In my earliest memory I am sitting on the floor, surrounded by the disemboweled packages of Christmas morning. This would be Christmas day, 1979, and I have just turned three.
If I tune in the picture like a fuzzy old TV set, I see myself sitting on the floor in a narrow hallway. I see dark wood paneling on the walls. I don't remember the flooring--perhaps orange or brown carpet as was common in the 70s. Or maybe it was a wood or linoleum floor. I know this passageway is just a few feet long, leads from the living room into the dining area, and to the back of the house where the kitchen lies. I don't know where my older sister, Rachael, is, or my baby sister Marian. Probably playing or sleeping. I know that Christmas excitement has just ended, and it's time to start cleaning up.
My "big" Christmas gift was a tea set--plastic cups and saucers, tea pots and spoons, in green and yellow and pink. It's a beautiful thing--my own dishes to play with! I found the tea set inside a green and white checked drawstring bag. And when it was time to clean up, my Mom scolded me. The drawstring bag was not just wrappings to be thrown away--she made that bag so I could have a safe place to keep my new tea set. I wasn't supposed to dump out all those dishes onto the floor.
I think it's the combination of the excitement of the day and the stress of the scolding that has burned this memory into my mind. I remember nothing else of Christmas when I was three. A lot of my memory of the house comes from pictures I looked back on later. Our tradition was to go to Grandma and Grandpa Johnson's house, just a few hundred yards down the road, later in the morning for breakfast and more presents and then dinner and day-long playing with cousins while the adults talked (adults always talked so much! and about boring things!). So I know we were probably cleaning up at our house to prepare to go to Grandma's.
There's a fuzzy picture somewhere--so blurry you can hardly distinguish the subject--of my sister and I sitting on Grandma's orange upholstered rocker/recliner, grinning for our dad behind the camera. Even though the shot turned out fuzzy, I'm glad that he forever captured the impressions of the day--two happy, blond girls, the pride of their parents, on the happiest day of the year, surrounded by family in a house full of love. It's the essence of Christmas that comes through on that piece of photo paper--a little bit like my first memory. Not clear or distinct, but a hint of what joy, what bliss, can be found in the simple treasures of Christmas morning.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
A bicycle story
This is a true story from my childhood.
I grew up in the country where there were no sidewalks. Without sidewalks, we seldom had any use for roller skates, skateboards, and even bicycles. Bikes in these days had banana seats and skinny tires--not the hefty "huffy" style bikes that could go off road. I remember when they did start making "10 speeds" and "mountain bikes," and we all really wanted one. But they were a hundred dollars (and this is back when a hundred dollars was like 300 dollars today). So we went without bikes for the most part. My mom had an old Schwinn bike from her college days, but it always had flat tires. The only other wheeled device I remember was a tricycle when I was very young.
When I was about nine years old, I went to visit my cousin, Erica, in Wyoming. I stayed with her family for a week. When she learned that I couldn't ride a bike, she was appalled. She took it upon herself to teach me to ride. We used her bike and her brother's, and she patiently pushed me up and down her long, rutted, dirt/gravel driveway until I finally got the hang of riding a bike. Then we rode around her neighborhood and town. I enjoyed this new-found freedom of getting somewhere quickly.
When I got home, I had a bug in me. I wanted a bike. I really wanted to be able to keep up this skill of riding a bike, and I now knew that I didn't need sidewalks (my cousin had no sidewalks in her neighborhood... dirt paths worked just fine). I asked my parents if I could have a bike, and they said no... maybe... we'll see.
I don't remember how or when, but I eventually got a bike. It was bought used, and assembled from pieces and parts of older bikes, but it worked and it was fun to ride around the farm and down the lane and up to the canal. The only place I didn't like riding it was along the street--our street was a highway with a speed limit of 50 mph, so I felt like the cars would almost blow me over when they drove past. I'd ride as far from the asphalt as I could without getting into the weeds and thistles and ruining my bike's tires.
It was late fall, almost winter, a year or so later. I was almost 11. I had been riding my bike on a Sunday as I went to do my chores, and when it was time for dinner, I had simply dropped it in the driveway and started walking around the house to go in the back door. I didn't know that my mom would be leaving soon for a meeting at church--I assumed that no one would be going out again on a Sunday evening. I was wrong. I heard the car start, and I ran back around the house--too late. My mom ran right over the center of my bike. She immediately pulled the car forward again when she heard the crunch, hopped out of the car and came running to see what the problem was. I was devastated, but she was mad. Hopping mad. She yelled at me for leaving the bike behind the car, yelled that she was late and couldn't worry about bikes now, and yelled at me to move the bike out of the way so she could leave. I dragged it to the side of the driveway, and she zoomed out of the garage and headed to the church.
Now I was mad. I felt all the injustice of being robbed of my only bike. I felt like a victim of circumstance. I had no bike, and I had no apology, and I didn't take time to think about what I was doing.
I had many times driven by a house, about a mile and a half down the highway from our farm. The people in this house had a hobby of fixing up old bikes and selling them. I knew I'd seen some bikes lined up out in front of the house the last time we'd driven past. I determined that I would take all the money I had saved (somewhere close to $20), walk down to that house (despite the fact that it was Sunday), and buy myself a new bike and ride it home.
