Faded Glory

Once upon a glorious time, I was a Christmas Bike.  The shouts of joy!  The laughter.  The Father and Mother did an excellent job.  They bought me, and hid me in the neighbor’s shed.  On Christmas Eve, that year, they took the kids to the Midnight Service for the first time.  The eldest, my soon to be master and best friend, was just ten.  All of the children fell asleep in the car, going home.

Father and Mother smiled as the tucked the children in.  Then they went to work.  Father slipped out of the house, into the cold bright starry night.  He paused for a moment to look up at the clear distant starry firmament.  Then he continued to the shed where I was waiting.  He wheeled me to his garage, and spent a few minutes disting and polishing me, filling my tires up to the recommended 35 psi, and then stepping back to admire me.

I was wheeled in and placed in front of the tree, adorned with a large, bright, red, bow.  Father and mother then spent the next hour wrapping and arranging presents around the tree and me.

The house grew quiet.  The silence of the holy night fell upon us all.

Winter Dawn comes late in these latitudes.  Good thing too.  At the first dawning, the children began to stir.  They occupied themselves, as was traditional, with the small joys and gladnesses of their stockings.  (Each year, they would hang the stockings by the fire.  The parentw would fill them up with tiny presents, thoughtfully picked.  Then the stockings would be placed at the foot of each child’s bed, to be found in the morning.)

Father and Mother woke, and began their Christmas Morning Ritual.  Father came down the stairs first and lighted the tree.  Mother next, to start the coffee percolating, and to begin the breakfast preparations.  Finally, the increasingly excited and impatient children were called down to find the tree and it’s treasures.

As the children came down, Young Sir, with dignity befitting his lofty age and seniority, lagged behind the others, letting the younger ones descend first.  The effect was that they all bunched up on the stairs, in age order, youngest first.  This let them all see the tree at the same time.

The littlies gasped and shouted and ran to the presents.  Young Sir just stopped where he stood, gazing in awe and wonder.  Gazing at me!  He could not believe his eyes, wanted to, but simply could not believe it.

“Mother?  Father?” he said in a small voice.  “Is it for me?  Did I get a bicycle!?”

For the first, last, and only time, Young Sir failed to open his other presents on Christmas morning.  He simply had to get dressed and take me outside to ride.

And ride we did!  Up and down the chilly streets, around the block, and around.  Pictures were taken, and the beginnings of a part of family history and memory were enacted.  We made quite the sight, me in my shine and chrome, Young Sir astride.

In the years that followed, Young Sir and I were seldom apart.  We rode to school, and to the store.  I played the role of spacehip, submarine, fighter airplane, racing motorcyle, and simply  companion.  I was the means to Young Sir’s independence and mobility.

With time, I aged, but Young Sir kept me in good repair.  He removed some of my accessories, and replaced them with others.  I was pressed into duty on his paper route.  I carried him about his duties as a delivery boy for the pharmacy.  We travelled out into the country on camping and fishing trips.

As Young Sir grew, he came to a time when we were together less and less.  He acquired an automobile, and a girlfriend.  Eventually, Young Sir went away to college, and I became the ward of his youngest brother, Younger Sir.

Again, came the long rides, the trips to school, the rambles in the country, the adventures and explorations.  Again I did paper route duty, and for a time I was companion to another happy boy.

Those were the good days.

For a time I rested, slumbering, in a shed, covered with a tarp.  My tires dry rotted, and my chrome pitted.  I slept.

Young Sir came home once more.  He and his new bride were moving far away, and were picking up the things that would go with them.  Turned out I was to be one of those things.

After the move, for a time, I again rested.  This period, I spent in a basement, in a corner, quietly aging.

Then came the day when young sir came to me.  He removed the cover, and dusted me off.  He carefully dismantled me, cleaned, lubricated, polished.  Again, on a Christmas Morning, I was placed by a tree.  Young Sir presented me to my new friend, Young Son.  Again the cycle repeated itself.  Young Son and I travelled together.  We made happy memories.  Those where the second good years.

Now I sit and slumber.  I dream the dreams of times past.  My glory is gone, and I am relegated to this quiet place.  I am content, but if I could be granted one wish, it would be to rise and become again, a companion of people, a thing of worth, a vehicle of commerce.  An object of pleasure and joy.

For now, in the quiet cold, I dream.