Posted tagged ‘bike riding’

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“Education is learning what you didn’t even know you didn’t know.”

September 9, 2013

Every morning is now the same: cool in the house from the cold nights while the outside air is warm with sun. Last night I woke up chilly and added an afghan to my bed. It’s not yet comforter weather, but we’re getting closer.

The worst is yet to come. Soon it will be shut down the deck time, my final acknowledgement that summer has ended. I’ll leave out a couple of chairs as I am ever hopeful for warm days and maybe enough sun to make me lazy and tired and ready for a nap.

Summer seemed to stretch forever when I was young. I was never mindful of the days passing. I’d ride my bike or walk the tracks or be at the playground throwing horseshoes, playing tennis or softball. By bedtime I was exhausted, and sleep came almost as soon as I closed my eyes. When my birthday came in August, I knew school wasn’t far away. The trip to the shoe store sealed my fate.

I was always excited the first day of school. I liked school and loved learning. It was the getting up early part I didn’t like. My mother always made breakfast. I was a cocoa drinker. Everyone else drank tea. My mother used a china tea-pot. It had flowers on it, and it always made the table look just a little bit fancy even without a tablecloth. We had eggs or oatmeal in the winter. On the warmer days we just had toast and cold cereal. I always wanted to be the first one to open a new bottle of milk so I could scoop the cream. I was a dunker and dunked my toast in the cocoa though graham crackers were always my favorite. It took skill in knowing exactly when to take the graham crackers out of the cup before the end dissolved. I was an expert.

My friend from up the street would knock at the back door so we could walk to school together. My mother would hand us our lunch boxes, we’d grab our school bags and off we’d go.

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“It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.”

March 26, 2013

The snow never materialized last night but it did sleet then rain for a short while, and the morning still bears the remnants of the storm though storm seems a bit grandiose a description for a bit of rain and sleet. Our familiar gray skies are back, but the sun has been making quick visits then disappearing to wherever it’s been going for what seems like weeks. I watched the bird feeders while my coffee was dripping, and my suet feeder had a huge guest, a flicker. I also noticed the gold finches are getting brighter. The tops of the hyacinths are appearing above their leaves, and there are several daffodil buds. I think we’re in the two steps forward and only one step back part of spring. It makes me hopeful for one really warm day when I can sit on the deck, close my eyes and fall asleep with the sun on my face.

The perfect day when I was about ten was always in the spring. It was warm and sunny but not hot. I’d wear my spring jacket, my favorite of all jackets. It had a front zipper and was pale pink. The first wearing of that jacket was a symbol back then though symbolism was lost on the young me. I just knew I loved my jacket because it was light and pink and had replaced the heavy, dark winter coats and layers we’d worn for months. Wearing it was the acknowledgment the season had finally changed and winter was passed.

On my perfect day, usually a Saturday, I’d go down the cellar and maneuver my bike out the door and up the stairs. That was never easy. The door faced a wall so the angle was all wrong. I had to lift the front wheel in the air to get the back wheel out. Once up the stairs I’d get on my bike, ride across the side lawn and down the grassy hill, a maneuver forbidden by my dad who’d yell later when he saw the tire marks. I’d always get the how many times do I have to tell you lecture, but the little ride was worth it. My dad just didn’t get how neat it was to start my adventure by going down his small hill. From there, I’d sometimes ride down the big hill on which we lived or I’d take the side street and head toward the field with the horses. I remember how bright the sun seemed and how the trees had buds and the grass was finally turning green. I’d see the colors of the spring flowers blooming above the ground. The air smelled fresh and brand new. I always took my time, not wanting to miss a single thing though I’d taken that same route so many times. I remember feeling joyful and as alive as spring as I rode through the small streets.

I have that same feeling every year on the very first warm spring day even without my bike.

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“Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of a bike ride.”

June 9, 2012

This morning I went out to the deck to fill the suet feeder then I just stood there enjoying the morning. All of a sudden the smoke alarm in the hall went off. Animals ran: the cats low to the ground and the dog out the door into the yard. I went in and the house was filled with smoke, mostly the dining room and kitchen. I went looking and found the culprit: the toast blackened and on fire in my toaster oven. I had forgotten all about it as I don’t usually have anything but coffee in the morning. The house still has a charred smell.

Finally a deck day! I have to sweep and clean it a bit but that’s fine with me. When I’m done, I’m going to bring out my book and a cold drink and soak up the sun and the beauty of the day. It is the  best sort of day. The sun is bright, the breeze just enough and it’s already 70°. Gracie is asleep on the lounge. That’s a sure sign of a beautiful morning.

Once my brother and I rode our bicycles to East Boston to visit our grandparents. It meant riding along Route 1, a busy, busy highway, crossing it at a rotary with cars all over and then riding, still on Route 1, into the city. We knew the route because we used to go visit my grandparents many Sundays and every Christmas and Easter. When we knocked on his door, my grandfather opened it and looked around for my parents. He was shocked to find we’d ridden our bicycles. He called my mother, and she was horrified. She didn’t drive back then so she couldn’t pick us up, and my father was a salesman who could have been anywhere on his route so he couldn’t come get us. All my mother could do was tell us to ride home and be careful. My grandfather gave us some money for a snack and off we went.

It was just a ride home for us. For my mother it was waiting and looking out the door hoping she’d see us riding our bikes up the hill. My brother and I just couldn’t understand why she yelled when we got home. Her, “You could have been killed,” meant nothing  to us. We hadn’t been. We let her yell as that always seemed the best approach. When she was finished, we asked if we could go out bike riding. “No,” was all she said.

