I wanted a bicycle in the worst way. It wasn’t likely to happen, though, in a depression year in the mid ’30s.
My brother had taught me how to ride. He had an old Army bike. I’m not sure of its provenance, but it was painted olive drab. It was high and had skinny tires and I couldn’t get on it by myself. He would lift me onto the seat, get me settled, and give me a push. Off I’d go down the dirt street. I’d ride until I fell off, push the bike back to the beginning and we’d do it all over again. I got better in time and sometimes I would ride several blocks before the wheel hit a rut or deep sand or I decided to try to turn around. Then it was the long walk back, pushing the cumbersome bike until I could do it again.
What I wanted was a girl’s bike that I could get on myself, and it was right there in the Salt Lake Hardware catalog—red and shining with chrome fenders and a basket. I would drop by the store every afternoon to look at it again. I can’t remember how much it would be, but I decided that I would have to earn the money myself.
At this time, my mother, who was not very robust, hired a “girl” to help her with her morning chores, which were numerous and arduous. She paid her 50 cents a day, and I decided I could do her job. I made my mother a proposition and she agreed to hire me, after giving me a list of my duties. I was ecstatic! I could just see those 50 cent pieces piling up to meet my goal. My father paid me a pittance when I helped out at the store, and I had some birthday money stashed away. Victory was in sight!
So began my summer job. Besides the obvious dishes and bed-making, I had to help with processing the several gallons of milk that came into the house every day, an arduous job that entailed several trips up and down the cellar stairs. We had rugs in the living and dining rooms which left a strip of hardwood around the edges. There seemed no way to dust those areas except on my knees—I hated that job. Monday was wash day, which was a big production. We had to wheel the washer into the kitchen from the back porch so we could fill it from the sink. My mother insisted on boiling the whites, and I remember the big oval boiler bubbling away on the stove. We used a broom handle to transfer the steaming sheets and towels into the washing machine. Then there was the rinsing, cranking it through the rollers and finally hanging it all on the line—it was enough to make a strong woman weep! Sometime during this process my mother would starch the collars and cuffs on my dad’s shirts, and after the clothes were brought in, we folded and sprinkled those that had to be ironed—which brought us to Tuesday when we ironed.
I didn’t mind the ironing so much—I could daydream about the new bike while I ironed. I came by that skill gradually, starting out with handkerchiefs, graduating to pillowslips, then to aprons. It took a while to master shirts. Sheets were spread out on the ironing board first so I could iron the hems and the body of the sheets would benefit from everything else being ironed on top of them.
Of course, summer meant canning and it seemed something was available to can all summer long. There was usually extra help on those days and it was a satisfaction seeing the jams and bottles of peaches and pears lined up on the cellar shelves. But still a lot of work for the hired hand—me!
Finally the money was accumulated (I think my father supplemented it) and the bike was ordered, I couldn’t wait! I seemed to take weeks for it to arrive, but it did and I was there for the unpacking. But horrors! It had been damaged in shipping and one of the shining fenders was bent and twisted. One alternative was to send back to Salt Lake Hardware and get a replacement (that would take weeks and I had already waited so long). The other was to take it as was. I decided on the latter, and my brother managed to straighten the fender so it was operable and didn’t look too bad, and I had my bike!
What a joy it was! Even with its crumpled rear fender. I rode it all over town, to parts I’d never been before. My friends who had bikes and I would have “riding parties,” just for the joy of feeling the wind in our hair. One of my favorite rides was to follow Main Street until it became the County road and turned north. Probably three miles. At the turn there was a small stand of cottonwood trees where I would cool off in the shade before the long ride home. Sometimes there would be some horsemen taking advantage of the shade, and they would kid with me a bit—I was easy to tease.
There are several morals to this story, besides the obvious “anything is possible!”
Just thank your stars that someone invented the automatic washing machine and dryer. Be thankful for no-iron fabrics and refrigerators. I’m thankful that I have the rich memories of a time that is almost unimaginable now, of a time when a new bike was a dream come true.
Peggy Lewis, the mother of A News Cafe.com contributor Jon Lewis, has been a student at the Modesto Institute for Continued Learning since 1983. The institute is a program sponsored by the Modesto Junior College Division of Extended Education and is “designed for the mature adult student who seeks to experience learning for the joy of it.” She wrote this story from her childhood as an assignment for MICL’s Writer’s Workshop and has graciously allowed A News Café.com to share it. This particular episode occurred when Peggy was about 10 or 11 years old and living with her family in Castle Dale, Utah.
Peggy celebrated her 93rd birthday in February.
