riding.

Regardless of where I go or how I grow, small town America will always be the place I am from, and what I say when someone I meet along the way asks, "where is home?" I grew up across the street from an old dairy farm that had real cattle guard at the driveway's beginning, and my bedroom sloped downward from the rest of the house for the majority of my childhood, as it was a poorly planned add on to a little old farm house. I have been stuck behind a tractor on a two lane road more times than I can count, and, appropriately, our little town's festival is called "Hay Day". Apparently, we are "The Hay Capitol of the World", even though Yates Center, Kansas and another town in Arizona claim the same title.

As a child, "Hay Day" was the summer's destination. It's what we waited for. At the beginning of June, when school was out and days seemed to last forever, this otherwise uneventful town with one blinking red stoplight in the middle, was transformed into a massive playground. Saturday morning of the festival was greeted with a parade, specifically, "The Inola Hay Day Parade". My grandmother dressed as a clown, we waved at the fire engines as they drove past, and scrambled to the concrete to get our little fingers on as much candy as we could stuff into our pockets.

The Hay Day Parade this year was going to be, for me, set apart. I wasn't going to be standing on the concrete, scrambling for the smartees and cherry jolly ranchers. I was going to be in the parade. I would be peddling on two wheels, decorated bicycle in check. There was a contest, and folks, I was going to win it. I may have covered my entire bicycle in pink and purple streamers, there may have been fringe coming out of my handles, and a purple umbrella with my name painted across may have been attached to my seat. Actually, all of that is true. Oh how I wish I had a picture to share with you. The winner of the bicycle decorating contest won ten-dollars, and it came in a check written out to the winner with the winner's name scribbled across the "make payment to" line. A check of my very own would make me feel even more adult-like than the classy umbrella on the back of my bicycle shielding me from the sun. And for a nine-year-old, feeling adult-like was the goal.

I look back on that now and marvel; I think we never grow out of this desire to be set apart, acknowledged, admired. I did end up winning the bicycle decorating contest, and I remember the width of my smile when my design skills and creativity, and all the effort I put into the process, were recognized by those I cycled by. I was on a cloud as I peddled away with my personalized check in hand, ten dollars richer. I felt like I may actually be able to ride my beautiful bicycle away into the cloud I was on. Gleeful would be the appropriate word to describe the feeling I had on the inside; It was so very apparent on the outside as well. There was music playing in my head, birds fluttering above, the sky was a bright blue and there were white clouds puffed up, scattered in just the right places. I specifically remember looking up and seeing the green leaves on the brown trees with the bright sunlight making its way through, hitting my arms, and the parts of me that weren't shielded by the whimsical umbrella above my head, and thinking that I must savor this moment.

CRASH! Abrupt ending to extreme bliss.

I was so fully living in the world that I had created in the above paragraph that I failed to realize the branches of the blooming trees hung a bit lower than the height of my umbrella. A low branch snagged the unbrella's ruffled front and, consequently, my entire bicycle. Moments later, my sky became gray, and I was laying on the gray concrete sidewalk, underneath my bicycle, next to my broken purple umbrella. My knees were skinned and bloody, and as I lifted my bicycle off of my disenchanted self, I was still trying to figure out what had happened. How had I not seen that coming?

I was thinking about this story earlier this week, and about that feeling that I remember having...So childlike and full of glee. It was a moment full enough to make it's way to my present day, to where I look back upon it with envy, specifically the part that took place before I snagged myself on a tree. I think it came to mind mostly, however, because of the incredible and abrupt contrast between being full of bliss on my bicycle, and then so quickly flattened on the concrete, so unprepared for the disappointment and pain that I had ridden myself fearlessly into.

And I think, a lot of times, life mirrors this. We pick ourselves up off of the concrete, gather up the broken pieces, wipe our skinned knees, and roll the bent tires of our bicycle home. Thinking about the bliss before sometimes makes the getting better worse, more difficult; but we do it anyway. And eventually, after a while, the knee scab heals, leaving a scar, to remind us of the blissfulness, and also, the not-so-blissfulness. We fix the bicycle, or we get a new one. And the beauty enters back in when we can get back on and ride, again, fearlessly underneath the beautiful summer branches, spotted clouds above, birds singing in our ears.