My Mom’s a biker
Anne-Lise - yeah it’s high time you were on first name basis with your Mom - always liked to ride a bike so long as it didn’t get too hilly, specially upwardly. Who doesn’t like a downhill ride, the wind whizzing wildly in your hair. She learned how to ride a tricycle before I can remember, and as soon as she got on two wheels only, she whirled around in our garage. We’d built a whole station service out of cardboxes left over from our recent move, and my sister and I used to remember the garage as an immense space, where we could play hide and go seek. It was big enough anyway for us to bike. And in a city where rain is what you mostly get from above (apart from pigeon missiles), the garage shelter was most welcome.
When she was nine, she had a minor glitch while riding her green bike. I remember that day distinctly. We’d just moved again, to a new house in a cul-de-sac and my sister was biking around on the sidewalk when she leened a wee bit too close to our house wall and scratched her right arm very badly.
The rest of that day is a blur. I can remember my Dad taking my sister - your Mom - away to the hospital to have her arm checked. It turned out to be a scratch no more. Nonetheless, to this day, she still has a small, barely noticeable scar.
Let’s talk about lousy memory. First of all it was my left arm! Second of all it wasn’t our house wall but the neighbors’ wall before they had it painted! And third of all Dad wasn’t at home ’cause he was working and Catherine was the one "babysitting" us. Thus I never was taken to the hospital for a minor scratch. Talk about rewriting history.
Beware Duds’, stories such as the lethal-drill-a-hole-through-your-back-playmobil or the in-your-face-smash-your-nose-ball-saving-wall-encounter can also be narrated on the internet.
Take care and love you very much.
Your sis’
i love your blog, great !