01 10 01 (PDT): "rosebud"|
I have been asked about the significance of the purple tricycle. The
photo to the right (yes, that's me) is the only good color photo of it
I've been able to find, though I also saw a rather nice black and white
one which I may run sometime. Sadly, the original item itself was long
ago donated to the Salvation Army store a few blocks away so that there
would be more room in the garage to store boxes of old school papers and
caches of boy scout supplies. I am bitter as much at myself as at my mom,
because I was around at the time and could have kept it, somewhere, if I'd
put any true effort into its defense. Ah, the foolish carelessness of
I don't know exactly which Christmas it arrived, but I know it was a
Christmas present because one of my earliest memories is standing with my
mom, looking through some kind of window at tricycles, and my mom saying,
"If Santa were to bring you one of those tricycles, which color would you
want: pink, blue, or purple?"
Probably I remember this because of the rush of excitement I felt at that
moment: Mama had opened the magic channel to Santa by mentioning his name,
and now he was listening to us and might actually bring me one of those
beautiful objects. "Purple," I said, without hesitation. I don't know
why. I just liked the purple one best. And sure enough, on Christmas
morning, there it was in front of the fireplace, sitting on the white
It was my first vehicle. I can't have been older than four, and was
probably three. It had a little plastic basket on the front, and
multicolored tassels streaming from the ends of the handlebars. When my little brother was old
enough, he could stand on the rung between the back wheels, hold onto my
shoulders, and I could drive both of us around (though not at top speed).
Later we got other wheeled playthings, notably a green tractor and his
noisy yellow Big Wheel, but even then I would still tool around on the
good ol' trike, until I was just too big to ride it.
In this picture we're at the "new" house (the house we grew up in), so I'm
at least five, maybe six or seven; my knees are approaching the
handlebars. I see that even children did not escape odd wardrobes in the
seventies, especially children subject to a mother with a nostalgia for
the saddle shoes of her own school days. Youthful ignorance = bliss.
After I outgrew the trike, and moved on to the pink bicycle (also now
gone), I didn't think about it much until recently, when I started trying
to figure out a good, simple, memorable domain name. An object, perhaps.
Something that a person could visualize. And one day, I remembered the
purple tricycle. After remembering, I wanted the original back. Time
machine! Where's my time machine, to jump back and either shake some
spirit into my apathetic teen self, or just go and buy it from the
Salvation Army store!
Sadly, impossible. Lost, as are other dear people and places and things,
it is gone; we shall not meet again in this world (namarie!).
But, in memory of my first vehicle, I gave this new one its name.