I immediately went to my bedroom, still wearing my chores clothes and boots. I took my money and shoved it in my pocket. Then I started walking down the highway to the bike seller's house.
You can imagine me walking, in the dimming twilight of a cold, windy fall evening. I walked quickly at first, energized by my anger and inspired by the vision of how my mom would be sorry that I had to spend all my money to buy myself a new bike. I walked and walked--walked past the church where my mom was at her meeting. Walked past the house of everyone I knew, and came to the farther end of the road where I didn't know anyone who lived around there. I walked with my socks falling down and my rubber chore boots chafing against my heels. I walked with my chore coat open (all the old, hand-me-down coats with broken zippers ended up as chore coats), the wind blowing and chilling me to the core. I walked in my chore pants, which had been my scarecrow Halloween costume the year before. They were turquoise corduroy pants, four inches too short in the leg, with red and yellow patches sewn up and down the legs. I walked until I finally stood in front of the bike peddler.
And then I was crushed. In my hand, inside my pocket, I gripped my nearly twenty dollars. And I stared at the price tags attached to each bike. The small ones, ones that would fit my 4-year-old brother, were $20. Bikes my size cost $30, $40, or $50. I had nowhere near enough money. My anger melted into sheer disappointment. I was crushed. I might as well give up ever having a bike.
And to top it all off, I had to walk a mile and a half back home.
Turning back to the north, with tears running down my face, I realized I had done something pretty stupid. I hadn't told anyone where I was going. I didn't know anyone around here. I had no one I could ask for help and didn't dare ask a stranger to use their phone--and besides, my mom had the car at her meeting at the church. I was stuck walking home in the near-dark. To top it all off, I really had to go to the bathroom! Downcast and discouraged, I trudged along the gravel shoulder of the road, forlorn and alone in my ragged old clothes and rubber chore boots.
I must have been a sight, because not long afterwards I heard a cry from a passing car. The car quickly pulled off the road and parked just ahead of me. A young lady rolled down her window and stuck out her head.
"Do you need help?" she called.
"No, I'm OK."
"Are you sure? Do you have ... someplace to live?"
I realized then that I made the perfect picture of a street urchin... patches on my clothes... dirty, tear-streaked face... walking alone on a dark, cold night.
"Yes," I replied. "I just live down this street." I could tell she didn't believe me.
"Well, can we give you a ride?"
"No," I replied because, after all, they were strangers.
The lady's husband leaned over. "Are you sure? We can take you home."
I hesitated. I knew I shouldn't get in a car with a stranger. But I felt my bladder was going to burst if I didn't get to a bathroom soon. Was it better to knock on a stranger's door and ask to use their bathroom, or get a ride from a stranger and use your own bathroom at home? I pondered briefly.
"I... I guess I'll take a ride."
"Oh, good. We were so worried. Where do you live?" the lady asked as she got out of the car so she could lean the seat forward and let me in the back seat.
"It's only about a mile away. Straight down this road."
I know they asked other questions while I rode that brief time with them... but the only thing on my mind was crossing my legs and hoping I could get to the bathroom on time. I finally directed them to pull over in front of my house. They slowed, stopped, and let me out (thankfully I wasn't going to be kidnapped). I said thank you, and they expressed their concern that I was really OK... I'm sure they thought I'd escaped from the orphanage and was just pretending this is where I lived. So I dashed up the hill to our front door and went right in the house, if only to prove I did live there... and to make it quickly to the bathroom.
I never replaced my run-over bike--in fact, I never owned a bike again until I was an adult. But I did learn to never leave your bike in the driveway.
I grew up in the country where there were no sidewalks. Without sidewalks, we seldom had any use for roller skates, skateboards, and even bicycles. Bikes in these days had banana seats and skinny tires--not the hefty "huffy" style bikes that could go off road. I remember when they did start making "10 speeds" and "mountain bikes," and we all really wanted one. But they were a hundred dollars (and this is back when a hundred dollars was like 300 dollars today). So we went without bikes for the most part. My mom had an old Schwinn bike from her college days, but it always had flat tires. The only other wheeled device I remember was a tricycle when I was very young.
When I was about nine years old, I went to visit my cousin, Erica, in Wyoming. I stayed with her family for a week. When she learned that I couldn't ride a bike, she was appalled. She took it upon herself to teach me to ride. We used her bike and her brother's, and she patiently pushed me up and down her long, rutted, dirt/gravel driveway until I finally got the hang of riding a bike. Then we rode around her neighborhood and town. I enjoyed this new-found freedom of getting somewhere quickly.
When I got home, I had a bug in me. I wanted a bike. I really wanted to be able to keep up this skill of riding a bike, and I now knew that I didn't need sidewalks (my cousin had no sidewalks in her neighborhood... dirt paths worked just fine). I asked my parents if I could have a bike, and they said no... maybe... we'll see.
