The Memory of a New Bike in Cedar Hill, 1969.

 

I’ve always felt blessed with an uncanny memory for certain things. As we grow older, our memories tend to sort themselves, often shaped by the people we connect with, the places we visit, and the events that impact us most deeply. Sometimes, it's the smallest moments that stand out, those quiet instances that hold a deeper meaning, long after time has passed.

Some of the sharpest memories I have comes from when I was in first grade. It’s funny how a teacher can leave such a mark on a child’s life. My teacher that year, Mrs. Orand, encouraged me to embrace the skills I was developing—writing, drawing, storytelling—and it’s like that moment unlocked a whole world of memories. I think she knew how to stir something inside me.  Her encouragement to read and discover lead me to so many new adventures. I will have to follow up on the story based on her insistence that I send a thank you to a gentleman I met the Summer before starting school in New York.

But this particular memory takes me to the summer of 1969, when I was 13. I’d just received the best birthday present: a shiny purple bicycle with a long banana seat. I can still feel the cool metal under my fingers and the way the sunlight caught the chrome handlebars as I rode through the streets of Cedar Hill. That bike was my freedom. I’d ride for hours, losing myself in the wind and the hum of the tires on the road. 

The bike had a classic design, with wide tires that made a steady hum on the pavement, and the long banana seat—so soft and comfortable it felt like you were floating as you rode. The seat was the color of a ripe plum, with a subtle sparkle in the vinyl that caught the light every time I turned my head. The handlebars were tall and curved, wide enough for me to grip comfortably as I pedaled hard, feeling the wind rush past me like I was breaking free from everything.

This is a very similar to my Bicycle.

One afternoon, Mom sent me to Gossett’s Store to pick up a few things. The store was an enormous brick general store almost warehouse with wooden floors that creaked when you walked across them. I left my bike on the front porch, propped up against the railing, and went inside to grab what Mom needed. I’d just come from a long ride, my legs tired but happy.

That’s when I heard Miss Margie Apple’s voice, loud and clear: “That crazy woman is gonna drive right into the store!”

We all rushed out to see what was going on. I could hear the squeal of tires on pavement, the sharp sound of brakes slamming, and the screech of something heavy dragging across the ground. It happened so fast. There was an old, dark burgundy Hudson, engine still running, a trail of dust swirling behind it as it came to a halt. Mrs. Odell Gardner was behind the wheel. I knew her, of course. She lived on Mudcat Road, behind the Methodist Church, always cheerful and talkative when you’d run into her at the store or the post office.

She’d just been to Gossett’s and was trying to leave when, somehow, her foot slipped, and the car lurched onto the edge of the porch, bouncing across the front of the store and down onto the street in front. People arrived from every direction, but all I could see was my bike, right under the front wheel.

Miss Margie was quick to speak, “I don’t think that bike’s ever gonna be alright.”

I felt a cold knot in my stomach as I approached. The back wheel was still intact, but the front of the bike? It was twisted and mangled, the frame bent almost in half. I tried to hold back tears, but I wasn’t quick enough. Mrs. Gardner, still in a bit of a daze, leaned out of the car and asked, “Is your bike alright?”

Her voice sounded so concerned, but I could barely get the words out. “I—I don’t know.”

Mr. Cecil Gossett came rushing over. He was tall and thin, with hands that were always busy fixing things around the store. His face was drawn tight with concern as he looked at the wreckage. “I don’t know, kid. I don’t think there’s much hope for it.” He put his strong hands on my shoulders.

I was still in shock, but part of me refused to believe it. There had to be some way to fix it, right? Some miracle? Maybe a kind of magic you only find in small towns like Cedar Hill.  Mrs. Gardner asked again, “Is your bike alright?”

I stood there for a moment, watching the grown-ups talk and shake their heads. They didn’t know what to say, and I think they all felt a little guilty. I said, “Yes, Ma’am.  It will be alright!  Thanks for asking.” Finally, I walked back into the store, completed my mom’s shopping list as if nothing had happened, and left with my damaged bike in tow. It was heavy in my hands, like I was dragging a part of my childhood behind me. The trip home was long and slow, each bump in the road reminding me of how broken it was.

When I finally got home, I set it down in the yard and tried to roll the back wheel. It didn’t work. I could see it clearly now: there was no way to fix it. That bicycle had been a symbol of my growing independence, and in a way, it felt like my freedom was taken from me that day. My Dad and brothers looked somewhat defeated when they looked at the damaged bicycle.   I had dug out my older Western Flyer and washed it up.  It needed a little air in the tires, but it would be just fine!

I learned something that day about memories. They don’t always come to us in the ways we expect. Some are joyful, and some are bittersweet. Some are tied to people, like Mrs. Orand or the kindness of Mr. Gossett. But there’s something about moments like this that burn into your memory. Even years later, I can still see that purple bike, twisted and broken, and hear Miss Margie’s voice in my head: “That bike’s never gonna be alright.”

But as I think back on it now, I realize how much it shaped me. Sometimes it’s the things that break, that can’t be repaired, that leave the most lasting impressions. And maybe that’s why that memory still stands out—because it was a reminder that not everything can be fixed, but it doesn’t mean you can’t keep going.

