By the time I was three years old, my family was living in the small town of McKownsville, New York, near Albany, where my father had procured employment as editor-writer-photographer of the monthly magazine for the Papermakers' Union. We had left New York City because, at the end of the '40's, the only job open to this sports journalist was as a horse-racing reporter, an unenviable post. So, Dad, needing a stable income (with three children aged eight and under), moved us all up to the Albany area, where we lived in a house in McKownsville for a year or two. (We later moved to Delmar.)
One year, after Christmas had passed, and the early spring had come, there were children out playing in the sunshine and riding their bicycles, and, my brother said, "C'mon, Patty! You can ride on the back of my bike!" "Ok!" I said, pleased that my oldest brother was offering me this privilege. After all, he was five years older than me - he was ten - and that much smarter, and I was without wheels to explore. So, he lifted me up on the rear shelf over the back tire, and said, "here we go!" We headed toward the vacant lot across the street from 412 Kenwood Ave., where there was a path that cut the lot in half diagonally. Jim started pedaling along the path and Stevie Shay, his friend, was rolling from the other direction towards us. I really couldn't see anything behind his back and had no reason to doubt him in any regard, but I think in my head I knew that one of these bicyclists would have to chicken-out in the end.
Three hours later, I recall waking up with a doctor asking me if I could see him. I could not see from my left eye (temporarily) because a bandage had been placed over it. I had thirteen stitches above my left eye and below it and the scar that resulted is still visible. But, I could see him with my right eye! Two years later, at the age of seven, I tripped while running down the street and gravel from the sidewalk invaded my facial area. And, six months after that, my other brother, John, pushed me down on the flagstone terrace, upon which my left palm spurted blood. Dr. Brown gave me six stitches.
When we moved to Philadelphia where Dad accepted the position of copy editor for the Sports Department of the Philadelphia Inquirer, I asked for a bike. My father spent about two years putting together my mother's old bike for me to ride. At the age of ten (and with trepidation, my mother forewarning me about being 'careful'), I rode down very fast from the top of the hill on which we lived and into the corner of the house, causing my crotch to hurt like the dickens...
I hated that old red bike with the balloon tires; it was heavy and hard to ride. So, after we moved back to N.Y.C. (where my father went to work as Sports copy editor on the New York Times), when I was fifteen, I bought myself a used Italian bike with standard brakes and no speeds. It was comfortable and lightweight and was part of my accoutrements until I went to Europe and my younger sister rode it to her friend's house one day, left it in front of her house and it was promptly stolen.
As I worked and went to school and Europe, there was no more convenient way of everyday travel than the bus and subway. However, when I transplanted myself to San Francisco, I fell for someone who was able to 'motorize' my travel ambitions. He was a mechanic - a good one - and we stuck together through appliance repair to commercial refrigeration. We were married and had two kids in that period of 14 1/2 years until we separated. One day, I was pushing my son (aged 1 1/2) on the back of a tricycle. I suppose I was going a little too quickly because we imploded on a large stone and flipped forward. I don't know how I saved him from this radical mishap; I only know that I did not escape injury to my upper lip. (The scar appears as an "M" on my upper lip!)
Later, we moved to Pacifica, California. The kids were 6 and 7 and somehow, over the years, managed to acquire their own bikes and learn how to use them. I, however attempted to reconstitute my desire to be a bicyclist. Once I borrowed a boy's bike from a neighbor and crashed when I tried to stop. We did spend a night at the kids' father's house. I happened to slip on the floor in front of the table and cracked my head on the right side causing a profusion of blood. ( I won't ever forget Seamus' yelling, "Mom, oh Mom!) When I was working temporarily at Stanford University, a bike was given to me by a lady but when I went out riding, I got so frightened because my neighbor who was riding with me, loomed too largely in my presence and I fell against the curb, chipping a tooth...I was chasing down the stairs to catch my son before he left the house so that I could convey a message from the Motor Vehicle Dep't. about his I.D. card so that he could take the G.E.D. tests. (Believe me, he had no problems passing.) The D.M.V. had problems giving him his I.D. card because they thought his "home" birth certificate was incorrect. My feet were shod in backless slippers and one of them flew off before I reached the bottom step, causing me to careen into the wall and wind up with a black eye.
While in India, I was crossing through a train station to get the train on the other side of the tracks and tripped on the long scarf of the salawar kameeze that I was wearing. Fortunately, a kind young man helped me up and carried my suitcase to the bottom of the stairs. Just a month or two ago, I left for work and, calling out a hello to my sister across the street, promptly tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and fell, hitting my nose exactly where my nose ring sits causing me to take twenty minutes to quell the blood.
