Dad brought home a three wheeled bicycle.
Of course, it wasn't long before he was modifying it to meet his personal needs. Bigger rear basket, a wooden plank across the basket top - to serve the dual purpose of basket lid and child seat - a bell, handlebars raised and slightly bent backwards - "not so hard on the back" - a specially designed chain and padlock, and other changes too subtle to notice.
"You have to lean away from the turn," he explained, "not like a regular bike."
Dad travelled everywhere on his new set of wheels; to the store for groceries, to the elementary school, ukulele stashed in the basket, to sing to the children in Doug's Resource Room, to take grandchildren on little trips, or to just cruise the neighborhood.
"By gum, you can get a good workout on that thing," he'd tell us, drops of sweat collecting at the edge of his toque and gently falling from his nose.
Dad talked to everyone he met, everywhere he was. Going to the grocery store, the mall, church, we would wait in patient agony while he chatted away with some newly met person about the weather, hockey, or those sons of b*tches in Toronto who were ruining our country. He knew family, and he knew some names of the people around him, but mostly his neighbourhood was filled with character descriptors that we helped him identify:
- "The Dutchman up the road"
- "John from Church"
- "Old Nick, the car guy who mumbles"
- "That guy with the dog"
Something that rankled him right down his spine was somebody who wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't say hello, wouldn't be at least minimally pleasant and courteous.
I knew of three such people, though I had never met them
"You know that bench outside the old folks home near the hospital?" he would tell us, "there's three old buggers who sit there. Sometimes two, sometimes just one. Every time I ride by I slow down and say hello. Not once, not even once, have any of them ever said hello back."
***
Autumn in the valley. The wind carried a winter warning, but the sun's reminder was of a summer not quite over. A good day to be outside. A good day for a bike ride. I was raking leaves when Dad rolled up the driveway.
"Hey," he was grinning. "I'm gonna make those old bast*rds talk to me today."
"Oh?" I asked. "How you are you gonna do that?"
"I dunno, I just will."
And with that he was off, expertly leaning away from the turn at the corner of the street.
Not long after, I looked up from my rake to see Dad pedalling hard, and grinning harder.
He zoomed up the driveway and I met him as he braked to a stop. He didn't get off his bike, but leaned into the handlebars, face wet with sweat, eyes shining, a grin pulling at both ears.
"Well, I made them talk to me," he said, barely containing a laugh I knew I was about to share.
"Yeah?" I smiled back.
"Yep. I saw there was only one there on the bench today. I thought, by gum, I'm gonna make that guy talk to me. So I slowed right down, rode right up to the bench, leaned over right into his face and said, 'So, how are you doing today?'
He looked at me and said, 'None of yer f*cking business!'
"Ha! ha-ha. I got him to talk, didn't I?"
I laughed out loud. We both laughed, hard.
"I've got to go tell your mother."
And down the street he went.
