Memory Lane

1970s in southern California.

When Mom and Dad told our family back east that we’d settled in San Diego County, they must have imagined a blue bay, the sweep of the Coronado Bridge, rows of white sailing boats in the harbor and long piers along which grey navy ships nestled. But we were forty miles northeast of the Pacific Ocean, in a small working-class town of orange groves, burgeoning strip malls and Baptist churches. It was paradise after the tumultuous streets of 1970s Queens and the cramped apartment we shared above the dry cleaner.

We began our new life in southern California in a rented tract house that we had all to ourselves. Oranges grew on trees in our front yard. Along the back boundary of the yard was a wooden fence, the other side of which lay the grounds of the Lincoln Avenue Baptist Church. Except on Sundays, the long parking lot of the church was often deserted.

“The coast is clear, baby.” Dad said to me one day, as he stood on a wooden stringer and looked over the church parking lot. “You’re gonna learn to ride that bike today.”

He stepped down and pitched my second-hand bike over the fence. Then he picked me up in much the same way, until my legs were dangling over the tall weeds on the other side. I dropped to the ground and landed on my knees. Next Dad came over, lithe as a cat, a cigarette clamped between his lips.

“Look at this, will ya?” He gestured to the long stretch of black asphalt. I stood, wiping the pebbles from my knees. “And not a Baptist in sight,” he turned to me with a grin.

Dad pulled my bike upright and held it as I sat and put my feet on the pedals. With one hand, he grasped the back of the long seat and with the other, he steered from the stem of the handlebars.

“I gotcha. Just pedal. You ain’t gonna fall.” He walked quickly next to me.

I pedalled slowly and the handlebars wobbled wildly.

“Little faster, baby. I gotcha.”

As my speed increased, I gained more control over the handlebars. Dad let go of the handlebar but jogged beside me, his hand gripping the back of the seat.

“Now, you’re getting it,” he said, “just a little faster.”

I stood on the pedals and pushed down, my hands heavy on the handlebars, my feet moving swiftly. Now Dad was running alongside me, panting.

“Okay, baby. You got it.” He stopped in the middle of the parking lot as I cycled unsteadily forward. I heard the switch and flick of his lighter. “You’re on your own,” he called out, as I merged with the wind, my hair flying behind me like a flag.