The thing about childhood is its timelessness. One day it
is the birthday. Next week it will be Christmas and a few days later it will be
Halloween. Easter? Just after midnight. All this was a child’s life until a Big
Yellow Bus pulled up and the once-little children marched up the steps,
lunchboxes in hand. Realism flattened them with a brutal calendar, ruling a child's life.
Somewhere shuffled in there was summer vacation, Oh,
Thank you, Dear Lord! Summer vacation opened a world that had always existed
but never had been recognized in our own child world, wedged in between Easter and
maybe Valentine’s Day. But now, the power of bikes and open streets called. I
have missed you so much. Come, join me. Spin your wheels. Have band aids at the
ready.
We were not yet part of the Big Yellow Bus crew. No, the calendar deemed that we were too young. Someday we would have lunchboxes and
climb up the steps to the glory of education. But for now, we could just gaze
at a future, hands clutched on handlebars.
We watched our brother Don as he tore out onto the street
with other nine-year-old boys. They laughed while my brother Robert and I stood
by his trike in the grass until all that could hear was their laughter and
crickets. Riding a trike along narrow sidewalks held so little joy that our faces
dropped down to our feet and dragged on the grass. So, we pedaled along the sidewalks
with Robert taking on the pedals, long strong legs while I stood on the back
with my skinny girl legs
Maintenance repairs were on the calendar, the all-knowing
calendar which said that those streets needed some work, coated with hot black tar.
The bikers would be grounded just like the rest of us with trikes. The big boys
ran off to play in the creek, enjoying freedom of nine-year-old. Our faces
drooped.
While the trucks sprayed the new gravel on the streets,
Robert and I lay in the grass listening to workers swear, watching them smoke. At
least they were happy in a greasy black tar world. We instead scratched at
mosquito bites and chewed on peanut butter sandwiches held by our grimy hands.
Next day, it was stinkin’ hot. That’s what Mom
always said when it was hot like this: It’s stinkin’ hot. When it was
that bad, plants fried, and black tar bubbled in puddles on the road. What Mom
had to say about that was a stream of instructions and threats about our future
existence if we disobeyed and charged into the black tar on the road.
We nodded with solemn faces. Of course. We wouldn’t go
near the black tar. Shoot, that would be crazy. When Mom sensed our level
of obedience would be nearly complete, she stood up and away, returning to
whatever she normally did. We took off as fast as Robert’s legs could pedal,
over stretches of uneven sidewalk and through still stinkin’ hot air.
Our zeal hit a full stop when it was clear the length of
our adventure was about 100 feet. Being stinkin’ hot, Robert’s
five-year-old legs and my four-year-old strength gave out and no adventures
could be had. And this is where everything gave out and a new decision had to
be made. This is sad part of my memory when we concluded that something new and
exciting needed to occur.
It did as we pulled up by the Christian Church where a
wedding had just occurred. All the congregation had headed to the schoolhouse
where a reception was set up in the cafeteria. How were we to know the photos
and photo opportunities were capturing the joy of walking down the church steps
and through the fluffy bridesmaids’ gauntlet. It was ignorance on our part,
never having been to a wedding and seeing tradition play out before us.
I sensed vibration filling Robert when he had a
miraculous and an inspired idea. He did a U-turn, trike lined up at the wedding
party. Oh, Robert! Mom said, we
can’t, we shouldn’t…But we took the jump, and made a decision.
He geared up some
strength and veered into puddle of bubbling tar, tires picking up as much of it
as possible. Robert swerved left, heading straight for the gauntlet of pink
chiffon dresses and rented tuxedos. Before they perceived any threat, Robert
tore through the line of pink ladies, who were now screaming.
The hot tar sprayed off the wheels, splattering hot tar
on the field of fluffy dresses and black tuxes. I can still hear the screams
and the words that flowed from the tuxes-up men. They had a large vocabulary.
While the air was filled with anger and dismay, we took off.
Adrenaline filled us both as we disappeared behind Lena
Foote’s house and through the thick bushes separating Lens’ garden from
Mom’s. Robert was so fast, and I
squeezed his shoulders, giggling in his ear. The screams and profanity grew
fainter as Robert swung the trike into Dad’s old car shed, stopping it with sheer
ease. This is where good decisions had
to be made.
Robert had a hiding spot he used frequently, and we
crawled into it, waiting for police sirens to visit the wedding party. The
volume of the screams lessened until it stopped. Dead silent. That was when we
examined our clothing to see just how badly we had been sprayed ourselves. Nothing, nothing at all. We were pure,
sinless and safe.
Still fearing a reaction for our parents, we casually
wandered through the kitchen door and headed to the bathroom to wash up. Again,
we saw no evidence of our carnage. Instead we held our breaths, anticipating
police to storm through the house and grab us by the scruffs of our clothes.
Nothing. We sauntered back out the door and rejoiced, laughing.
Our folks never knew about this.
It was not until some 30+ years later that we told them about
this event, this glorious event. What? We never heard anything about this.
Are you serious? Yes, why yes, we were. I could even show them where the
tar streaks still crossed diagonally over the sidewalk. God is good. He always
provides.
