Isobel: "Daddy?"
Daddy: "Yes, Turkey Lurkey?"
Isobel: "Daddy, why does Uncle Doug always call me Izzfest?"
Daddy: "Uncle Doug likes to put things like that together. We have always called you Izzy and Izzy is kind of like Ozzy. Ozzy has Ozzfest, you have Izzfest."
Isobel: "OK...who's Ozzy?"
Daddy: "You don't remember? Ozzy Osbourne? You know, bark at the moon? You used to watch that video all the time?"
Isobel: "Pfft, no."
Daddy: "Well, you used to watch that video over and over again. You used to love Ozzy."
Isobel: "And that's why uncle Doug calls me Izzfest?"
Daddy: "And the Princess of Darkness, yep."
Isobel: "What's wrong with him?"
I was remarking to myself the other day that since she learned to ride her bicycle,Isobel has virtually left it untouched. I figured she would be tearing up and down the driveway with unrivaled zeal. I asked her about it "How come you don't ride your bike anymore?" I asked.
"I still ride it. I'm just not riding it now."
"I haven't seen you ride it for a while. You better ride that thing before you forget how."
...and so I have only myself to blame.
The thing about bicycles, is you always fall off them. Usually one really bad fall in the learning to ride phase of your biking career.
I remember mine well. I had inherited my brother's old bicycle. A wicked banana seated beauty complete with ape hanger handle bars and a flashy new paint job, courtesy of the Old Man. My father had become obsessed with the colour British Racing green. Everything within reach was painted this colour, whether requested or not. My old school banana bike-British Racing Green. My brother's new five speed-British Racing green, which has often led me to wonder about the legality of ownership of a 'brand new' bicycle that you paint the second day you have it. Anyway, the bikes, The Old Man's car, the dog (well not really but if he'd been a tad slower he might've) you get the idea. British Racing Green as far as the eye could see.
So there I was, ready to mount my new steed. With my trusty squire by my side. Actually it was my friend Jeff Morrison and he was neither a squire nor trusty but he had a bicycle nearly identical to the one I was about to ride and he could ride it. I knew how to ride a bike of course but this particular bike was still fitted to my brother's frame and my brother was and remains noticeably taller that I am.
It was across the street from my house, thirty feet at most, up a dead end street where the only car visible was parked in the driveway of a man we knew worked the night shift. Or was a vampire, either way he wasn't getting up to interrupt my ride. I was ready, Jeff was ready and we were off.
I made it about seventeen inches and realized that while height is mostly inconsequential in the riding of a bicycle, it is crucial in the stopping of one. My feet groped for solid ground and only the very tips of my tiptoes found it. When I discovered I couldn't reach the ground, I began to panic and that panic set the front wheel of my new British Racing Green banana seated charger into a vicious shimmy that I couldn't correct no matter what I did.
I am to this day unclear how it was possible but I managed to go over the handlebars...well overish. I somehow managed to land on the handlebars, the bottoms of the handlebars. I soon discovered that The Old Man had not put the handle grips back on the handlebars and so the rough un-filed steel tube was now firmly embedded in my left armpit. I was impaled.
"Go get The Old Man!" I screamed at Jeff Morrison, who by this point had stopped laughing and started staring with a sick amazement.
"Wow..." he breathed.
"Jeff! Get my FATHER!"
Oh there are fathers who are kind and gentle and understanding and who can fix problems regardless of what they are. There are also fathers who will assess any situation and determine no matter what has transpired, you are some how the cause. Guess which kind I got?
"What the hell did you do to that god-damned bike? I just painted that you know?"
The Old Man pulled me off the bike, literally and I swear it made a noise like a balloon being pulled through a watermelon. I didn't go to the hospital, rather just down to the Dr's office to see Dr. Lichtenheld. A wonderful doctor if you enjoy war criminals administering your health care.
"Is it safe, Mr. Baker?"
A big band aid and a tetanus shot and home we went. I think i took the rest of the day off but was back on my bike the next day. The Old Man never stopped bitching about the paint job I buggered up.
"You better ride that thing before you forget how." I blame myself.
She had a friend over and had pedaled up the driveway, expertly I might add. The way down the driveway was a different matter, she had forgotten the difference in speed and made a sudden turn out of panic and went down. I haven't heard her cry like that in a while. Huge sobs of pain and embarrassment echoed around her as she ran up on the porch.
"What happened?" I asked, fearing that maybe an arm was broken or a tooth was out.
"I...fell...off...and...and...arm and...legs and both legs...and..."
I looked her over quickly and noticed that apart from dirty streaks on her face and road rash, she was alright. I have to admit, that for a second as she walked up wailing that she had fallen off her bicycle, 'What the hell were you doing wrong?' crossed my mind but it didn't stay long. I picked her up and carried her inside. I kissed her forehead and had a look at her arm. Road rash and a good case of it.
"Let's get you cleaned up and then I'll go get your bike."
She tried hard to hold back the tears and speak in a strong voice but the facade was fading fast.
"Leave it out there," she said with a quivering voice. "I'm never getting on that stupid damn thing again."
But she will...we all get back on the bike sooner or later.
We were sitting around the appetizer table at my sister's place, stuffing our faces and chatting. The Boy Uncle Doug and I. My brother was explaining the coolness of his latest skull t-shirt.
"The leaf glows in the dark." he said.
It had a gigantic pot leaf on it behind the skull which apparently glows in the dark.
The Boy is still young enough that he doesn't recognize the Cannabis Sativa leaf on sight and so if I tell him that Uncle Doug is really into horticulture and that's why a lot of his shirts have leaves on them, he takes it as just 'Sid using big words to make himself look smart again.' It's not going to last much longer and then I foresee a long and mostly confusing talk ahead. For now, it was nothing more than a skull with a leaf that glows in the dark.
"Oh yeah?" I said. "I remember I had a Big Brother shirt that had eyes that glowed in the dark."
"Wait, what?' asked The Boy. "You had a Big Brother shirt with eyes that glowed in the dark?"
"Yep," I said. I loved that shirt. I wonder what ever happened to it?"
"Who's eyes were they?" asked The Boy. "Dirty Dick or Johnny Fairplay?"
I took three things away from this little snack time exchange.
1) I am unbelievably old.
2) The George Orwell character has been almost entirely usurped by the CBS television program.
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