Red letter day today; two weeks after my 2nd Covid shot. I can feel relatively safe out there in the world. It comes with the disclaimer, still wear a mask, still distance but I can engage in the culture again and that’s a big deal. The virus has mutated several times and different variants are still unknown dangers. So you don’t go out without a mask. It may not kill you but a variant aftermath isn’t something to look forward to either. A haircut this morning, then the garden center. My coffee group is meeting again, still with caution, outside but none the less. After a year of self imposed lockdown, I be cautious and am good to go.
I remember in 1st grade, my brother (4th grade) already had a tall bicycle with narrow, high pressure tires and we couldn’t ride double very well. It was September, 2.5 miles to school and there was no bus. Dad left for work at 5:30. It was walk or ride the bike. So a new, (used) bike with big, fat, 26” tires was bought for me to grow into. Until I grew longer legs and learned how to ride, my brother pedaled and I rode sidesaddle, hands on the handlebars.
At school, I bragged on my new bike, showed it to classmates at recess. Someone challenged me, “Why doesn’t your brother rice his own bike and you ride this one?” I gave some lame answer but they all saw through it; “You can’t ride a bike. . .” I said that I could and they said, “So show us.” Too tall for me to get on by myself, they held it up for me. Once on board they gave me a shove and all I could do was hang on. Pointed down the school driveway, that’s the only way I could go. Legs to short to push back on the brakes, too much speed to turn up the street, I went straight into the front yard gate of the house across the street. It was ugly; knees over elbows, ass-upside-down under the bike and I couldn’t untangle myself.
My gallery came running, recovered me and the machine. I confessed, yes . . . I could ride, just couldn’t stop or steer. In the crash, my head went into the wire gate, cut myself under my chin and I was bleeding. By the time we got to my teacher, Mrs. Loncosky, my neck and shirt were all bloody. She tried a bandaid but that was far too little, much too late.
In 1945, the Hickman Mills School District had four elementary schools, each one with 3 rooms, 3 teachers, 8 grades and no nurse. My mom had no way to come get me so Mrs. Loncosky called our Superintendent’s office. Mr. Becklean, our Superintendent was the only one there so he drove the 3 miles, picked me up, picked up my mom and little (infant) brother and took us to the local doctor’s office where I got 2 stitches and a big gauze bandage. No more school for me that day. I didn’t get in trouble but then neither was it something to celebrate. I would rather have been at school with my friends.
Come winter, a lady up the road whose daughter was in high school had a 1937 Chevy, panel, delivery truck. Today we would call it a van but then it was a panel truck with a bench seat in front and two doors at the rear instead of a tailgate. She put a bench seat on either side in the back and altogether, we could squeeze 9 or 10 kids inside. I have no idea how much my folks had to pay to transport us to and from school but not knowing any different, it was our normal. The next year, her husband bought a school bus and went into business. I would be in junior high before the district had its own school bus service.
They built an annex on the high school and moved 7th & 8th grades up there (called it Junior High) By then I was a bicycle wizard. With good weather and my mother’s blessing I rode the 2.5 miles to school. With my brother headed another direction, I was on my own, the taste of almost-independence was liberating. I could stop at the pond on Bannister Road and skip stones if I felt like it, and I usually felt like it. It was the closest thing to freedom I could imagine. That brings us to today. My mom isn’t here to approve but the CDC and my doctor are and they do approve. Not since the the fall of 1948 have I anticipated this kind of liberating breakout. I may drive down to where Holmes Park Elementary School used to be. Today that spot is occupied by Kansas City’s South Patrol Police Station. What was once our playground is now a parking lot and the house across the street has given way to an intersection with divided streets and a median. If I let myself, it can be real déjà vu, like Yogi Berra said, “All over again.” Sandwiched in between I-435, I-49 and a big Home Depot store, I can still reflect on playing softball down by the creek.
