Riding My Tricycle

I was given a tricycle for my second birthday. When I grew a little older I was allowed to ride the tricycle on the sidewalk in front of our house. I was allowed to go down to the corner to 67th Street, but only about half way down the street to 65th. I remember very clearly that there was a place in the sidewalk where it was cracked, and the sidewalk was not quite even on one side. That is where I had to stop and turn around. I think that Mother made this rule because the street began to slope downhill at that point, or perhaps she did not want me to go farther as there was a gas station on the corner.

One day, I disobeyed my mother and went clear to the corner. I turned the corner; started down 65th, and there, disaster struck. Now the street became very steep and my tricycle “ran away”. I ended up at the bottom of the hill with an overturned tricycle and badly skinned-up knees. I climbed back up that long hill and went crying home to Mother with my sad story. I remember going back with her to fetch the tricycle. She must have been horrified at the thought of her little girl going down that hill on an out of control tricycle, especially since 65th was a very busy street. I don’t remember that I got into a lot of trouble over this, but I don’t think I ever went past that place in the sidewalk again. Even when I was old enough to go to school, and passed that spot every day, I remember feeling uneasy about going past that place.

Mother wrote down this story about my adventure. It was handwritten on notebook paper, folded and kept in the middle drawer of the desk. I used to love to take out that story and to read it when I was growing up. I suppose that is why it is so vivid in my mind today.