After a growth spurt in the summer of 1965, my tricycle had lost all appeal. Besides, I was certain that I could climb on a bike and just ride--without any instruction. It was my destiny.
I was far less certain that I would get a bike at all. My parents didn't have a lot of money left over from my dad's hard-earned paycheck as a carpenter. And what was left over always seemed to be spent on our small farm in order to make more money from the tobacco and other crops to pay the bills and the taxes. I'm sure I didn't understand all that in 1965, but I was somewhat aware that Santa might not come through.
Christmas Eve in 1965 was a cold one. Our house at the time was a few steps above a "shack," but it wasn't well insulated and heat was provided by a big, metal Warm Morning stove that my parent kept full of burning coal during the day and evening to heat the house to a tolerable temperature. But during the night, after the coal had burned down to glowing cinders, you needed plenty of warm blankets or quilts to keep warm.
That night, all snuggled in my bed and dreaming of a red bicycle instead of sugar plums, there arose such a clatter that I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter! Well, "sprang" is a bit generous. I remember lying there for a few minutes, getting my bearings, then realizing that Dad's voice was raised and that it sounded like he was mad at someone.
Oh, no! He's yelling at Santa, I thought! And that can't be good!
So I peeled back the warm covers, tiptoed to my bedroom door and slowly pushed it open.
I could hear better now. Yes, Dad was having a heated discussion and it was with my mom. I distinctly heard "Faye, that's not where it goes."
And no, my four-year-old brain did not have the thought that you just did. But I was very curious.
I remember inching my way down the hall on silent, stealthy little girl feet. I surely realized that I wasn't supposed to be up yet. And as I peeped around the door-facing, what did my wondering eyes behold but a red bicycle--half put together!
Parts were strewn all around the box the bike had come in. Mom had the instructions and was attempting to guide my dad who, for the duration of their 54-year marriage, proved to be virtually impossible to guide. (Thus, my mom became the master at convincing him that everything was his idea.)
I stood there for a handful of seconds, absorbing the fact that my bicycle had not come put together, that it might not be put together in time for Christmas morning and that parts might be left over...because Dad was saying something about extra parts and Mom was insisting that there shouldn't be any.
To this day my mom doesn't believe that I silently witnessed them putting my bicycle together; however, she acknowledges that they did so on Christmas Eve and that it did not go smoothly.
Then how do I remember it all so vividly, including laying there in the dark wondering what role Santa had played in this debacle? (Okay, I probably didn't know the word "debacle" at age four, but I bet it was listed in another of my favorite Christmas gifts from my parents at age seven or eight: a dictionary and a set of illustrated encyclopedias.)
The next morning, I remember running down the hall to the living room and seeing my shiny, red bicycle sitting proudly on its kickstand in front of the Christmas tree. There were a few other gifts, I think, but they ultimately proved to be unmemorable since I have no memory of them.
I was still a little fuzzy on the role Santa had played. Didn't the elves put everything together in Santa's workshop just like in "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer"? But I knew as soon as my mom said Santa had left the bike parked beside the tree that somebody was lying. Mom!
And a few minutes later, I also concluded that Santa wasn't real, but I decided not to say so aloud, on the off chance that just uttering it would make it true...if it wasn't. You have to believe, right?
There wasn't a lot of bike-riding-w
orthy weather during the winter of 1965-66 in the Appalachian Mountains (pre-global warming, folks!). I'm pretty sure I didn't take my first few rides on "big red" until early spring. By April I was riding pretty well with training wheels on the gravel road in front of our house. (See the photo of me on my new bike in April 1966.)I was confident and ready to show off the skills I had almost certainly gained. I begged Dad to take off the training wheels and he did--against my mom's objections that I wasn't ready. Soon I was riding up and down the driveway, standing and peddling furiously because the seat was just a little too high for me, even at its lowest position. But I wasn't exactly riding by myself. Dad was holding onto the back of the seat and running along just behind me. I'm not sure I realized that then, but I would learn a valuable lesson on a spring Saturday not long after this photo was taken.
My dad's youngest brother, Uncle Elmer, came by our house most Saturdays on his way to help Dad out on the farm. The two were close despite having their share of the usual sibling arguments and fights through the years. Uncle Elmer was probably my favorite uncle on my dad's side of the family because he was almost always fun. (He still is alive and kicking--and fun.)
That particular Saturday, I was determined to show off my newfound riding skills. When Uncle Elmer arrived, I promptly shouted "Watch this!" then pushed the bicycle up a steep bank that went from the level of the gravel road to the level spot where our house stood. That wasn't enough. I pushed it further up hill between our house and the Fords' house next door--all the way to where the bank behind the houses rose steeply again and the yard effectively ended.
I turned the bike and pointed it at a nice wide spot between two trees in our yard and the Fords' yard, straddled the pedals, grabbed the handlebars firmly, then stepped on a pedal and pushed off.
For a few seconds, all went well. But suddenly, a tree stepped in front of my bike and I couldn't cut or lean fast enough to miss it. There was a loud crash, and I remember sailing over the handlebars, somehow missing the tree and hitting the ground...hard.
"Oh, Lord, oh Lord!" Uncle Elmer repeated as he ran toward me. Then, "Faye, come quick!"
By the time mom reached me, I'd finally taken in a deep lungful of air, decided I wasn't dead and was ready to do it all over again...another day.
And that is the story of the first Christmas that I really remember...back home in Appalachia with my red bicycle on a gravel road.
