend
>Sunday, May 02, 2004
>The Oregonian
Thanks a bunch for posting this in its entirety!
FTW
SYSYPHUS' SISTER
> Thanks a bunch for posting this in its entirety!
Link to forum to read more:
http://pub50.bravenet.com/forum/4260281624/fetch/273566/
Norm was my cousin--a great guy.
SYSYPHUS' SISTER
