I watched a
little girl learn to ride her bike on the hot pavement of Camille Street last
week. In the
shadow of the massive
glittery pink helmet, I saw in her tiny bronze face wonder, pride, fear and
excitement.
During my
weekly visit to my mother, I was walking to my car to fetch more grocery bags
when I saw them. Dad, his willowy frame
wrapped around his little girl to make sure she was securely attached to her
new princess bike. The little girl –
afraid but excited. Determined. “Don’t let go, Daddy, don’t let go.”
Instantly I
was transported back to another summer and another bicycle – this one red with
a white basket with big yellow daisies on the front. In the same spot on the same street in the
same small hometown more than 50 years ago, another girl and another dad share
this rite of passage. I can hear this
little girl say, “Don’t let go, Daddy, don’t let go!”
My dad
assured me that he never would.
Camille
Street, Senatobia, MS, USA. Like many
other small southern neighborhoods, Camille Street has seen many youngsters who
were planted here bloom over the past half century. The original Camille Street Gang members are
now grandparents with long and rich resumes, retirement plans, nice homes and photo
albums filled with lives we never thought possible during our hot summers on
Camille Street in the 60’s and 70’s.
We all
learned to ride our bikes on Camille Street.
No shiny helmets or knee pads for us.
We hopped on our bikes, bare footed with unprotected extremities, and
never looked back.
I sat on my
mom’s front porch and watched this little girl’s story unfold - a moment in her
life that she will never forget. Precious
memories layered one on top of the other to build the story of our lives. Makes us who we are.
Dad lets go
of the bubble gum colored bike. He
reaches out to steady it as it starts to slow down, wobble and then straightens up
and gains speed. He proudly watches his
little girl as her tippy toes push the peddles of the bike and her tiny brown
hands grip the handle bars to hold the bike steady. Past the Copeland’s house, past the Alexander’s,
almost all the way to the corner she rides.
The first of many, many times he
will see her spread her wings and fly.
Sometimes she will crash and sometimes she will soar, but always he will
be there to reach out and steady her.
I go back to
bringing in the groceries and I cannot stop thinking about the scene I just
witnessed. I can hardly believe it has
been more than 50 years since all of the first generation Camille Street kids
were learning to ride bikes, skate, swim, play baseball, drive cars and steal
kisses under the big tree in the McPhail’s back yard. I glance over at the Alexander’s house and
see Charlotte and me sitting on a quilt under her shade tree making clover
necklaces. I see Ricky walking across
the street to borrow an encyclopedia to do his science report. I see Gail and Jackie walking to the community
pool, flip flops flopping and bright colored towels hanging around their necks, giggling over secrets only they share. These are the layers that build my story.
As I leave
my mother’s house on Camille Street – my home for 22 years of my life -- I
think of my dad. I think of all the
times he steadied my journey and pointed me in the right direction. I realize that he did, in time, let go of my
bike.
But, he never let go of me.
