My First Two Wheels

My family had just moved into a small rural town in Missouri called Dittmer.  I would be starting school later that fall. This was the summer when I came upon my first encounter with two wheels.
I was very surprised to see several older neighborhood kids  riding their bicycles out on the gravel road in front of our house one day.
Being the new kid would be difficult enough. They all looked like they were having a lot of fun and I was missing out.
Watching them riding their bikes fascinated me. I thought I could do that I was big enough I should be able to go bike riding too. Only thing was I didn't have a bicycle.
You could only imagine my utter disappointment when I went to my parents and asked them for a bicycle and was immediately turned down.
It really didn’t matter that I didn't have a bicycle of my own as much as I didn’t know how to ride one even if I did.  But how could I learn to ride a bike if I didn’t have one? None of the other kids trusted me or were willing to let me borrow theirs.
My parents might have had all of the best intentions and although our family was poor, it was explained to me that there just wasn’t going to be any money for a bicycle.
Nothing could stop my imagination or keep me from thinking about it. On foot I knew I could only walk or run so fast but if I had a bicycle I could virtually fly. Feeling the wind or breeze in your face has a certain magic to it. It inspires the imagination.
It wasn’t so much about the speed but the ability and to have the power to propel you from one destination to another. With a bicycle meant was I could go places.
Seeing my dilemma over the course of the next several weeks my mother who was a crafty and thrifty woman had come up with, an alternative idea just before my birthday and had asked me if I might be happy with a used one.
Perhaps there was a misconception between my mother and the neighbors thinking it was for her.
Maybe that was her original intention in the first place.
Sure enough when the time came I got the birthday surprise of my life. It was a bicycle alright but not just any bicycle it was one of the biggest and ugliest I had ever seen. It was very large, and powder blue in color, with 28 inch wheels but what was worse was the fact that it was a "Girls bike."

It looked something like this only much older and rusted.

It had come complete with a front wire basket, white handgrips and streamers and even a rear luggage rack. At first I was shocked and in disbelief, it was just so big, too big and it was a heavy monstrosity.
At first all I could do was push the bike around and occasionally I would bust my chin on the yoke of the handlebars. At other times I would straddle the frame and try to run before climbing on the pedals but the point of the seat would hit me in the middle of my back between my shoulder blades. Sometimes I would trip or fall and abruptly hit my tail bone on the frame or end up straddling it with my butt on the chain guard, and would end up scrapping my knees on the ground.
The longer and harder I tried the more painful it was becoming. I was beginning to think that it could only be ridden on flat surfaces like asphalted and on urban streets and there wasn't any of that out anywhere close. It just wasn't a bicycle that could easily be ridden on grass or on uneven gravel roads.
I went to my dad to plead my case for a different bike. His response was: “You wanted a bike you got one, now learn how to ride it.”
My sheer willpower was dwindling fast since I was becoming the laughing stock of the neighborhood.  No one else would have to go through this sort of humiliation. The harder I tried the more frustrated I was becoming.
My only female cousin Diane, who was several years older than I, had come out to stay for a visit. She had seen and overheard the other kids in the neighborhood poking fun at me and had decided to come to my aid.

Together with her help we removed the wire basket, the steamers and the rear luggage rack off the bicycle. Diane stood up and supported the bike while facing me. She held the front wheel tight between her legs and balanced it while telling me to grip the handlebars, and to climb on. and to put both feet on the pedals. Once I done that she held the bike still and then leaned it over from one side to the other while telling me to keep my balance.

Next we push the bike to the top of the front yard and then once or twice while she held one hand onto the handlebar and the other on the back of the seat she would run along side with me. By the third time she pushed off and let go and told me to pedal which I done.

Suddenly I realized I was riding the bike. It was hard to concentrate with a smile across my face. I was accomplishing what I had thought had been nearly impossible.Once I had coasted to near the bottom of the yard I would turn around. What I couldn't peddle I would have to get off and push the rest of the way.

With each trip I got a little more confident. It only took a few times and then it wasn't nearly as hard or as far to push the rest of the way back up the yard.

