Ode to Joy on Two Wheels

By Bob Ingram, Burleigh.
I was old enough not to believe in Santa, but young enough to wish I still did.
I had quietly lobbied my parents for my first bike; I wanted a Schwinn.
Christmas Eve in our house was like any other night – until my sister and I went to bed. We didn’t ordinarily sleep with our bedroom doors closed, but on Christmas Eve our parents quietly closed them when they thought we were asleep so that we wouldn’t hear the rustlings and murmurs from the living room. We still heard them, our ears straining through the doors.
I usually was able to stay awake, keyed and excited, until the long train passed. Whenever I think of that Christmas Eve, I always think of the long freight train that passed by our house after midnight. It passed every night, but I always associate it with that Christmas Eve. It was somehow very comforting on that night to hear the seemingly endless clack-clack of the rails until I slipped into sleep.
We awoke at false dawn and tiptoed to the top of the stairs and then to the landing where we could look down into the living room. There was the same stillness there on that holy morning that I have only ever felt again at Charlemagne’s cathedral at Aachen.
The tall, full tree, lovingly decorated, its blinking lights casting a soft, calm presence about the room, now a magical chamber, filled the air with its piney resonance, alive still in the nostrils of memory. Gifts were carelessly strewn about the tree’s base and stuffed stockings hung neatly from the mantel.
But there was no bike.
I made my way down the stairs, numb with disappointment. I began to settle under the tree dispiritedly, when I glanced into the dining room.
My heart soared. The room has been emptied and there in the center, alone, majestic and red-bowed, stood my Schwinn.
“Oh, boy!” I shouted and ran to it and caressed the bow, shaking my head in disbelief.
I looked back into the living room and my parents were there, smiling.