Spring also meant putting my Flexible Flyer sled back into the barn and fishing out my bicycle. Or, I should say tricycle, because at that time I still didn't have a two-wheeler. I had watched with envy my older brother Stephen and sister Susan zipping around on their bicycles and knew I wanted some of that action. I yearned for a two-wheeler and told my Dad as much one evening after supper.
"Well," he said. "I have to go to the dump this Saturday. We'll see if we can find you a bike there." I was elated! Our dump was like an open pit treasure chest. Back then, foraging at the dump wasn't given a second thought, in fact it was encouraged. The more you took home the less the county had to dispose. On that Saturday, Dad loaded up the back of the station wagon (a mid-1960's white Ford Country Squire with real faux-wood siding) with the larger items that wouldn't fit into our garbage cans. My brother Steve joined Dad and me and we made our way over to the dump. Steve viewed the dump as his own parts warehouse. He had a fledgling business repairing lawnmowers and usually found something in the pit he needed for his enterprise.
After arriving, the attendant directed us to the open pit and Dad backed the station wagon down to it's edge. He unloaded our items and the picking began. Steve noticed some discarded lawn mowers and went over to investigate. Dad and I scanned the pit but the few bikes we saw were too large. Then, partially buried, we saw a small bike tire protruding from the pile. Dad grabbed the tire and pulled a pint-sized, green two-wheeled bicycle from the heap. He stood it up next to the car and we inspected it. It was the correct size and the tires, although lacking air, still had good tread. The fenders had minor dents but the paint still had some shine.
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| "This one looks pretty good," said Dad. "But Dad," I protested. "It doesn't have a seat or pedals!" "Don't worry," he replied. "We can make it in the shop." |
"This one looks pretty good," said Dad. "But Dad," I protested. "It doesn't have a seat or pedals!" "Don't worry," he replied. "We can make it in the shop." Triggering a seven year old's eye roll. This was a common expression we heard from Dad. He did indeed have a wood shop which was located in the hayloft of our barn. We believed he could make anything in it because he generally did. Wonderful things came out of that shop, from a beautiful china hutch to kitchen cabinets with butcher block counter tops. Our breakfast room addition had its genesis in that shop. So, of course, he could make a bicycle seat and pedals. Compared to a room addition or a piece of furniture those would be a piece of cake.
I should also mention here that Dad used the "We can make it in the shop" line as a bit of a "delay and avoidance mechanism" with us kids when circumstances called for it. If we were out at a store and noticed something we wanted to buy, Dad would casually say "Why buy it? We can make it in the shop." Then he would move on with us trailing behind hoping we would forget about the item by the time we got home. In most cases, we did.
But I wasn't going to forget that bicycle. We brought it home and placed it in the barn with the promise of new "Made in the Shop" seat and pedals to come. No more was done with it that weekend. During the week after school, I visited my bike knowing the only thing that stood in the way of two-wheeled bliss was a seat and a pair of pedals. I pestered Dad to begin work on my bike but he was too tired from his job. Saturday finally arrived and my entreaty began anew. Dad knew I could be persistent so after breakfast he headed out to the shop.
A short time later, he appeared in the backyard with the little bicycle. The tires were inflated and it sported a new seat and pedals made of wood. He also had located and attached our set of training wheels. He beckoned me over and held the bike steady as I climbed on board. I practiced all morning and in the afternoon the training wheels came off. Once again, Dad held me steady before giving me a little shove and I wobbled forward through the warm, fragrant spring air.
Thanks Dad.
THIS WAY AND THAT
10x8 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2018
This Way and That - auction ends on Sunday, March 10th at 9:00am PST.
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of watching a group of hens out scratching and pecking, you’ll know that their progress is far from straightforward. Instead, they meander this way and that in their search of the perfect morsel.