Next I would venture out onto the gravel road in front of our house. There was only a small area of level ground to ride on. Slowly and one by one the rest of the other neighbor hood kids came out to join me.
Because I had learned how to ride a bike, I felt triumphant, a little braver, and a lot more adventurous.

Jimmy’s First Fish

By STIX DOUGLAS



One of my earliest memories began on a hot summer day in the southern hills of Missouri just outside the Jefferson County line near a town called Koester Springs:



It was a long drive to my mothers Aunt Mammies, on a very dusty gravel/ dirt road that ran threw a narrow valley for more than a few miles. There were only a few houses along the way spaced at what seemed like a mile or so apart. Log cabins, old ones, put up before the Great Depression, were nestled between the trees that had grown around there. The little homes were placed in such a way as to make it look almost magical to me.



There were natural springs flowing up through the ground and the crystal clear water had a trough like box that was made of concrete collecting it that would hold several hundred gallons before it was routed through a channel ending in some vegetation. I learned this was called water crest, a plant that only grows in fresh water under those conditions, convincing me even further that this was a special place. There was a long handled metal cup for anyone to dip in and drink the pureness of natures own spring water.



As I stated, it was during the summer; the cloud of the gravel road would leave a trail of lingering dust if you followed someone, causing you to slow a bit and stay further behind. Once we got to Aunt Mammies there was a very wide and shallow creek to cross. This was before there were many formal bridges so they had a place to cross the creek upstream from the house with a small make shift double log and rough cut lumber bridge you could walk across with out too much fear of falling but without the luxury of a handrail.



It seemed that we had passed Mammies house while on the road, but then circled back across the stream onto the other side and kind of back track to park in what I thought was the grass.



The grass grew on this south facing hillside and seemed to bring a comfortable carpet of greens to walk on. It was mowed only with a manual grass mower; the old push type without a gas or electric engine. The house was on a steep hill and what I remember was a deepened water hole in the spring fed creek made of solid stone or rock that had been cut out by the years of water running up over it. The impression wasn’t really all that large but the bank then dropped off a few feet to the water level.



We had come to Aunt Mammies for a family gathering and a dinner after church. It was a festive like event. And everyone seemed to be in the best of spirits.



I hadn’t been there long and was somewhat intrigued with the water. The sun was shining and reflecting onto the rock bank which I noticed when we drove up.. I had asked it there might be any fish in it.



Trying to help with a boy’s imagination and I suspect to keep me from being underfoot the relatives suggested that I go fishing before we ate. Not knowing much about fishing, and not having seen too many fishing poles in my life at that point other than the older cane poles I began to look around for something to fish with. I knew I needed some string and was given something like kite string to use.



I was offered bread and told to make dough balls. I had no way of keeping the bait balls on the sting so another search began looking for a hook. What was found to use was a baby diaper pin. A rather large one too I might add. It was attached to the end of the string and I was all too happy to try my fancy rig out.



I asked for assurance that if I caught any fish would the ladies would fix it for the dinner and was convinced that I they would. Little did they know the determination and fixation of this little boy, this was one instance of many in underestimating my abilities.



I was happy, and going fishing. I had lay down on the bank of the creek and looked down into the crystal clean and pure water. I could easily see that there was at least one fish in there. One VERY BIG fish.



After several attempts with the bait falling off I ran out of the dough ball bait, and was still determined to fish, just tossing the hook it by itself. With the sun shining, the reflection on the water, and my tireless concentration, I believe I had more than caught the attention of this fish and had aggravated it into striking.



Once the fish attacked I had a prize. I was ecstatic. I ran up the hill to show off my catch. The women who had all dismissed me with mirth were all in shock.. None of them had thought it was possible and the fish was quickly removed from the hook and returned to the water from where I caught it.



I was confused and upset until I had to have it explained to me by my mother later that the fish I caught was like a family pet, they were aware of it and had been for a very long time. No one had expected such a little boy with such makeshift equipment to land the catch.



To me it is something more than one of my first memories it was my first test of character. Having managed it on my own I felt I had accomplished something others do at a much older age, an understanding of my power. The details of a memory fades but the thought and the catch is still fresh in my mind…No other fishing story could top that first fish.