Thursday, Feb. 25, 2010
The tree in the middle of the road
Jan Huntsinger, Guest Columnist
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How does your life change as you grow? The little events in every child’s life are pretty close to being the same. They vary depending on the circumstance but every kid knows each time something is a little different; they feel deep down inside that they are growing up little by little.
The kids on 28th Terrace had something that not all kids had. Just like most kids, the phone books that we sat on at the dinner table were lowered one by one.
We certainly didn’t live on a busy street but when we could cross the street by ourselves, without our mothers standing in door telling us when it was OK to go, it was a milestone event.
Then there was the day you got to have something to say about what you wanted to wear, not necessarily that it made a difference, but your voice was now heard.
How about when getting to help with the dishes was no longer anticipated as one of the high points of your day?
Then, of course, is the day you not only get a bakery made and decorated heart-shaped birthday cake but your awaited, store-bought dress is one of your presents.
Not that you didn’t appreciate that up until then, your mother had used her sewing talents to the max to keep you and your sister up to style, but that’s the day that will stick with you.
Your father thinks that you can handle dandelion digging and later agrees to let you hold in your hand, just once, that wonderful bit of a neighborhood Fourth of July celebration – a Roman candle – and you did so because you knew your dad was there beside you.
You get your first bike with a basket and to top it off there are streamers on the handlebars. You’ll crash a few times, have scraped knees and elbows because for a time, you were lost in a wind blowing through your hair moment and forgot to slow down or use your brakes until it was too late and crashed into a tree. But you did survive.
Fortunately for us, the safety experts had not yet deemed kneepads and helmets were to be part of the required attire for bike riding.
You no longer cry when you get on the school bus because you wanted to stay at home with Mom. Your big sister doesn’t have to buy your ice-cream treat. Then there’s always the day you face the reality of Santa Claus.
Of course, growing up would not be complete until that all-important moment when your mother takes you aside and announces that the hair on your legs has got to go and hands you a razor with strict instructions to never use Daddy’s because he will not be happy.
There were and are many, many steps taken toward growing up, but for us, the kids of 28th Terrace growing up in the 1950s, there was a definite pivotal point in maturity for which we longed.
We knew we had finally taken a huge step forward in our parents’ minds when this happened. We had finally come to the part in our life where our parents knew they could trust us.
We got to ride our bikes to the tree in the middle of the road. Literally, on Scott just past Shelly Road, there was a big old oak that the builders had left there. It was huge. We couldn’t even wrap our arms all the way around it.
I’m sure the builders just didn’t have the heart to destroy something so great and it definitely gave the neighborhood character. The powers that be simply paved the road around it.
This age-defining specimen was about three blocks away from our house. Being able to go that far with our mom’s and dad’s blessing was to us the gateway to a whole new world that we would now get to explore. That tree had become the unannounced goal of everyone.
The excitement grew every summer as, one by one, we gained this freedom. The tradition quickly became that, after the first solo ride, the esteemed would join the ranks of the other privileged ones who would take those not old enough to be initiated on a much-anticipated ride on the back of their bikes.
Now, that was a glorious experience and that ride only heightened the anticipation of what was ahead for us coming up in the ranks.
The door to being a grown-up had been opened to us, one by one, by just a simple bike ride to a mighty oak tree.
Jan Huntsinger, a Blue Springs resident, is a guest columnist for the Journal. To respond to today’s commentary, call 816-282-7001 or e-mail editor@bluespringsjournal.com.
