A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND

Christmastime when you're five years old can be one of the most exciting times of the year. I lived in a home of limited finances, so my expectations were limited to a doll or a tea set. I really don't remember having a wish list at all. Christmas excitement in our house consisted of learning the songs for the children's Christmas program at the Methodist church we attended, and my mom coaching me in all the things I must not do when I stood on the stage with my friends. First, and most important, was to make sure that I didn't pick up my dress skirt to hide my face from all the people. Mom knew that being on display in front of a congregation of people would terrify me, and not having my mother to hide behind, the first thing I would reach for would be my dress. But all the coaching in the world never stopped my actions, and I'm not sure which was stronger for my mother, the embarrassment or the disgust in her failure.

But Christmases in my early years will always have special memories because of my brother, Marvin, who made sure that I received some of the wonderful gifts that a child should have but had parents that couldn't afford them. He was my Santa Claus.

Marvin was eighteen and a senior at Stella High School in Stella, Nebraska, when I was born. He was tall, athletic, smart, and handsome, and he was very popular with his classmates. My guess is that he was the nicest person in his class, but I say that only because Marvin was one of the nicest people I've ever known, and he was considered thus all of his life by all who knew him. After graduation he left for Peru States Teachers College, and then did a stint as a medic in the Korean War. He decided, then, to settle in Wichita, Kansas, where he began to build his life, and from where he never felt a reason to leave until his death.

Marvin worked at a service station and also joined a fire department, so he was equipped monetarily to give his little sister some of the things he knew she would love. I remember a huge Red Rider wagon with removable sides. I remember a talking doll that also walked. I think the same year she came with a boy doll. Both were almost half as tall as I was, and I enjoyed them for many years. But the Christmas I was five was the year I received from my brother the item that would be my constant companion for many years. That was the year I received my 26-inch sky blue Schwinn bicycle.

My new bicycle had a metal basket attached to the handlebars so I could carry my books to school. It had a long, flat, blue seat attached to the back fender to give a friend a ride with footrests so they wouldn't get their feet caught in the spokes. It had long, blue and white plastic streamers coming out from the handlebars that waved in the wind. There were training wheels to break in the new rider. The chain guard on the side had great big proud letters that read SCHWINN. This was no ordinary "Ford" model. This was the "Cadillac" of bicycles. And it was mine.

It took a few skinned knees, some scraped elbows and hands, but soon I was wobbling up and down the sidewalk without training wheels and without anyone holding on to the back of my black bicycle seat. I rode from corner to corner on that block, and sometimes I was allowed to turn the corner and ride up to the corner grocery in our neighborhood to buy a pack of cigarettes for my dad, or some eggs for my mom (remember, I had a basket to carry them in), or even a 5-cent popsicle that I would break in half and share with a friend.

After we moved to Falls City and I was a couple of years older, I was allowed to ride in the streets, and best of all, I was allowed the freedom of riding as far away as I liked, as long as I was home at a certain time. Just over the hill from our house the town stopped and a country road began, and sometimes my friend Harriett and I would ride out for ten or fifteen minutes. We would park our bikes along the side of the road, and we would lay on our backs in the grass and watch the clouds form and re-form into dozens of recognizable shapes. Those were wonderful times.

My dad owned a service station for a few years and in the summertime mom would make his lunch and I would take it to him on my bike. The station was at least twelve blocks away from the house, which was by the way, half-way across the town, and I would spend a hour or two hanging out with him, eating sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and drinking Big Chief orange pop or Dr. Pepper from the pop machine. I watched as he fixed flat tires and changed the oil on cars. I walked out with him when he pumped gas for his buddies that drove in, and he would always introduce me to them. He would always say, "This is my daughter, Tootsie." I really don't remember him ever calling me by my real name.

My grade school was on the opposite end of town, yet I didn't live far enough to qualify for riding the school bus, so it wasn't long before I was allowed to ride my bike to school. The trip to school included a lot of gentle uphill rides, but coming home was fast and glorious. Coasting along a five or six block stretch on a bicycle is just pure heaven. Of course, much of that I rode with no hands on the handlebars, which is almost the closest thing there is to flying. And even in the summertime I would ride over to the school to play on the playground with friends, or to visit some of my friends that lived close to the school.

By the time I was ten to twelve years old I was allowed the freedom to ride for as far and as long as I wished. I was expected home for lunch and dinner, but meanwhile I explored the town, with or without a friend at my side. I visited the city park and the ball games that were being played. I would stop in at the car parts store where my dad worked just to say "hi" and hope he was feeling generous enough to throw a dime or a quarter my way. One dime would buy a bottle of pop, and I would turn in the bottle for 2 cents. There were many days that I rode just for the sake of riding and feeling free. If I had nowhere to go, that was fine. I enjoyed seeing my town from the comfort of my bicycle seat.

My heart aches for children in today's world. They have been robbed of the freedoms that I enjoyed as a child. Today's biker must wear a helmet, knee pads, and is rarely allowed to ride more than a block away from home. Many people today leave the small towns behind to search for wonderful opportunities in the big city, but when they do they leave behind many of simple freedoms that make life so exciting and comfortable and peaceful in a small community where there is friendliness and trust.

I am so grateful to my big brother for all the wonderful memories he gave me, but I believe the material gift that I am most grateful for is my sky blue Schwinn bicycle that he gave me for my fifth Christmas. It was joy, freedom, and a young girl's transportation all wrapped up in blue metal.

At the age of fourteen I was asked to pass on my bicycle to my brother's daughter, Jana, who would soon be ready to have a bicycle of her own. I had taken extreme care to keep my bike in good shape, and I am very proud to announce to you that even though I had ridden it for years, it was almost like new when I gave it to her. Of course, I had taken some falls, but none that damaged my bike; only damaged my ego, or my knees. I'm not sure, but I wonder if this fact reflects the love and respect that I had for my brother. I only know that I will be eternally grateful for his generosity.