This memory is from nearly 60 years ago, and yet it is as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Those days were hard for many folk. Our nation was recovering from a great war. This is the story of one struggling family, and of their only son.

His bicycle was ruined. Though it had been his pride, Charles didn’t care.

Charles was a wild and unruly child. He truly was untamed. I remember when he came to school — another boy with my first name. We never would be friends. My mother would not approve. His clothes were clean, but worn. His hair was shaggy and long. He was loud and rude. His school grades were not good.

Charles’ family had moved into a tar paper shack, past the cemetery, beside the railroad track on the outskirts of town. Charles, his dad and mom and younger sister lived there in that tiny, humble home.

His father could be seen most days shoveling coal at the railroad siding in town. His bulging arms and strong, broad back were made to unload the coal cars. He’d shovel their load into the sheds along the track. He’d start the day clean, but it wasn’t long before coal dust covered him, clothes and skin and hair. After work his dad would walk to the local tavern. Later, he’d stumble the two miles home to the tiny tar paper shack that sat beside the railroad track.

The family had few earthly goods. But Charles had a bicycle. It was not shiny, nor was it new. It was old, scratched and rusty, but he kept it oiled. He’d jump aboard and away he flew! Fast as the wind. Charles was free! He loved the breeze in his face and hair. With his bike he could ride anywhere.

In the morning, he rode that bike to school. When classes were over, it was back on the bike and ride — around the town and the countryside. Charles was the wind blowing wild and free.

He invented games with his bike. Jumping and racing and looking for adventure he’d go. One day in town he found a new thrill. He raced across the federal highway in front of a car. It was close, but “a miss is as good as a mile.” What a thrill. What a grin. What a rush. He did it again when other would see. They told him, “Don’t do that you’ll get hurt.” Did he listen? He did not!

That fall afternoon, there he was in the center of town with a crowd to watch. He raced his trusty bike in front of a semi-truck. That day, his timing failed. Charles was struck by the semi. I saw his blood stains on the highway.

His bicycle was ruined. Though it had been his pride, Charles didn’t care. Charles had died. He was buried later that week.

Postscript:
Fall soon turned to winter. And in the spring the blood stains were gone from the road. One can only imagine the devastation to that struggling family. Soon after that incident, they moved away from our town and, like the blood stains on the highway, were never seen again.