One day mom packed all of us kids into the car and took us over to Uncle Duane’s house which she often did. I can still see in my mind the route we’d drive taking the back roads from Spanish Fork to Springville. Back then the freeway had not arrived in our valley and the only way from town to town was State Street that wound from one town to the next then straight through and on again to the next. We loved going to Uncle Duane’s because they had a big back yard full of gardens and fruit trees. To me the backyard was a wonderland where I’d play and play. We climbed trees and threw dirt clods at anything that moved and when nothing was moving we’d have contests trying to knock over old tin cans that we would place strategically through the gardens.

Every fall Uncle Duane would invite us over to pick apricots and cherries stating that he had more than he could ever possibly use. He was a kind and loving man I will always remember how much mom looked up to him and truly loved her big brother. We always left with a basket full of tomatoes, cucumbers and zucchini squash. On this occasion we came home with what to me was a real treasure, a brand new, at least to me it was brand new, bike that my older cousin Steven had out grown and he handed down to me. It was perfect for a 6 year old little boy. At least that was what Uncle Duane said when he gave me the tiny bike. It was blue and had solid tires like a trike but it was not a trike it was a bike, and it was mine. Mom and dad even went to town and bought me new sparkly blue handle bar grips with white and blue streamers dangling from the end of each grip. This not only was totally cool but I really think it made the bike faster… just sayin.

One of my earliest memories that I recall fondly is dad running up and down with me as he struggled to help me to master the challenge of balancing on those tinny tires. The sidewalk in front of the Pink House had a crack in every single section. No not just a crack, but a crack that went from side to side and with one of the slabs always at a slant with one corner at least two inches lower than its mate causing quite a perilous outing until I learned the smoothest course over the path. However, it did not take long before I figured out how to sleekly traverse the rugged sidewalk. Before long mom and dad came to quickly understand that my world was gradually becoming larger and larger.

To me the thrill of my newly discovered freedom was so exciting that I yearned for more and more and I always pushed the envelope of my boundaries to the extreme. I will never forget the exhilaration I felt the first time that I rode my bike all the way around the block all by myself. I knew I was real tuff stuff and I told everyone that would listen about my conquests.

One afternoon mom had restricted my boundaries to no more than the houses on either side our hour house which stood on the corner of 4^th and Center in Spanish Fork, to us kids always referred to affectionately as the Pink House. As I rode up and down the sidewalk I decided that if I meandered into the driveways I could extend my route and get more mileage out of each leg as I navigated back and forth up and down our street. As I rounded the front of a truck parked in one of these driveways I was looking down the sidewalk instead of paying attention of where I was going, and I according to mom I was always going too fast while not paying attention, when the next thing I knew I was flat on my back writhing in pain on the grass next to the concrete staring up at the truck. When I touched my forehead my hand was covered with blood. I instantly knew I was dying. There seemed to be blood everywhere and my head was numb with pain but it is interesting that even now I recall that my greater fear was that I had strayed from the sidewalk and I was going to be in trouble! Apparently the truck in the driveway was a utility truck with doors on the side that would lower granting access to tools and providing a nice working area. Yup, I had not seen the lowered door and had ridden right into the edge driving the corner deep into my forehead.

When I got home mom calmed me down and cleaned me up then took me to Dr. Moody to get my forehead stitched up. I do not recall getting into very much trouble when dad came home. I wonder how much of that result was mom intervening on my behalf. I think she felt as if I had been in enough pain and that I’d learned my lesson. On my part I don’t know how much of a lesson I learned because growing up I remember to always have a cut, a scrape, or a broken bone and continuously sported a bruise from bumping and bouncing from one adventure to another. On time mom commented that she hoped that I didn’t go bald because of all of the scars that surely must be accumulating on my scalp.