Memories, after all, are not just the things we lose. They’re the things we carry with us, in spite of the brokenness, they help us see the hope we carry.   Thanks, Mrs. Wilson, for caring. 

First Grade Christmas in Cedar Hill

(as published in the Robertson County Times, 23 Dec 2009)

Christmas is here. It seems like only yesterday that I was enjoying a party in my first-grade classroom in Cedar Hill Elementary. We had red punch, decorated sugar cookies and cupcakes. We also exchanged names in the class to purchase a Christmas gift. I don’t remember if there was a financial limit, but I can’t imagine it was more than five dollars. The class had decorated our cedar tree with colored paper chains and other decorations we made in class from glitter and glue. There might have been some tinfoil stars as well, but I know we had lots of tinsel added at the end.

Our teacher was Mrs. Sallie Gamble Orand. She was a very gentle woman, who was always smiling and seemed to have time to talk to each one of us. Just a month ago, we were practicing a couple of songs for the Annual School Christmas Program. I remember that we sang “Away, in the Manger” and another song with an older group. The sixth-grade students, taught by Mrs. Marion Martin, played two Christmas selections on their flutes. This was very impressive to all of us in the first grade. My older brother, Denny, would have been in the seventh grade that year. I’m sure he sang with his class, but I don’t remember their performance that year, because I was so nervous. All of the younger classes sat in chairs in front of the stage, while the older classes came onto the stage for their performances.

On the night of the performance, there was a large Christmas tree on the stage and our principal, Mr. Joe Borthick, welcomed all of the parents and guests. I remember several of the older students playing Christmas songs on the piano during the evening. I know I was focused on our songs. My parents; my sister, Beverly; my brother, Wayne, and of course, my brother, Denny were there for our Christmas extravaganza. Our big brother, Joe, was home from college and came to our big show. It seemed to me that everyone I knew from Cedar Hill was in the auditorium.

The first grade stood for their first presentation. I was on the second row. On the row just in front of me were Sharon Shepard, Pam Harris, Mary Jo ‘Josie’ Head, and Julie ‘Sweetie’ Tinsley. Beside me were Billy Corbin, Mark Mason, Robert Hulsey and Bailey Knight. There were about 28 of us in the class that year as we stood for our song. Mrs. Lovan gave us our notes from the piano and Mrs. Orand stood before us smiling and urging us to sing out. I’m sure our parents thought our rendition of “Away in the Manger” was as beautiful as ever heard. We finished our second song to loud applause and took our seats. We listened intently as all of the other classes performed. Just as we thought the evening was over, Mr. Borthick, said we have a guest who has traveled a long way to be here in Cedar Hill tonight. “Ho, Ho. Ho., Merry Christmas!” was booming as the jolly old elf himself walked out onto the stage standing just behind the first graders. Now I had seen Santa many times at Ben Franklin 5 & 10 Store, at Gamble’s Hardware, and other stores over the years, but never had I seen Santa in Cedar Hill. What a Christmas! I was ready for Santa to come.

We were gathered in class for our Christmas party and after we had distributed all of our gifts and enjoying the party, Mrs. Orand called each of us up to her desk, one at a time. She wished us a very Merry Christmas, gave us a book and a big hug. She gave me The Big-Little Dinosaur. I still have that book from that special person. It was not the first book I was ever given, but Mrs. Orand would always fill a special role for me. It was through her encouragement that I began reading every book I could. She encouraged me to learn music theory and I began taking piano lessons. Perhaps I learned that it was not the gift itself that was special, but the attachment to the special person who gave it.

As we went home from school that afternoon, everyone shouting Merry Christmas as they boarded the buses home for the holidays. There was a light snow falling as we pulled out of the school drive in Cedar Hill on Bus No. 6, driven by Mr. Porter Corbin. Now Mr. Porter was one of the nicest men I ever knew, but he didn’t put up with any shenanigans on the bus. He let my brother, Denny, off the bus at our Feed Mill. When I walked up to the front of the bus to get off, Mr. Porter said, “Not today young man, you’re headed to the house.” I was disappointed because I wanted a bag of peanuts and a Grape Delish soda from the big cooler at the Feed Mill. A few other students got off the bus at the railroad track and others at Gossett’s store. When the bus turned left onto the big Highway, I knew my house was the next stop. Mr. Porter stopped in front of my house and called one of the older students to cross the highway with me. He wished me a ‘Merry Christmas’ in his big booming voice and I waved bye to all of my friends who were headed home in the snow. The snow continued to fall until we had six inches.

We have some pictures of the holidays, but it is hard to capture the true essence of those family gatherings. Those photographs cannot hold the smell of my Mom’s cornbread dressing cooking or the taste of Aunt Martha’s fruit salad or the sound of my brothers playing with their new toys. Remember to take some time this season to share your memories with your family.

[The photo of Mrs. Sallie Orand was saved in one of my many memory boxes. I believe she gave each of us a picture in the First Grade. ]