Two Rusted Bicycles in the Snow

Bodie Skinner was looking for his muse. He had just returned from a quick walk across snow-encrusted fields on his parents’ farm. Actually, it had been his grandparents’ farm. He entered the wet room, pulled off his boots and hung up his coat and scarf on an empty hook. Bodie’s mother and sister-in-law scurried around the kitchen putting finishing touches on the Christmas dinner for the 18 relatives expected. It smelled wonderful in the kitchen. Bodie’s dad and brother could be heard shouting at the players, coaches and referees on the TV.

Bodie had not been at one of these get-togethers for six years, which coincided with the six years it had been since he had written a hit song. His song writing had started here when he was a teenager. The mansion he was about to lose because of his dwindling fortune apparently provided no inspiration. He’d walked out in the fields to escape the lastminute preparations and to clear his head before the pandemonium began. His walk had been longer than he planned because he saw something shiny in a field and checked it out.

“Mom, what’s the story with the two bikes stuck in the snow way out in the field?”

Bodie’s mother peeked at the turkey in the oven and let the door bang shut before she answered.

“The silver bike is mine; the black one is your Aunt Ellen’s. We used to ride those bikes together all over the county — to school, to town, to church, to dances — just everywhere. But one day when I was 16 and your aunt was 14, Bobby Skinner pulled up next to us. He was taking a shortcut through the field in his first truck and he asked me to take a ride with him. I left that bike right there. I guess in a way, I left my childhood behind that day, too. I rode everywhere with Bobby Skinner after that. I’ve been riding with him for 45 years.

“Your aunt was so mad that she left my bike there and went home. Three years later, she started riding with Jerry Tyler in his truck and as a joke when they started dating she left her bike out there beside mine.”

Bodie reached for a pickle on the relish tray. “Hey, you wait for dinner, Bodie Skinner!” his mother fussed as she smacked his hand. She hadn’t slowed down when it came to guarding food from the men in her family.

“You never rode the bikes again?”

“Well, no. Some years later when she and Jerry came to visit, while the kids napped, Ellen and I decided to take a ride. But the bikes’ tires were useless and the parts rusted. They wouldn’t budge.”

Bodie tried for a pickle. Foiled again!

“The bikes make me think of my friendship with my sister, which in a way rusted, too. We used to read each other’s minds and finish each other’s sentences, but Bobby and I stayed on the farm and Jerry’s job took them to the college. Imagine my Ellen a professor’s wife. We get together from time to time, but we are awkward when we visit. Yup, time’s rusted us.”

“Mom, that’s pretty heavy for Christmas.”

“You asked me, Bodie. E-mail has made it a little easier for us to keep in touch. I tell you, Bodie, you should hang on to relationships. It’s work, like hanging onto a lot of threads at one time. They make the texture of your life and if you let go of some threads — well, it leaves a hole.”

“Texture of your life,” Bodie muttered. He wondered if his mother always spun her words this way.

Bodie’s sister-in-law added, “That sounds like make new friends, but keep the old . . .”

and her voice trailed off. She wasn’t much of a talker.

“Yes, friends, family, same thing. Hold onto them. Keep them close. You get that Bodie

Skinner? You’ve let go of some of your threads.” This time Bodie got the pickle and a sharp look from his mother.

The doorbell rang and Bodie was relieved to get out of what was sure to be a lecture about how he’d gotten too big for his britches and forgotten his roots. The families arrived. Aunt and Uncle, three married cousins and their six kids. Bodie’s brother’s kids were older and arrived last. They were teenagers and could think of a million other places they’d like to be. But their friends were all at family gatherings, too. Dinner was noisy — kids yelling, parents correcting them, football talk, politics, and questions about Bodie’s life in the music business, which he did his best to deflect.

“So, Dad, you swept Mom right off of her bike about 45 years ago?” Bodie’s mother would have stuck him with her fork, but she couldn’t reach him. “Now, Bodie, that’s ancient history,” she said.

“I did. I successfully parted the sisters — a feat no other man could claim! Oh, I offered to put both bikes in the truck bed and take both girls with me, but your Mom just jumped in and said her sister could take care of the bikes.”

“And I never felt so hurt and abandoned in my life before or after. Never,” said Bodie’s Aunt Ellen.

“Oh, Ellen, I was so cruel,” said Bodie’s mother and she started to cry.

No one made a sound. Even the kids fell silent.

“Now, Grace, if it had been me and Jerry I’d have left you there!” Aunt Ellen laughed. “Once I met Jerry, I understood perfectly.”

After dinner Bodie heard the banging of dishes as the table was cleared, the football game with even more jeering and cheering, kids running and screaming. All of this was followed by the mayhem of opening the packages under the tree. Then there were noisy toys, more stories and memories told and made. Later, the women shared secrets in the kitchen in their soft voices punctuated by clanging pots and pans.

Bodie smiled and closed his eyes and listened. He heard lyrics and music refrains.

Bodie watched his mother and aunt put on their winter gear after the dishes were done, and tramp out into the snow to the bikes. He opened the door of the wet room as the sisters climbed on the seats of the bikes side by side again. He heard their voices through the crisp air and then he heard — he was certain of it — Christmas bells. Sure enough the bikes were rusted, but the clappers were not just shiny in the snow, they worked and they rang cheerfully as his mother and aunt laughed and then got off the bikes and hugged for a long time.

Bodie Skinner took the stage at the awards ceremony. His new CD had been nominated. The band played the intro and Bodie took the mic and began to sing the hit single, “two rusted bicycles in the snow . . .”

ABOUT SYDNE DEAN

Sydne Dean sits down to write fiction exactly one time each year, when The Gazette’s holiday fiction contest rolls around. Most of the time she’s too busy reading. Dean is one of the top officials at the Pikes Peak Library District, one of three associate directors.

She’s worked at the library since 1979, so she’s been surrounded by all things literary for a long time. “But I just write for the contest. It’s a forced thing once a year,” Dean said. “I write stuff at work, but it’s not fiction, hopefully.” Besides writing reports, she is the Ann Landers of the library, the person who answers any and all “Dear Library” letters.

The veteran of the fiction contest said she had an easy time drawing inspiration from the picture of the bikes — “of course, I’m old enough to remember bikes like that” — so she let the ideas roll around in her head for a week and then began to write.

She grew up with two sisters, so the heart of her story comes from experience. She said one of the other sisters was the one who “had all the dates,” so she feels for the sister who was left behind. “There’s a sense of loss when your family goes in different directions.”