When I was four-years-old I moved in with my dad and step-mom and I insisted that the training wheels be removed from my bicycle. I wanted nothing more than to be able to keep up with my brother, so once the training wheels were off, I promptly jumped on and took off down this very sidewalk, hit a rock, swerved toward the street and wiped out in fabulous fashion. In the crook of my left arm I have the scar to remind me that sometimes, practice and patience is necessary.
My brother and I became really close while living here. Driven together by the mutual dislike for a step-mother who tolerated us at best and fed us hot dogs every day for lunch and sometimes again for dinner, spending our days outdoors and out of her sight were a priority. Despite my initial mishap I learned to ride my bike quickly and since I could ride just as fast as any of the boys, I was allowed to tag along whenever I wanted.
I do remember my bedroom here but I have a much more vivid memory of my brothers room since that’s where we spent a majority of my time indoors. We both had blue shag carpet (it was the 70’s) but my brothers room was bigger and that’s where the toys were. And by toys, I’m talking matchbox cars and the Rock ’em Sock ’em Robots Game! My brother also had this little battery powered airplane that flew in circles and amazingly provided hours of entertainment until it met it’s untimely demise after being “accidentally” ran into step-mom’s shin.
Probably most unfortunate is that I have many more memories of my step-mother than I do of my dad in this home. I really only remember snippets of moments setting at the dinner table with him. When he wasn’t drinking he was a quiet man but prone to bursts of violence that left more scars than I care to discuss.
I still struggle with patience. I’m not a big fan of hot dogs. I do not miss the step-mother and was more than happy when she had a child of her own and sent us back to our own mom. I do miss being close to my brother and I’m sad that I never really got to know my dad.