Saddling Up the Schwinn

Needless to say, allowances went by the wayside.  As Mother would say, “No Workee, No Payee.”  I didn’t seem to have a problem with that.  At fifty cents a week, it took forever to save my money to buy anything of substance.  On the other hand, my brother would ride his bike weekly to Paramount News Stand on the corner of Michigan and Washington Street in downtown Lansing.  He loved Marvel comic books, The Avengers, The Hulk, Batman and Spiderman were some of his favorites.  He would spend hours spinning that rack where these super heroes rested, coming alive when the cover was opened. Carefully he would select the super hero he was taking home, place his twelve cents on the counter, hop on his gold sting ray bicycle with the banana seat and rush home to join his super heroes as they jumped from  burning buildings saving the day as only super heroes could back in the day.  He was not extravagant in his spending.  He would return home from his day of shopping and place his spare change in the blue plastic piggy bank that promised him a new Oldsmobile someday.

My piggy bank that we had acquired at a car show was pink and the cap where you so carefully aligned your coin to drop into the Piggy’s belly resembled a white sailor cap.  My Piggy’s belly was never full.  I fed him, but I knew how to pop the sailor’s cap off and retrieve my quarters, placing them in my pocket for my day of shopping.

Mother had clearly outlined the boundaries of where I could ride my bike.  I was not to go beyond Logan Street that was seven blocks west of us.  One block further then my grade school.  I was not to go beyond Saginaw Street, one block north of us.  Nor could I venture beyond Washington Avenue, two blocks east of us, until Lansing Community College expanded and my boundary was altered to not travel beyond Seymour Street where the old campus stood.  The old campus was practically in our back yard. My boundary south was Shiawassee Street which was the street that ran along the back side of the block we lived on.

As you can see, I had a very large territory that I was able to roam freely.  In my little world, I could ride my bike to the park that was a block away and spend hours on the merry-go-round.  Many days were spent with my butt firmly planted on the leather strap as my little hands gripped the linked chain and my legs pumped me higher and higher into the sky, jumping to the ground with a finely planted mount similar to an Olympian balance beam competitor. As my feet landed on the ground, my arms raised to the skies, “Ta Da!”  I could hear the crowds roar as they cheered from my imaginary stands. I would run to the monkey bars climbing to the top as if I were conquering Mount Everest.  With my knees grasping the metal bar, I’d swing back and hang upside down, taking the world in from another perspective. If I got bored, I could saddle up the old Schwinn and race two blocks to the school playground. The monkey bars were bigger there and it had a pole that I could reach out for and swing my body onto, riding it like a finely trained fire fighter on her way to save the world.

There blacktop was filled with games to play.  Lines were painted in yellow outlining the tether ball arena, hopscotch squares, basketball courts; the playground was a safe haven for kids in the neighborhood, surrounded by chain link fence setting off to the side of our grade school, Genesee Street.

My friends from school for the most part lived within the confines of my play land, but it wasn’t enough. For just outside of my reach, the devil called me.  I was not supposed to go near Saginaw Street. It was a very busy main thorough fare connecting the west side of Lansing to the east side of Lansing, but it also was home to my shopping mecca. The D&C Dime Store!

I knew I was not supposed to be in the vicinity of Saginaw Street, but Mother was a minimum of eight walking blocks away.   She didn’t have a car, Dad drove that to work.  She would never know that I was teetering on the edge of riding my bike into the Devil’s playground.  I rode my bike to the dime store ever so careful to park it in an area that it could  not have been seen just in case the eyes in the back of my Mother’s head were also lingering  in the area.  I loved the dime store! They had everything.  I could ogle the toys, admire the fine china and watch the sun bounce off the cut glass vases near the front store window. But the whole purpose of my adventure was to spend my allowance.  The candy counter sat in the middle of the store.  I was almost positive it is what kept this store anchored to the ground as it was heavily guarded.

The candy counter resembled the displays where fine jewelry was housed, behind glass showcases.  A clerk always on guard behind the counter to fulfill your sugar coated wishes.  I would walk around this counter and eye all the candy similar to my brother selecting his comic book. You could buy this sugar high by the pound. A quarter pound of candy was the smallest amount you could purchase.  I eyed the display scanning the posted prices for each confectioners delight.  I only had fifty cents and I was rather picky about what I allowed to pass my lips.

I loved milk chocolate stars. I would pop them in my mouth and let them dissolve on my tongue savoring the creamiest chocolate God laid on this Earth.  My shiny quarters were in my pocket.  I could feel the heat of those coins burning a hole in the lining of my shorts.  Dancing like Mexican Jumping beans within the confines of the cotton pocket that held them.  With my nose pressed against the glass, eyeing my prize, I placed my order. I watched the clerk as she picked up the silver spoon, scooping those delicate morsels from the display and placing them on the scale.  As she weighed them, she grabbed a little paper sack and poured my four little stars in to a bag, folding the top over so I would not lose any if I dropped the pouch.

She rang up my purchase and I handed her my quarters.  I don’t remember if I received change, my mind was clouded as I played on the Devil’s playground.  All I could think of was the taste of those dreamy stars.  I grabbed the bag and ran from the store. 

My biggest challenge lay ahead of me.  How was I going to savor my milk chocolate stars when the clock was ticking ever so quickly toward that bewitching hour of five o’clock? I had to ride my bike three quarters of a mile to reach my home base.  I was faced with a quandary.  How was I going to enjoy the treat I had spent my hard earned money on?  I had minutes before I had to be home to spare myself a beating.  I couldn’t walk in the house with my bag of chocolates. My Mother would know like any well trained detective that I had challenged her again and stepped outside of the boundaries.  I had to be careful to not let my treats melt leaving traces of creamy chocolate on my lips or hands or the absolute give away, on my clothes after wiping the creamy sauce on my shorts so I would not smear my bicycle handles.

What was a girl to do? I saddled up the old Schwinn, opened the bag and lifted it to the air, dropping all four morsels onto my tongue. I threw the bag in the trash receptacle and headed toward my beating.  My little legs that pumped me so high in the sky were now pushing me toward my punishment.

As I sailed through the neighborhood, chocolate fueling my legs, I reached my destination. I made it with time to spare! A victory chalked up within my heart.  As I ran in the back door and up the stairs to the kitchen, I slid into my chair at the table.  My Mother eyeing me ever so careful as I was on time for once, she was probably wondering what I had done wrong that day to be on time, she was not a dumb woman. 

She looked at me with those eyes that only Mothers have, “go wash your hands.”

My heart sank, she knew.  I had left evidence of my trip to the Devil’s playground.  I walked into the bathroom head down, staring at my hands.  They were clean.  I looked into the mirror; no traces of chocolate were to be found. I pulled it off, the perfect crime.  Pushing the envelope and stepping over the invisible boundary that she placed for my safety.  She would never know.

Proudly I walked back to the table.   She served dinner.  I hung my head, “I’m not hungry.” My Mother, staring at me intently, her eyes burning my brain, searching for the reason that I would sit at her table and not be hungry.  Quietly she would whisper, “What have you been up to?”  “Nothing,” was always my response.