The Gift by Lee D. Pirolozzi Sr. The year was 1933, and school was out for the summer. The boy was 8 years old, dressed in patched knickerbockers, not uncommon for that time. His home was a tar paper shack built in a field, 200 or 300 yards from the road. The boy lived there with his mother and father. They were dirt poor, without electricity, running water or inside plumbing. But even without these "necessities," the boy looked to be healthy, clean and happy, ready to take on another bright summer day. His plans were formulated when he saw a bunch of his friends, mounted on bicycles, loaded down with bats, balls and gloves, obviously headed for the ball field. The boy called to his mother that he was leaving and ran across the field at full speed. The boys on the bicycles did not see him and were rapidly widening the gap between them. It was times like this that he wished he had a bicycle, but he knew that it was not to be. The old man on the porch had watched this scenario many times, but today he shouted to the boy, "Come here, boy!" The boy stopped to see who had called. The old gentleman repeated his summons. The house, which sat 100 feet or so from the road, had a porch that ran the full width of the front. A weather-beaten railing with several missing rungs was broken at the one corner. The man sat on an ancient wooden rocking chair, smoking a corncob pipe. An aged coonhound with bloodshot eyes watched the boy as he approached the house. The boy stopped at the bottom of the steps. Standing silently and respectfully as he had been taught, he waited for the man to speak. The antiquated chair protested loudly as the old man leaned forward to get a better look at the boy. The boy was curious. Why had he been called today? He had seen the old man and his dog around town and sitting on his porch, as today, smoking his corncob pipe, but he had never paid any attention to him. Today, he stood at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up into a ruddy, lined face, a face weathered by many years of hard work. "Don't have a bicycle, do you, boy?" "No, Sir." The old man carefully laid his pipe down on the porch beside his chair. He reached down and scratched the hound's ears and got up. "Come on, Joshua, let's go see if we can help this young man." The boy was surprised at how tall the man was as he stood up. He followed him as he went around the corner of the porch and headed for the huge, white bank barn. Joshua followed, sniffing at the boy's heels. Two large doors hanging from rusted rails were wedged shut by long, round logs leaning halfway up on each door. The man removed one log and slid the door open. The squeaking rollers brought about a flurry of screeching and squawking and a cascade of feathers and dust as the pigeons scurried for safety. Sunshine streamed in through the cracks between the wide boards, exaggerating the falling dust. The barn, even though it had not housed livestock for many years, had not lost all of its flavor. The pungent odor of old straw and hay mingled with the scent left behind by the horses and cows. Only one part of the cavernous building was used for storage--the area where hay had been stored when this was a working farm. While they waited for the dust to settle, the boy scrutinized the massive, hand-hewn beams that framed the structure. He was awestruck by its size. It didn't look so big from the road. A wooden snatch block hung from a cross beam, high over the main floor. A rope threaded through it was tied to a rail below. Alongside a primitive hay baler, a wooden fanning mill balanced itself on its three remaining legs. They entered the barn and the old gentleman pointed to a pile of farm tools stacked against the wall, covered with dust, pigeon droppings and spider webs. Among the hodgepodge, the boy could see the frame of a bicycle. The black paint had been chipped and scratched, and the handlebars were rusted. "Dig it out and it's yours," the farmer said with a smile. With the old coonhound sniffing at every implement, he carefully played "pickup stix" with an array of forks, rakes and shovels. He finally extracted his prize and put everything back. It was a 28-inch machine with wooden rims and two flat tires that were badly checked by years of storage and neglect. There was no way he could ever hope to replace them. The old man saw the look of despair on the boy's face. Without saying anything, he started to look around the barn. The boy watched with interest. The old man found a coil of garden hose hanging on a peg and brought it to where the bicycle lay. The pneumatic tires were tubeless, and shellacked to the rim. The method for repairing flats was the same back then as today: forcing a piece of rubber coated with rubber cement into the hole in the tire with a long, needlelike instrument. The "fix" was allowed to dry and the tire was pumped full of air. The boy watched with all the inquisitiveness of an 8-year-old as his fairy godfather turned the bicycle over on its seat and handlebars. He reached into his overalls for his pocketknife. He cut each tire, very careful not to cut too far. When he was satisfied that he had cut each tire about halfway through, he squared the end of the hose and inserted it into the tire and forced it around until the end showed up again at the origin. He cut the hose and forced the split end around the inside of the tire until it was opposite the cut. He repeated the process on the other tire. With sweat dripping onto the floor, he found an oil can and oiled the pedals, chain and bearings. He turned the rear wheel with the pedals and when he applied the coaster brake, the wheel squealed to a stop. He straightened himself up and wiped his face with a huge blue handkerchief. "Well, boy, can you ride?" "Yes, Sir." Turning the vehicle onto its wheels, he pushed it toward the youngster. "Let's see you ride it up and down the driveway." As the boy put the mounting pedal up, the man's mind raced back to another little boy doing the same thing in a time long past, when the bicycle was new, its shining frame reflecting the sun. He smiled with the deep satisfaction of knowing that he had made two little boys happy. He almost shouted his son's name as the boy approached the street, but the boy stopped and turned around and labored his way up the incline. He watched as the boy approached him. The grin on his face was all the thanks he needed. Many years ago, another child had grinned his gratitude at his father, but that was long ago, before influenza had taken him away. The boy did not know about the man's son and the bicycle until many years later. The boy thanked the man, but it was not necessary. His smile was thanks enough. The gift was indeed from the heart, a truly precious gift. I was that young lad of 8 so many years ago. I thumped and bumped for many miles on that old bicycle whose tires were inflated with a rubber hose instead of air. I always stopped at the old farmer's house whenever I saw him sitting on the porch. One day I thought I saw him in the backyard and I stopped, but it was somebody else. The man told me that Mr. Johnson had gone away. I found out later that he had died. I hope he wasn't looking down the day Bill and I were riding double. With Bill at the controls, we crossed the railroad tracks and rolled down the embankment onto the highway into the path of an oncoming automobile. Bill was scraped up a little and I got a sprained ankle. We both survived, but the bicycle was damaged beyond repair. Wherever you are, Mr. Johnson, thanks for two great years of bicycling and for making a young man's wish come true, way back there in the Good Old Days.