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“The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.”

April 10, 2012

The day is spring lovely. The air is warm and still and the sky cloudless. This morning I bought some pansies for the basket on the front steps. They are hardy enough flowers for these cold nights when the temperature still dips to the high 30’s. We have had a fire warning in effect for the last few days. As it hasn’t rained, there have been several brush fires, and the fear is there may be more.

When I was a kid, I always loved the coming of the warm weather when I could get rid of the pounds of winter clothing I’d endured for months. Away went the scarf and the mittens and the layers under my winter coat. Sometimes my snow boots became mud boots when the spring rains arrived and the softened ground turned to mud. On the way home from school, we walked across the field below our street, and it oozed with mud and water. We loved it; my mother hated it. Sometimes a boot got stuck, and while trying to pull it out, the other one would get stuck. That’s how my socks got dirty and muddy.

My bike tires left grooved ruts when I’d ride through the muddy grass, and the bottoms of my pant legs were flecked with blotches of mud spots like brown poker dots. The ruts were tell-tale signs to my father that we had used his grassy hill even though we had been told over and over not to use the hill but to walk down the steps with our bikes. That was the silliest request we’d ever heard. What self-respecting kid on a bike would ever bypass a hill for steps? We never did.

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“Fond memory brings the light of other days around me.”

March 24, 2012

The day is chillier than it has been, more like the early spring we usually expect. The day started cloudy, but the sun is poking its way through the clouds. I’ve been watching a robin jump from the deck rail to the suet feeder where it fluttered its wings to stay long enough to grab a bite then it settled back on the deck to munch. Right now the robin has just finished eating and is standing on the rail with its face to the sun taking in the day.

Maddie wanted down the cellar this morning so I opened the door. Later, when I went back to the kitchen for more coffee, I found a dead mouse in the hall, compliments I expect of Miss Maddie and her cellar jaunt.

I have nothing planned for the day. Usually I have a string of possibilities but not today. It was a busy week so I left my dance card empty. I’ll probably just read or watch a movie. I’d go to the movies, but I want to wait until it’s a school day before I see the Hunger Games.

If I were still a kid, today would be a Saturday matinée or a ride my bike around town to see what’s stirring sort of day. I remember riding up town and stopping at the fire station on a warmish day. The firemen would be sitting in wooden chairs we used to call captain’s chairs outside the station in front of the open garage doors. I’d ask if I could look at the firetrucks, and they always accommodated. Back then the police station was on one side and the fire station on the other of the same building. I remember looking in at the police dispatcher in front of the console. All of the switches and buttons were fascinating, almost like I’d imagine the console of a rocket ship to be like. The town barn was also a good stop. The doors were usually open, and I remember stalls filled with horses on each side of the barn. I remember the smell, not awful as it smelled of horses and hay. The junkman, whose house was near the barn, was a ride by. The house had a huge porch which was filled with piles of newspapers leaving only an aisle to get to the door. He had a barn beside the house, and it was filled with all sorts of broken tools and pieces of metal. I remember when he used to drive his horse and wagon up the street, and he’d be yelling, “Junkman, Junkman” so everyone would run out to give him their cast-offs.

My town was always interesting when I was a kid. The up-town was where people shopped in small stores, all of which have disappeared over time. Off the square were the big houses where the rich people used to live. They were all painted white and had fences in front. I went to school with a boy who lived in one of those. It had been in his family for years. I remember his name was Steve, and he was a gentle sort. I also remember he was tall and had stick-out ears. It’s funny what we all remember.

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“We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.”

March 10, 2012

Last night I set my alarm with plenty of time for a coffee run to Dunkin’s and a hunt for the best viewing for the St. Patrick’s Day parade. When the alarm rudely woke me up, I looked out the window, saw snow, turned off the alarm and promptly went back to sleep. It’s more than a dusting but not a whole lot more. It must have been wet snow at first as the walk, driveway and street have a layer of  slush which froze a bit. I couldn’t find my newspaper then I noticed it had slid all the way down the driveway and was a lump covered with snow. Right now it is 33° and winter. The rest of the week will be in the 50’s and spring.

The sun is desperately trying to come out right now, and the warmer air is melting the snow off the roof. I can see drops falling onto the deck. My dance card is empty today so I don’t really care about the weather.

There was no cryptogram in today’s Cape paper, and I was bummed. Being a creature of habit, it is one of my morning rituals. Solving it each day means I still have some reasoning power left which gives me comfort as my memory is spotty.

The sun has just appeared. It won the battle. I’d like to think I helped!

The snow has dampened any sound and kept people inside their houses. My neighborhood is quiet. Where I grew up had hundreds of kids or at least it always seemed that way. They were everywhere, and it was seldom quiet. That was in the day when families had lots of kids. You never wanted for a playmate or a friend. The little girls played house or dolls sitting on the back steps or on the grass while the boys played any noisy game they could concoct. We older kids roller skated, rode our bikes or walked around town. Saturdays, of course, found us at the matinée. We never seemed to run out of things to do.

My neighborhood has a lot of kids now. The family down the street just had their 4th, their first girl. At another house, they had their third, another boy, a few months back. The house next door has three but one is in high school. Their youngest is almost five. The only time I see any of these kids is when they’re on a walk with one parent or the other. Other than that, they’re in their yards playing. Long gone are the days of roaming or bike riding all over town. I still go to a Saturday matinée every now and then, but the best parts are gone. Nobody throws things like JuJu Beads and not a single couple makes out in the back rows. Where’s the fun gone?

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