A Pink Bicycle Summer

With summer right around the corner, it’s time for kids to get out their bicycles and ride like the wind. The best bike I ever had was a boy’s. I loved it until my brother pulled off the fenders. I was so mad, I never pedaled it again. None of my bikes were new and none fit. They were too big, too small, too rusty, too worn out, or just too ugly, but they all signaled freedom.        

Three years ago when my grandniece was five, I purchased a pink bicycle for her. It was her first two-wheeler, and Molly was thrilled. It took her five minutes to get used to it, and then she was off like Lance Armstrong. The safest place for her to ride was the school parking lot across the street from her home.

Molly’s riding partner was her grandmother, my sister Jude. One was on a bicycle, one in a motorized chair called Jazzy. On warm summer afternoons, these two pals covered every inch of the parking lot and inspected each crack, stone, leaf, and bug that came their way. Whenever Molly spied something out of the ordinary, she screeched to a halt and commanded Grandma tell her what she had found.

Every day was a new adventure. Everything was scrutinized and explained in minute detail. Patiently, Jude taught Molly the names of various birds, trees, wild flowers, weeds, and insects. Clouds were admired, mud puddles were examined for the pretty colors within them, ant hills received a thorough investigation, and new neighbors were hailed as old friends. 

Molly’s favorite game was the tortoise and the hare. She loved challenging Grandma to a race and guess who played the hare. Grandma, of course. My niece always gave Jude a head start which only seemed fair as the child traveled twice the speed of the adult. Shrieks of delight were heard as she flew past Grandma, squealing to a halt so fast by summer’s end Molly had worn the tread off her back tire. 

This summer I’ll bring her to the country as often as possible, but I’ll never replace Grandma. As Molly and I travel up and down the road, she’ll see new sights and hear new sounds. We’ll stand on the bridge, throw stones in the river, and watch the ripples disappear. We’ll listen to the bray of neighboring donkeys and respond with hardy heehaws.     

In other words, I’ll give Molly the special gift Jude gave her. It doesn’t cost a dime, needs no batteries or electricity, and can’t be purchased for any price. It’s called the precious gift of time. My sister passed away a year ago, but she would be happy knowing her legacy lives on. 

The marvelous computer we carry around in our head stores memories we have forgotten until something jogs them back to us. Holidays often remind us of days past when we were surrounded by family and friends. Places can do the same thing. When I look out my kitchen window, I see Jude. She’s not there, of course, but I see her in my mind’s eye. Sometimes she’s carrying milk cans from the barn to the wellhouse. Other times she’s in the pasture, searching for mushrooms after a gentle rain. 

Straining my eyes, I see her on the hay wagon, standing atop a load of hay as Dad drives the tractor towards home. She’s smiling and waving. If I gaze out my window long enough, I see her running from the barn to the house. I see her jump through the air and safely land on the front porch.

I’m always looking out my windows. I have no idea what I’m looking for or why I think I might see something of interest. My kitchen window faces east and is the one I look out most, probably because the kitchen is where I spend a lot of my time. I’ve always been a kitchen person. It’s a warm and inviting place especially when the aroma of freshly baked bread scents the air.

While gazing east a few years ago, I saw a bear cub trying to get at a birdfeeder. Last summer a moose wondered across my backyard. At first glance I thought it was a horse, but I didn’t need binoculars to confirm no horse ever looked like Bullwinkle. He watched me watching him before trotting away. Along with the usual parade of skunks and raccoons, a few turkeys strolled through my yard last month.

I never see anything of worth out my south or west windows, and I never look out those facing north. I know what lies north—a lifetime of memories because that’s the direction of the old house. The house of my youth haunts me like a benevolent ghost.

Recently someone posted an amazing picture on Facebook of a dog guarding the grave of his master. Every night the animal returns to the cemetery to mourn and wait. The caretaker won’t lock the gates until Capitan is settled, faithful beyond human comprehension to the man who loved him.

Maybe that’s why I look out windows. Maybe I’m searching for something that was lost a long time ago and will never return. As Molly grows older and looks out her windows, I hope she sees a little girl on a pink bicycle challenging Grandma to a race.

Such a cherished memory won’t be easily forgotten.