Coonridge Digest: Take a breath

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

It was just about the most magnificent Christmas present I’d ever seen. An orange and black Monarch Speed-Master bicycle, complete with training wheels, a thumb-operated bell and plastic streamers flowing from each handlebar. The bright orange streaks just shouted "Speed!" and the very thought of cruising Coonridge on Christmas morning made me giddy.

The two blocks to Grandpa’s Feed Store became the Mile of Champions as I peddled my wobbling way up to show off the Monarch the minute the stores opened on December 26th.

Grandpa had two large plate glass windows fronting his emporium of hog feed and cattle supplements. As I rounded the corner of the Masonic temple and came to a screeching halt in front of his store I managed to avoid the windows, but hadn’t taken the boot scraper into account.

He kept a small concrete slab with steel bars inserted at boot height, right in front of the door. Roads didn’t amount to much back then and in muddy weather most of the loafers carried part of the farm in on their boots. Now that I recall it, I’d forgotten about something else. The brakes.

The entire length of my maiden voyage on the Monarch had been uphill and thus I hadn’t had occasion to get used to the particulars of the Monarch braking system. I guess that I thought if you just closed your eyes and grunted really hard the thing would come to a stop. It didn’t. When Grandpa picked up his wailing grandchild, the training wheels of the bike were firmly enmeshed into the bike’s spokes, and the grandchild’s head was firmly crammed against the front door.

He said I was kicking and screaming like a banshee.

Years later I looked up the word, subtracted a small measure for Grandpa’s legendary exaggeration, but still came up with a condition that embarrasses me still today. I must have been a hysterical handful.

I can remember him asking a remarkably dumb question: "Are you okay?"

And I can remember giving an extremely simple answer: "Noooooo!"

"You got two legs?"

"Grandpa! My bicycle! Look at my new bicycle!"

"Your arms still attached?"

"It won’t run anymore, Grandpa! Just look at it!"

"Head seems okay. Don’t feel anything rollin’ around lose inside do ya?"

"It’s my new bike, Grandpa! It’s broke! The bike’s broke!"

"Let’s see. Two eyes, one on each side. A couple of pretty good ears. Tongue sure works fine."

"I can’t ride it anymore, Grandpa! My bikes all a mess!"

"Your stomach’s pretty much where it ought to be. Butt’s still behind you. Nose seems to be pointin’ a bit south but that’ll straighten out with time."

Then a scream that nearly awakened Floyd Hannant dozing by Grandpa’s stove. "Everything’s gone wrong, Grandpa!"

After reaching down and pulling the training wheels lose, Grandpa gave me the best advice I’d ever received. "Take a breath," he said.

Of course I was taking lots of breaths, each interspersed with a mournful howl. "But…"

"Just calm down and take a breath," and he clamped his hand over my mouth so I had no choice but to take a deep, chilly breath through my nostrils. "Do it again. Take a breath. Get some air. Just calm down."

It’s been a rough year. This time last year we were frightened by the prospect of an approaching war. Now we’re into it and the fear is no less real. Sports heroes have again become un-heroic, the economy is in a "jobless recovery," advertising continues to raise expectations in a younger generation who’ve yet to be taught how to fulfill those hopes, and Herb has reached an all-time high on my irritation meter.

It’s time to take a breath. Two legs. Yep. Two arms, a nose, and enough ears hear all I want to. We’re blessed with food in our bellies and enough spare change to buy what we need. Some of us are blessed enough to not have more.

A new year. Take a breath. Take a breath.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.