Front
Street was a dirt road.
Once
a summer the county sent a tar truck
To
spew its sticky mess, holding down the dust.
One
felt sympathy for the unlucky vegetation at the edges,
The
green or yellow self sticking out from the sides of the new road
surface.
The
truck never drove down the Lane.
The
Lane was a refuge on a hot summer day.
A joy to ride a bicycle
Into
its jungle interior of bright dark light, feeling the wind of one's own
creation.
Only
one car needed its access. Otherwise,
it was a playground for the neighborhood kids.
Once,
I was caught at the other end of the Lane without my bike.
It
was starting to rain. A
fellow fourth-grader, we called him "Lucky,"
Was
riding his bike. He saw my
predicament and said,
"I'll
give you a ride on my handlebars if you promise not to tell
anyone."
It's
been forty-five years, and I've never told anyone until now.
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