I don't remember how or when, but I eventually got a bike. It was bought used, and assembled from pieces and parts of older bikes, but it worked and it was fun to ride around the farm and down the lane and up to the canal. The only place I didn't like riding it was along the street--our street was a highway with a speed limit of 50 mph, so I felt like the cars would almost blow me over when they drove past. I'd ride as far from the asphalt as I could without getting into the weeds and thistles and ruining my bike's tires.
It was late fall, almost winter, a year or so later. I was almost 11. I had been riding my bike on a Sunday as I went to do my chores, and when it was time for dinner, I had simply dropped it in the driveway and started walking around the house to go in the back door. I didn't know that my mom would be leaving soon for a meeting at church--I assumed that no one would be going out again on a Sunday evening. I was wrong. I heard the car start, and I ran back around the house--too late. My mom ran right over the center of my bike. She immediately pulled the car forward again when she heard the crunch, hopped out of the car and came running to see what the problem was. I was devastated, but she was mad. Hopping mad. She yelled at me for leaving the bike behind the car, yelled that she was late and couldn't worry about bikes now, and yelled at me to move the bike out of the way so she could leave. I dragged it to the side of the driveway, and she zoomed out of the garage and headed to the church.
Now I was mad. I felt all the injustice of being robbed of my only bike. I felt like a victim of circumstance. I had no bike, and I had no apology, and I didn't take time to think about what I was doing.
I had many times driven by a house, about a mile and a half down the highway from our farm. The people in this house had a hobby of fixing up old bikes and selling them. I knew I'd seen some bikes lined up out in front of the house the last time we'd driven past. I determined that I would take all the money I had saved (somewhere close to $20), walk down to that house (despite the fact that it was Sunday), and buy myself a new bike and ride it home.
I immediately went to my bedroom, still wearing my chores clothes and boots. I took my money and shoved it in my pocket. Then I started walking down the highway to the bike seller's house.
You can imagine me walking, in the dimming twilight of a cold, windy fall evening. I walked quickly at first, energized by my anger and inspired by the vision of how my mom would be sorry that I had to spend all my money to buy myself a new bike. I walked and walked--walked past the church where my mom was at her meeting. Walked past the house of everyone I knew, and came to the farther end of the road where I didn't know anyone who lived around there. I walked with my socks falling down and my rubber chore boots chafing against my heels. I walked with my chore coat open (all the old, hand-me-down coats with broken zippers ended up as chore coats), the wind blowing and chilling me to the core. I walked in my chore pants, which had been my scarecrow Halloween costume the year before. They were turquoise corduroy pants, four inches too short in the leg, with red and yellow patches sewn up and down the legs. I walked until I finally stood in front of the bike peddler.
And then I was crushed. In my hand, inside my pocket, I gripped my nearly twenty dollars. And I stared at the price tags attached to each bike. The small ones, ones that would fit my 4-year-old brother, were $20. Bikes my size cost $30, $40, or $50. I had nowhere near enough money. My anger melted into sheer disappointment. I was crushed. I might as well give up ever having a bike.
And to top it all off, I had to walk a mile and a half back home.
Turning back to the north, with tears running down my face, I realized I had done something pretty stupid. I hadn't told anyone where I was going. I didn't know anyone around here. I had no one I could ask for help and didn't dare ask a stranger to use their phone--and besides, my mom had the car at her meeting at the church. I was stuck walking home in the near-dark. To top it all off, I really had to go to the bathroom! Downcast and discouraged, I trudged along the gravel shoulder of the road, forlorn and alone in my ragged old clothes and rubber chore boots.
I must have been a sight, because not long afterwards I heard a cry from a passing car. The car quickly pulled off the road and parked just ahead of me. A young lady rolled down her window and stuck out her head.
"Do you need help?" she called.
"No, I'm OK."
"Are you sure? Do you have ... someplace to live?"
I realized then that I made the perfect picture of a street urchin... patches on my clothes... dirty, tear-streaked face... walking alone on a dark, cold night.
"Yes," I replied. "I just live down this street." I could tell she didn't believe me.
"Well, can we give you a ride?"
"No," I replied because, after all, they were strangers.
The lady's husband leaned over. "Are you sure? We can take you home."
I hesitated. I knew I shouldn't get in a car with a stranger. But I felt my bladder was going to burst if I didn't get to a bathroom soon. Was it better to knock on a stranger's door and ask to use their bathroom, or get a ride from a stranger and use your own bathroom at home? I pondered briefly.
"I... I guess I'll take a ride."
"Oh, good. We were so worried. Where do you live?" the lady asked as she got out of the car so she could lean the seat forward and let me in the back seat.
"It's only about a mile away. Straight down this road."
I know they asked other questions while I rode that brief time with them... but the only thing on my mind was crossing my legs and hoping I could get to the bathroom on time. I finally directed them to pull over in front of my house. They slowed, stopped, and let me out (thankfully I wasn't going to be kidnapped). I said thank you, and they expressed their concern that I was really OK... I'm sure they thought I'd escaped from the orphanage and was just pretending this is where I lived. So I dashed up the hill to our front door and went right in the house, if only to prove I did live there... and to make it quickly to the bathroom.
I never replaced my run-over bike--in fact, I never owned a bike again until I was an adult. But I did learn to never leave your bike in the driveway.
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