FROM TRAINING WHEELS TO TREASURED MEMORIES

by Phyllis Jenkins

When I reflect on my childhood memories of Christmas, I immediately think of that cold, crisp Christmas morning when my sister and I woke in the wee hours of the morning and ran to the living room to find shiny new bicycles with a big red bow on them. My wish had come true. The bicycle was exactly like the picture I had seen in the Sears and Roebuck catalog. I looked at the picture every day and daydreamed of riding it up and down my neighborhood street. Finally, I shouted with confidence, “This bike is going to be mine!” So, I grabbed the scissors and carefully cut the bicycle off the page. To take the guesswork out of what I wanted for Christmas, the picture of my bike was strategically placed on the refrigerator where my parents and I could see it every single day. Whenever we were all in the kitchen together, I would watch their faces to see if they were glancing at the picture. Was I scheming or just being clever? I was helping them out, right?

Well, it worked. There it was, from the page of the catalog to standing beside our beautifully decorated Christmas tree. It was even prettier than the picture. My new bike was pink with a white wicker basket beautifully decorated with daisies and hanging on the front to hold whatever I chose to place inside it. Colorful, long plastic ribbons hung from the handlebars. On each side of the tires were training wheels, but they wouldn’t be there long. I was a fast learner, so in no time, the training wheels would be removed. I’ll never forget how my face lit up as I rushed to put on my coat, hat, and gloves to try mine out. With much excitement, I was grinning from ear to ear. I can still see the look on my parents’ faces, the quiet joy of knowing they had given me something that brought such happiness. To my surprise and delight, several neighborhood kids had received bikes too, and soon the street was alive with the jingle of laughter from children pedaling up and down, showing off our new bikes. Oh, what fun! My sister and I rode until we were called in to wash up for our Christmas dinner.

Fast forward many years. The scene had changed, but the spirit of Christmas was the same. I was sixty, visiting my parents who were now in their eighties. Our tradition was that on Christmas Eve, my mom and I cooked most of the meal in advance. But this time, I volunteered to prepare the majority of the food. So, I encouraged her to sit in the kitchen to chat with me. She had taught me how to cook her world-famous cornbread dressing. Soon, the aroma filled the house, and my dad joined us in the kitchen. He asked, “Do you need a taste tester?” My mom and I smiled. We knew that was his way of saying, I’m here to sample all the fixings. Soon, we were all smiling and sampling the fixings.

On Christmas morning, my dad woke early to watch the parades on TV. I joined him in the den, and together we eagerly watched the parades as always. Daddy had always been a kid at heart. We flipped the three channels to catch as many different parades as possible. My dad loved the large floats, and I loved the marching bands playing all the popular holiday songs. After watching the parades, I had the joy of watching them unwrap the gifts my family and I had brought. The sparkle in their eyes, the laughter that filled the room, took me back to that day when I was six. Only this time, the roles were reversed. I was the one smiling with quiet joy, a warm heart, and ever so grateful for the opportunity to be a blessing to the people who had given me so much.

From bicycles to parades, from childhood excitement to the gift of giving, Christmas has a way of reminding us that joy is timeless. The details may change, but the heart of the season —sharing love, laughter, and memories —remains the same.