Dearest Ruby B.,
Hello, little one. Hope you are ready to celebrate your first
Christmas. Of course, this year your
takeaway might only be some brightly colored lights, a few new smells like holly
and sweetly scented candles, some new music which, even at your tender age,
might elicit an emotional response, and your parents giving you just a few
extra hugs. In the years to come, it
will have much deeper meaning.
When I was 11 years old I got
my first steady paying job as a paperboy for the Los Angeles Mirror, the
afternoon edition of the LA Times. Published
since 1881, the Times Mirror is the second largest newspaper in the
country. But back in the day, it was second
fiddle to its much bigger afternoon competitor, the Herald Examiner. The routes for the Mirror were pretty spread
out. Fewer customers meant you might
have a subscriber on one block and the next would be blocks away. Such was my route and I peddled my bike
nearly six miles a day delivering my 101 newspapers.
I would start my route at the
pick-up station, where I would count out the papers, fold them in a special way
(there were no plastic bags to put them in back then), stuff them in my carrier
bag, which had two large pouches that held fifty papers or so in each pouch. Then I would sling the carrier over my head
and shoulders, half in front and half in back of me and head out to my route.
There was one large boulevard
on my route. It was a two lane road,
divided by a huge curbed median with sixty or seventy-year old maple trees down
the middle. It was a gorgeous thoroughfare;
about two miles long and fairly steeply sloped with grand old homes lining each
side of the street. I had a customer at
the top of the run and one at the bottom both on the left side. So even though I was going against any
potential traffic, I would throw my first paper and head my bike down the wrong
lane, get it up to speed and let the grade zip me down to the bottom of the run
at probably 25 miles per hour.
It was a peaceful and lightly
traveled street so I felt pretty confident I would not run into anyone and I
loved the sensation of racing along without peddling and feeling the wind in my
hair and on my face. Sometimes I would
take my hands off the handlebar grips and stretch my arms out like I was flying. I was counting on Sir Isaac Newton’s first
law of gravity, which, paraphrased, says “An object in motion stays in motion
in a straight line unless acted upon by an outside force”. Outside forces include gravity, wind
resistance and other physical factors.
Well, one day, all the outside forces went awry.
I was half way down the
boulevard when I decided, for whatever hair brained reason, to see if I could
cross my hands and steer the bike with my left hand on the right handle grip and
my right hand on the left handle grip.
So I reached down with my right hand and grasped the left grip. BIG MISTAKE.
Before I could get my left hand secured, my right hand jerked the wheel
sharply to the left, setting in motion a series of hapless actions. The wheel locked crossways and pitched me
violently forward over the handlebars.
My private parts got momentarily but forcefully hung up on the riser
causing a pain which I can only associate, I am told, with childbirth. I flew through the air for about 20 feet,
newspapers flying in every direction, before making a perfect three point
landing in the street, the three points being my two knees and my nose. I skidded and tumbled for another few yards
until I came to rest in a doubled over, crumpled mess in the middle of the
street.
My pain was excruciating on
several levels as the thought raced through my head that I might never be able
to father your mother….or any other child for that matter. Within less than a minute, a dozen housewives
(women worked at home back in those days) were gathered around me asking if I
was alright, all evidence to the contrary.
I could not even answer them as I continued to lay in a fetal position
grasping my crotch with both hands and bleeding profusely through the two holes
in my blue jeans and from my face.
Finally catching my breath,
as it were, the moms lifted me up to my feet.
One had a wet towel and started bathing my wounds, others picked up my
newspapers and another brought me my bike.
Amazingly, the tubular crossbar between the riser and the seat had split
in two and the front wheel was bent over almost at a 90 degree angle. The object in motion, me, would have stayed
in motion in a straight line had I not been acted upon by an outside
force. In this case, the outside force
was stupidity. And that kind of brings
me to my next pearl:
Thirty-Third Pearl
To put it in Biblical terms, it
was just the previous Sunday that the Gospel lesson for the day was Matthew 7:13-14
which says; “Enter ye in at the straight gate; for wide is the gate and broad
is the way that leadeth to destruction; and many there be which go in thereat. But small is the gate and narrow the way that
leadeth to life; and only a few find it”.
(King James Version)
One of the mothers called my
mom and she came to pick me up. We
delivered the rest of my papers and she drove me home, my broken and crumpled
bicycle hanging out of the trunk and my
battered body and bruised ego aching in the passenger seat as I tried to
explain to your great grandmother how in the world this could have happened. It was difficult to hide the stupid behind it
all. Finally there was silence, but then
the rest of the way home, the Bible text kept repeating in my mind. If I had only stayed on the straight and
narrow path, guiding my bike through the straight and narrow gate so to speak,
I would not feel like someone had just run me through a wood chipper. If only I had not tried to challenge the laws
of nature my privates would not look like someone beat them blue with a
hammer. It was an important lesson
learned the hard way.
So, my darling Ruby, if you
ever have the notion to stray from the straight and narrow, no matter what the
situation, don’t. Save yourself from destruction,
whether it be of a physical or spiritual nature. Think of your old Grandpa Jud and remember straight
is great, narrow is nice and wide has some wicked consequences.
I love you bunches and
bunches,
Grandpa Jud xoxoxo
No comments:
Post a Comment