Tears and Scars

I have laid down stakes across Canada spent large chunks of residing in parts of California and Scotland. Still, it isn't in a geographic location where I find home. I return home to a social and emotional locale. I have a scar on my right knee and can feel the ridge where stitches were put on the inner side of my bottom lip. Both the disfigurements occurred almost sixty years ago when I was seven or eight years old.

With my sister running behind me, holding onto the back of the seat, I pedaled and wobbled down Smith Street, attempting to master the art of riding a bike for the first time. There were too many tries to count and way too many skinned knees and elbows but eventually, I became competent and then proficient, and then cocky. That was the process of my life, incompetent, mediocre, capable, and assured and then ultimately unconcious if the effort and practice it took.

Riding a bike offered adventure and independence. I could whirl out of the yard and explore the vast world (as long as I didn't cross Albert Street or go more than eight blocks away). There was a lot to see, even in a small prairie city and the seisnic shift of the 1960's and 1970's caused the ground to shift under the feet of all the adults I knew. I always returned home, from my adventures; for lunch, for supper, to sleep, or to share a story with my mom. Out there was exciting, and a bit daI have laid down stakes across Canada spent large chunks of residing in parts of California and Scotland. Still, it isn't just in a geographic location where I find a home. I return to a social and emotional locale. I have a scar on my right knee and can feel the ridge where sutures were sewn on the inner side of my bottom lip. These disfigurements and the lessons learned occurred almost sixty years ago when I was seven or eight years old. They still form and frame a party of who I have become.

With my sister running behind me, holding onto the back of the seat, I pedaled and wobbled down Smith Street, attempting to master the art of riding a bike for the first time. There were too many tries to count and way too many skinned knees and elbows but eventually, I became competent and then proficient, and then cocky. That was the process of my life, incompetent, mediocre, capable, and assured, and then ultimately unconscious of the effort and practice it took.

Riding a bike offered adventure and independence. I could whirl out of the yard and explore the vast world (as long as I didn't cross Albert Street or go more than eight blocks away). There was a lot to see, even in a small prairie city, and the seismic shift of the 1960s and 1970s caused the ground to sway under the feet of all the adults I knew. Fortunately, I was oblivious to the changes and the way society was adjusting. My world was big for a kid but still small and naive. The assassinations and wars that filled the news seemed far away and held little significance in my life.

I always returned home from my childhood adventures; for lunch, supper, sleep or share a story with my mom. Out there was exciting, and a bit dangerous, and home was where I was safe and sound. Home was the house where my family lived, where my sisters irritated me, and where I learned to ride a bike. Home was 120 Smith Street, in Regina, Saskatchewan.

My bike skills improved, and I spread my wings to the point that I bought a bigger bike and took bigger risks, including building a jump in the drainage ditch. The ditch and the leap turned out to be a teaching moment though I was unaware of this at the time. On a regular Wednesday afternoon, I felt weightless for a second and then crashed headlong onto the handlebars and tasted my blood from a gash on my lip where my teeth bit down. I bent the bike frame and loosened the front fork. I dragged myself and the bike home feeling angry, embarrassed, and worried. I don't recall the emergency room trip, but I know that despite being in trouble for my recklessness, my mom still cared for me, and I was still safe and sound surrounded by my family.

There have been a series of stumbles and falls; some insignificant and a couple were pretty significant, and one was life-changing. I have visited Regina over the years to attend weddings, birthdays, funerals, and visit some family still there. The house is still standing and looks much as I remember, except smaller, and I don't have any attachment to the building, yard, or garage.

Everyone in my family moved out, and the house was sold to another family, but for me, it wasn't the green and white siding or the sweetpeas and hollyhocks that made it home. It wasn't what or even who was inside the house. It was what was inside me when I was there that made it home.