No wonder my kids nix my bicycle riding...
One year, after Christmas had passed, and the early spring had come, there were children out playing in the sunshine and riding their bicycles, and, my brother said, "C'mon, Patty! You can ride on the back of my bike!" "Ok!" I said, pleased that my oldest brother was offering me this privilege. After all, he was five years older than me - he was ten - and that much smarter, and I was without wheels to explore. So, he lifted me up on the rear shelf over the back tire, and said, "here we go!" We headed toward the vacant lot across the street from 412 Kenwood Ave., where there was a path that cut the lot in half diagonally. Jim started pedaling along the path and Stevie Shay, his friend, was rolling from the other direction towards us. I really couldn't see anything behind his back and had no reason to doubt him in any regard, but I think in my head I knew that one of these bicyclists would have to chicken-out in the end.
Three hours later, I recall waking up with a doctor asking me if I could see him. I could not see from my left eye (temporarily) because a bandage had been placed over it. I had thirteen stitches above my left eye and below it and the scar that resulted is still visible. But, I could see him with my right eye! Two years later, at the age of seven, I tripped while running down the street and gravel from the sidewalk invaded my facial area. And, six months after that, my other brother, John, pushed me down on the flagstone terrace, upon which my left palm spurted blood. Dr. Brown gave me six stitches.
When we moved to Philadelphia where Dad accepted the position of copy editor for the Sports Department of the Philadelphia Inquirer, I asked for a bike. My father spent about two years putting together my mother's old bike for me to ride. At the age of ten (and with trepidation, my mother forewarning me about being 'careful'), I rode down very fast from the top of the hill on which we lived and into the corner of the house, causing my crotch to hurt like the dickens...
I hated that old red bike with the balloon tires; it was heavy and hard to ride. So, after we moved back to N.Y.C. (where my father went to work as Sports copy editor on the New York Times), when I was fifteen, I bought myself a used Italian bike with standard brakes and no speeds. It was comfortable and lightweight and was part of my accoutrements until I went to Europe and my younger sister rode it to her friend's house one day, left it in front of her house and it was promptly stolen.
As I worked and went to school and Europe, there was no more convenient way of everyday travel than the bus and subway. However, when I transplanted myself to San Francisco, I fell for someone who was able to 'motorize' my travel ambitions. He was a mechanic - a good one - and we stuck together through appliance repair to commercial refrigeration. We were married and had two kids in that period of 14 1/2 years until we separated. One day, I was pushing my son (aged 1 1/2) on the back of a tricycle. I suppose I was going a little too quickly because we imploded on a large stone and flipped forward. I don't know how I saved him from this radical mishap; I only know that I did not escape injury to my upper lip. (The scar appears as an "M" on my upper lip!)
Later, we moved to Pacifica, California. The kids were 6 and 7 and somehow, over the years, managed to acquire their own bikes and learn how to use them. I, however attempted to reconstitute my desire to be a bicyclist. Once I borrowed a boy's bike from a neighbor and crashed when I tried to stop. We did spend a night at the kids' father's house. I happened to slip on the floor in front of the table and cracked my head on the right side causing a profusion of blood. ( I won't ever forget Seamus' yelling, "Mom, oh Mom!) When I was working temporarily at Stanford University, a bike was given to me by a lady but when I went out riding, I got so frightened because my neighbor who was riding with me, loomed too largely in my presence and I fell against the curb, chipping a tooth...I was chasing down the stairs to catch my son before he left the house so that I could convey a message from the Motor Vehicle Dep't. about his I.D. card so that he could take the G.E.D. tests. (Believe me, he had no problems passing.) The D.M.V. had problems giving him his I.D. card because they thought his "home" birth certificate was incorrect. My feet were shod in backless slippers and one of them flew off before I reached the bottom step, causing me to careen into the wall and wind up with a black eye.
While in India, I was crossing through a train station to get the train on the other side of the tracks and tripped on the long scarf of the salawar kameeze that I was wearing. Fortunately, a kind young man helped me up and carried my suitcase to the bottom of the stairs. Just a month or two ago, I left for work and, calling out a hello to my sister across the street, promptly tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and fell, hitting my nose exactly where my nose ring sits causing me to take twenty minutes to quell the blood.
No wonder my kids nix my bicycle riding...
It's a friggin' miracle you're still with us!
ReplyDeleteSounds like your more of a danger to yourself on foot.
ReplyDelete