Bicycle Dreams

I am dreaming of bikes these days. Summer memories are filled with the fun of riding bikes around the neighborhood.

My first two wheeler was a classic black and gold bike with a coaster brake that I was thrilled to receive from my cousin, Colleen. It was the dead of winter when we brought it home, and so I was forced to wait for warmer weather before I could try it out.

As kids we spent hours on our bikes. We played gas station and pretended to drive to far off cities on our "motorcycles", or ride the range on our "horses."

That bike was eventually passed down to my sister, and I spent the next few years riding "boys" bikes, with sissy bars and banana seats and gears that I didn't quite know how to use.

When I turned 13 my parents gifted me with my first brand new ride- a pinky-orange ten speed. I hated the color, but loved the ride. My girlfriends and I often rode our bikes past a boy's house or packed a lunch and took off on the bike trail that wound itself around the perimeter of our neighborhood.

When I moved to Florida, the bike gathered dust in the garage as I traded it for cooler transportation, namely a car. By the time I went away to college my parents had purged the garage and attic of our childhood and along with some precious items, like my junior high yearbooks, the bike was sold at a garage sale.

When I approached forty, I decided to purchase an expensive mountain bike. I had visions of the family biking along mountain trails, but it never happened.

I saw a classic Schwinn in a bike shop one day and realized I still love to ride a bike. I want to return to my cycling roots. So I bought an old fashioned two wheeler with a soft seat, regular handlebars, and add a bell and basket.

I love my new bike!

Swimming

If someone gave me three wishes, I think I would ask for the ability to relive an ordinary day from my childhood. Not because I want to go back and change my destiny, but for the simple pleasure of enjoying life as only a child can.

Growing up, there was nothing like a full day swimming at our local pool. Mom would carefully pack the picnic basket; fill the cooler with ice and our dinner and then pile the six of us in the wood side-paneled Caprice Classic.

Mom was smart- a little advance planning, and her touch of aggravation over our hyper jumping off the sofa, was worth the hours she could spend crocheting or reading a novel without a constant barrage of bored kids driving her crazy.

Upon arriving our first task was to stake a claim on one of the shaded picnic tables under the tall trees near the playground where toddlers played in the sandbox. Mom would spread the table cloth and place our basket and cooler nearby to mark our the table as ours.

Then we trudged up the hill, past the snack bar with its tantalizing smells of french fries and hotdogs sizzling on the grill. My brothers separated from us at the entrance to the dressing rooms and we would emerge from the murky light to be momentarily blinded by the dazzling sun reflecting off the water.

A whiff of chlorine can take me back to those long days of jumping around in the water, playing games, sliding down the slides, or jumping off the diving boards.

Dinner never tasted as good as it did cooked on the little grill.

We sat wrapped in our towels, drinking kool-aid as we waited for our hamburger or hotdog to be served on a white paper plate.

We impatiently waited the required 30 minutes for our food to digest before we were allowed to swim until the lights under the water came on and the pool closed for the evening. We moved slowly back up to the parking lot, legs tired and eyes burning from the chlorine. We were quiet and sleepy on the ride home.

I wish I could spend a perfect day at the pool with my family again.

More Summer Memories

When I think of the summers of my childhood, the long evenings after dinner come to mind. There was something magical about that time of day.

The sun began to loosen its steamy grip on the earth as it slowly became a large orange ball in the western sky. Birds sang their goodnight songs and twittered sleepily from the trees. A chorus of cicada's wound down to silence as our own voices lowered in respect for the gathering darkness.

We put away our bikes and jump ropes and gathered on someones front lawn to discuss our options. Would we play freeze tag? Are there enough kids to get a game of hide and seek organized? Perhaps we will play Red Rover, or better yet, let's catch fireflies.

Everyone scattered and screen doors slammed as we tore through the house to ask Mom for an empty glass jar. We grabbed a big nail and hammer and punched holes in the lid. Then we met up again with the other kids and sat to wait for darkness to fall, and the fireflies to appear.

Fireflies are slow moving, so it is easy to catch one in your cupped hands. It was fun to peek through your fingers and watch the little bug light up your clasped hands.

Into the jar they went: one, two, three and sometimes many more until the whole jar was bright with twinkling lights. And then the sound we all dreaded- Mom's voice calling from the screen door to come inside. With great reluctance, we slowly open our jars to release the fireflies back into the night sky.