A New Old Bike

World War II had just ended. New bicycles once more appeared in the window of the Western Auto store. A blue beauty with headlight and horn was my dream. More than once I begged Mom to buy it. Her answer was consistent-We can’t afford it.

School mates increasingly filled the school bike rack with new bikes. I wondered why their parents did not say we can’t afford it. My father bought a car and my Mom bought a new Baldwin piano. Affordability didn’t seem to be a problem for them.

I sold produce from my own garden and picked tomatoes for a neighbor. With the money I bought my brother-in-law’s old bike. The paint was faded. The tires were old and cracked. I wrapped electricians’ tape around the bulges. I equipped it with a siren that sounded when I pulled it against the front tire. Out in the country I was the only one who could hear it, but it was a thrill.

The importance of education was never mentioned. Mom finished 8th grade and Dad never finished third. I worked my way through college. I hitchhiked home the 150 miles from Philadelphia and Washington D. C. I was glad my parents could splurge after raising 8 kids. The pre-depression and depression days were times of struggle. They deserved a few nice things. Fending for myself had many benefits.

My father did not value education, but he valued faith in God. Every Sabbath we drove 20 miles to Sabbath School. We learned to respect the church. We always sat with our parents and never ran around the sanctuary after services. We joined our parents in singing the traditional hymns. Worship was a family affair.

At times I questioned the truthfulness of We can’t afford it. On the other hand I had to remember the father who farmed 160 acres and worked part time for Bethlehem Steel to put food on the table. A new Studebaker after years of patching old junkers and living from paycheck to paycheck was well earned. Looking back I wish I could spend time with the man who understood we can’t afford it.

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