The little red bicycle was beautiful and I was more than excited when Santa Claus gave it to me for Christmas. Living in Utah, I had to wait for the snow and ice to melt from the sidewalk so I could ride it. When I finally got the chance, Dad lugged it out of the garage and helped me climb on. He steadied the bike and ran along beside me as I tried to master a new skill. I’m afraid I proved to be less than coordinated.
When my father was unavailable, I tried to ride it on my own. There was a feed store on the corner that came right out to the sidewalk. I got so I could prop the bicycle against the side of that building, carefully climb aboard and shove off trying to stay upright long enough to get forward momentum and take control. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. One day I tried to mount the bicycle in the driveway. I lost control, crashed into Mother’s flower bed and took a nosedive. I was frustrated and angry. I picked up that bike by one handlebar and kicked it as hard as I could. I hadn’t noticed that my Dad had come home from work and was watching. Without a word, he picked up that little red bike and carried it down to the basement where it remained for what seemed an eternity.
Well, as kids are wont to do, I eventually mastered that little bicycle and it gave me a sense of freedom that I had never before known. In the 1950’s that part of Salt Lake City was in transition. There were still a lot of wide open spaces, old barns, Mill Creek, orchards, pastures, vacant lots with abandoned buildings and other great places to explore. At the same time, sidewalks and partially paved roads provided bicycle freeways that afforded us access to wonderful places much faster and farther afield than we were ever able to enjoy on foot.
During the summer months we liked to call on some folks who had a truck farm a mile or two from our house where they grew a wide variety of fruits and vegetables. We would ride our bikes to their little roadside produce stand and ask if they had work for us. They would “employ” us for a couple of hours weeding the rows of beats or beans and then they would pay us a whole quarter when we finished. I always gave them back a nickel so I could enjoy a cold, frosty bottle of cream soda from the cooler. That was living! A few more cents went to the drug store where we could buy malted milk balls two for a penny.
That neighborhood today is a bustling commercial zone. Our house is gone—replaced by stores, gas stations and shopping centers. The pastures, orchards and even Polly Johnson’s mink farm across the street have all given way to modern “progress.” Mill Creek runs under ground and it is hard to know where we used to drown worms and grasshoppers trying to catch a few elusive fish. I still enjoy going back there where I can gaze on the Wasatch front’s Mount Olympus that I used to admire from our kitchen window.
Back in the days of the little red bicycle we could roam far afield night or day totally unafraid. It never even occurred to us or to our parents that there might be kidnappers, sexual predators or other various and sundry bad guys lurking about. I never experienced any physical or psychological abuse nor did I ever hear of any of my friends being used or abused. I just wish my bicycle had fared as well. By today’s standards, I suppose we lived in a very idyllic world. I just wish my grandchildren could grow up and ride their bicycles in such a protected and safe environment. But perhaps that is asking too much.
Referring to children, Jesus said, “But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea. Woe unto the world because of offenses! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!” (Matt. 18:6-7)
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