A longtime friend who I used to guitar jam with called me last night. He and a couple of other picker/singers I know have started jamming again on Monday nights, invited me to join them. We’ve all acquired vaccine immunity, able to meet in small groups without masks. We will be outside on Mike’s patio and I would think we still keep some separation. Old habits . . . you know.
I remember in 1st grade, my brother (4th grade) already had a tall bicycle with narrow, high pressure tires and we couldn’t ride double very well. It was September, 2.5 miles to school and there was no bus. Dad left for work at 5:30. It was walk or ride the bike. So a new, (used) bike with big, fat, 26” tires was bought for me to grow into. Until I grew longer legs and learned how to ride, my brother pedaled and I rode sidesaddle, hands on the handlebars.
At school, I bragged on my new bike, showed it to classmates at recess. Someone challenged me, “Why doesn’t your brother rice his own bike and you ride this one?” I gave some lame answer but they all saw through it; “You can’t ride a bike. . .” I said that I could and they said, “So show us.” Too tall for me to get on by myself, they held it up for me. Once on board they gave me a shove and all I could do was hang on. Pointed down the school driveway, that’s the only way I could go. Legs to short to push back on the brakes, too much speed to turn up the street, I went straight into the front yard gate of the house across the street. It was ugly; knees over elbows, ass-upside-down under the bike and I couldn’t untangle myself.
My gallery came running, recovered me and the machine. I confessed, yes . . . I could ride, just couldn’t stop or steer. In the crash, my head went into the wire gate, cut myself under my chin and I was bleeding. By the time we got to my teacher, Mrs. Loncosky, my neck and shirt were all bloody. She tried a bandaid but that was far too little, much too late.
In 1945, the Hickman Mills School District had four elementary schools, each one with 3 rooms, 3 teachers, 8 grades and no nurse. My mom had no way to come get me so Mrs. Loncosky called our Superintendent’s office. Mr. Becklean, our Superintendent was the only one there so he drove the 3 miles, picked me up, picked up my mom and little (infant) brother and took us to the local doctor’s office where I got 2 stitches and a big gauze bandage. No more school for me that day. I didn’t get in trouble but then neither was it something to celebrate. I would rather have been at school with my friends.
Come winter, a lady up the road whose daughter was in high school had a 1937 Chevy, panel, delivery truck. Today we would call it a van but then it was a panel truck with a bench seat in front and two doors at the rear instead of a tailgate. She put a bench seat on either side in the back and altogether, we could squeeze 9 or 10 kids inside. I have no idea how much my folks had to pay to transport us to and from school but not knowing any different, it was our normal. The next year, her husband bought a school bus and went into business. I would be in junior high before the district had its own school bus service.
They built an annex on the high school and moved 7th & 8th grades up there (called it Junior High) By then I was a bicycle wizard. With good weather and my mother’s blessing I rode the 2.5 miles to school. With my brother headed another direction, I was on my own, the taste of almost-independence was liberating. I could stop at the pond on Bannister Road and skip stones if I felt like it, and I usually felt like it. It was the closest thing to freedom I could imagine. That brings us to today. My mom isn’t here to approve but the CDC and my doctor are and they do approve. Not since the the fall of 1948 have I anticipated this kind of liberating breakout. I may drive down to where Holmes Park Elementary School used to be. Today that spot is occupied by Kansas City’s South Patrol Police Station. What was once our playground is now a parking lot and the house across the street has given way to an intersection with divided streets and a median. If I let myself, it can be real déjà vu, like Yogi Berra said, “All over again.” Sandwiched in between I-435, I-49 and a big Home Depot store, I can still reflect on playing softball down by the creek.
A longtime friend who I used to guitar jam with called me last night. He and a couple of other picker/singers I know have started jamming again on Monday nights, invited me to join them. We’ve all acquired vaccine immunity, able to meet in small groups without masks. We will be outside on Mike’s patio and I would think we still keep some separation. Old habits . . . you know.
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