I like to write, and as it turns out the hobby runs in the family. My mom's dad has written down a number of stories from his growing up years as well as his years working as a TV repairman. These are some of my most prized possessions. Seriously, they cannot be replaced!
One of my favorite stories that Grandpa wrote about is the story about his bike. As aforementioned, he wrote it and I post it here for your reading pleasure. Just envision the Andy Griffith Era as you read...
One day the town cop had pasted hand-written notices around town stating that it was illegal to ride a bicycle on the sidewalks of Henderson. This posed quite a problem for us, because the streets were either dirt or gravel and very hard to ride on, especially when it rained or snowed.
One day shortly thereafter, I was riding home from school on the sidewalk. The cop, who was also the town maintenance man had a hole dug along side the sidewalk. As I approached, he jumped out of that hole and grabbed my bike. "You're under arrest!" he said. Then he gave me a ticket to appear in court. when I got home, I told what had happened. Mas, my brother, said, "Yeah, he got me too."
Max and I decided that if we had to go to court, then all the other boys in town should go to court with us. We thought that if we got enough boys to go with us, they wouldn't do anything.
The time arrived to appear before the judge. We had quite a bunch of boys with us as we entered the town hall. John, the cop, read the charges and everybody plead guilty. Now, Judge Frank read the charges in his low German accent. "One dollar fine or tirty days in jail wit da bicycles." Of course, none of us had a dollar. (That was a day's wages for a man at the time.)
The next morning we all delivered our bikes to the town hall wehre teh cop wheeled them into the jail cell, slammed the door shut and locked it. We were allowed to visit our bikes later, which we did.
Now Max came up with a great idea. "We need to get us another bicycle," he said. so we started scrounging parts from all over town. Soon we had enough to build a bik. It was a high wobbly thing, but it could be ridden if you didn't go too fast. We made a few dry runs around the yard, then we led that bike close to where teh cop was working. I held it while Max got on and slowly rode on the street back and forth, making sure the cop got a good look.
A couple of days later, Donald, the neighbor kid, and I were walking to town. We spotted a hole along the side of the road with the cop's tools and jacket lying there, but he wasn't anywhere in sight. I stood watch while Donald nailed his jacket to a light pole.
On Sunday, Grandma and Grandpa came over for a visitf. Grandpa wondered why we weren't out riding our bicycles. When Mom told him what had happened, he wanted to know who had done this to us. When she told him it was Judge Frank, he became quite upset. I don't think Grandpa like Judge Frank.
I don't quite know what Grandpa did to that judge, but I'm quite sure it wasn't nice. Grandpa had these big strong arms and hands, and when he got someone by the throat, they usually did as he requested.
We all went together and picked up our bicycles. I don't think that sidewalk ordinance was ever enforced again in Henderson.
And that, my friends, is "the bike story." Isn't it great?! I love it! My Grandpa is just that kind of a guy - a guy who knows how to tell a story. I hope someday to be just like him. :)
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