It happened two Christmases in a row! The best presents a boy (in the fifties) could hope for were under my tree. But, I had to wait an \u201ceternity\u201d to play with them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first time it happened, I was seven; it was a set of electric trains; I didn\u2019t get my hands on them until late in the day, after my father finally had his fill, \u201cshowing me how.\u201d The next year it was a bicycle; I didn\u2019t get to ride that until the following spring. My sister, Madeline, and I both got bikes that year, second-hand, but freshened up with a new coat of paint. We didn\u2019t care; they sparkled, as did our eyes when we saw them under the tree. But, into the basement they went for three long months. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Finally, the first robin arrived in our town and the bikes came out. We lived on a hill; it was too steep to learn to ride a bike on, so my father helped us push them to the top, to a flat street with hardly any traffic. I can still remember the exhilaration of staying upright while he pushed me. I remember even more vividly, the terror I felt when I looked over my shoulder and discovered he wasn\u2019t there. I panicked and crashed to the ground. He eventually convinced me that I\u2019d kept the bike upright all by myself and didn\u2019t need his help, except to get started. I hopped back on, and like Hop-a-long Cassidy, my cowboy hero, I rode off into the sunset. One problem; I didn’t know how to dismount. When I came to a stop, I simply fell over. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
My sister solved the problem. She raced ahead, jumped off her bike and caught me as I came to a stop. Later on, I just stopped near the curb and put out my foot. It wasn\u2019t my fault; the bike was too big, like everything in those days. We had to \u201cgrow into\u201d stuff: shoes, clothes, skates, sleds and yes, bikes. I went around in oversized jeans (we called them dungarees) with a six inch cuff, shoes with wadded up newspaper stuffed in the toes and to top it off, I had to use a curb to get on and off my bike. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I developed a deep relationship with that two-wheeler. It allowed me to leave behind my three-wheeler and the ridicule that went with it. I don’t think a cowboy ever loved his horse more than I loved that bike. It was freedom; it was status; and it taught me how to fix things. I learned to take it apart and convert it into a racing bike, by removing the fenders, reversing the handlebars and raising the seat. Sometimes, I decorated it with red, white and blue crepe paper and rode at the tail end of the parades in downtown Binghamton. A lot of kids did. We also \u201cclothes pinned\u201d a piece of cardboard to the fender support so it would flap against the spokes and made it sound like we were riding motorcycles. It didn\u2019t take much to entertain a kid back in the fifties. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother loved the bike too. She sent me off to the market a few blocks away, just about every day. My favorite errand was a bread run. I always snuck a slice out of the middle of the loaf; it was the price my mother unknowingly paid for delivery service. I lost my concentration on one of those bread runs, distracted by the freshness of the bread I guess, and crashed into the side of a delivery truck. I was only slightly injured. More startled than anything. A neighbor passing by ran to my house and yelled in the door to my mother, \u201cCome quick; Merlin has been hit by a truck!\u201d Mom got a terrible scare, but I paid for it. Once she discovered I was okay she started yelling, and kept it up all the way home. Those gray hairs I allegedly gave her were painful for me too. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The bike got fixed and served me well for years. Then, the year I turned 12, I found a lightweight, English bike, with hand brakes and three gears under the Christmas tree. It was brand-new and the exact right size. I was ecstatic, but I\u2019ll always think of that used, repainted first bicycle as the best Christmas present ever. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It happened two Christmases in a row! The best presents a boy (in the fifties) could hope for were under my tree. But, I had…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":77133,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-77132","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-editorial"],"yoast_head":"\n