A new writer for [Geeks Are Sexy] who goes by JDO began a discussion about that one special geeky gift you remember from your childhood. When I was a kid back in the ’60s, we didn’t have all the cool gadgets that kids covet these days. A telescope, microscope, chemistry set, or walkie talkies were about as geeky as it got (all of which I received as gifts at one time or another). There was this one thing, though, that all my friends seemed to have when I was ten. It was so cool, and I really wanted one. But it was also quite expensive, and our family didn’t have much money. I didn’t dare ask for one, but I couldn’t help letting my desire for it be known.

My Dad always trained me to come when he called, without delay and without asking any questions. He drilled it into my head that if I hesitated and it turned out to be an emergency, someone could lose their life. The only legitimate response would be “Yes, sir!” uttered while complying. So one day when he said to me, “Come on, Son,” I followed him up the cinderblock steps from our house to our driveway at the top of the hill. He kept a large stack of lumber there, with which he had originally intended to fulfill my mother’s dream of a wrap-around deck for our house. But the deck never materialized. Instead, we stole pieces of this lumber for various projects over the years — a chicken coop here, rebuilding a staircase there — and I expected this day to begin with yet another such project.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw something in the driveway. Confusion and disbelief made it almost invisible — I had to blink twice to see it properly: a “Lil Indian” minibike, much like the one pictured at the bottom of this post. My face must have faithfully reproduced my shock and joy, because Dad laughed so hard that his cigarette fell out of his mouth.

I imagine that Dad got the bike for a good price. He knew everyone in our little town, and he knew how to call old favors to remembrance. But it meant a lot to me, much more than the bike itself, that Dad had gone to that trouble just to fulfill my wish.

Dad often supervised when my sister and I took turns riding the bike, especially at first. He’d take his turn, too. His 6’2″ lanky frame looked comical perched on the tiny bike, with his long legs sticking out on either side like a grasshopper. He’d reach underneath the seat and open the governor (a simple device on top of the engine that prevented the throttle from being opened past a certain point) so the little bike could exceed its usual top speed of about 40 MPH, and he taught us how to do the same. Dad seemed to enjoy this thwarting of authority. He despised all measures designed to protect people from their own behavior. Of course, we never wore a helmet or pads of any sort, and nobody got killed or even seriously maimed.

Our riding opportunities opened up when the Highway Department began building the US 29 bypass around the town of Gretna. The bypass began about a half mile before our house. They demolished the bridge and culvert over White Thorn Creek on the original highway just below our house, but they left about a quarter mile of pavement leading down to it intact for weeks before they began to lay the new grade. A couple of the neighbor kids would come over and we’d all take turns riding up and down that stretch.

The bridge demolition left so much debris that my sister and I could write things in it, and being pre-teens meant that we felt compelled to do so as impolitely as we dared. One day, I wrote something about my sister, then called her over to see. I planned to escape on the minibike as soon as her anger erupted. This seemed to work perfectly. She called out something offensive after me, and I looked over my shoulder to see her face while racing up the hill at full throttle. I hit a piece of debris in the old roadway and found myself under the bike. It wasn’t very heavy, but the muffler burned a nice patch on my thigh (I was wearing shorts), and a good chunk of meat was missing from my knee. I still have the scar on my knee, although it’s hard to make it out now forty years later. The Lil Indian sustained no damage.

After the Highway Department laid the grade and before they started paving, we could ride the minibike for miles on the grade all the way around Gretna and back. And after they built an access road for us, we could ride that for half a mile in each direction. I don’t remember in what manner we retired the Lil Indian from service. I only remember all the fun we had riding it, and that Dad enjoyed it as much as anyone.

As we neared each other walking from opposite ends of the bridge, I nodded and said “Good morning,” as I always do. Sometimes people respond in kind, perhaps a little surprised by the social interaction. This elderly, bearded man seemed not to have heard me. We passed within a foot of each other, yet by his behavior you wouldn’t know he had even seen me. He just stared straight through and beyond me with empty, unblinking eyes. As he passed, I noticed the US Air Force Staff Sergeant insignia on the arm of his jacket. I wondered if he had served during the same time as my father, and I wondered what stories lay hidden behind the wall of his eyes.

Parts of this military town are falling apart through neglect, where businesses have closed and none have taken their place, or property owners have allowed their houses and rental properties to age naturally. Others, though, are defiantly well-maintained — new paint or fence, a lawn you could putt on. They’re the retaining wall of their neighborhood.

When I needed a haircut, I decided to try out the barber shop that’s within easy walking distance of my apartment — but only if it wasn’t too pricey. I stepped in the door. The only person there, a small oriental woman, put down her paper and rose from the barber chair to greet me.

“How much for a haircut?” I blurted out rather suddenly. It echoed in the empty room.

“Uh, ‘leben.”

“Eleven dollars?” I said.

“Yeh.”

“You take plastic?”

“Wha?”

“Um… do you take debit cards?”

“No. No debit car.”

“OK, I’ll go get some cash and come back.”

As I strolled over to the local grocery store to use the ATM, I reflected that I had been too abrupt and maybe even a bit scary to this small woman all alone in an isolated building. I decided to be more polite on my return. I engaged her in conversation, which she eagerly picked up. I found her English difficult to understand, and she punctuated every other phrase with “know what I mean?” — to which I felt obliged to respond with a “yes,” a nod, or at least an approving grunt. In her pronunciation, “know what I mean?” came out “noah mean?” I couldn’t help but imagine myself responding, “Actually, by all accounts Noah was a pretty nice guy — apart from getting drunk and cursing his grandson.” But I kept those thoughts to myself.

She told me how much she liked the neighborhood and the people in it. They’re private people, she said, but they’re good. She told me that even though she rents the space for her business, she likes to take care of the landscaping herself, to make it look nice. She even takes care of the adjacent property, where a bank closed long ago and nothing replaced it. I had noticed this property before — the bank building is all boarded up, but the grounds are beautiful. The local police found her working on it one day and asked her what she was doing. She explained that she wanted the neighborhood to look nice. Later, she said, the same policeman told her after seeing the result that now he understood her motivation.

I thanked her, gave her a good tip, and told her I’d be back next time.

Despite the housing market, some inexpensive new homes are going up just down the hill. It was in that area that I first saw another of my neighbors. She was yelling at the construction workers. I don’t know what about, but I heard her say, “I just can’t take it!” several times as she walked away from them. The workers mostly ignored her, so I assumed she suffered from some sort of mental illness. Her voice trembled, yet she walked with a strong and steady pace. She headed in my same direction, so I crossed to the other side of the street and stayed well ahead of her.

I’ve crossed paths with her several times since then on my walks, in various parts of the neighborhood. I always nod politely and say “Good morning,” and quickly move along. Once she seemed slightly afraid of me. Another time, confused. Poor woman, I thought.

Today, she stopped and spoke to me. “Did you see the young eagle?”

“No, I didn’t,” I responded, smiling intentionally. “Where is it?”

“It was in that tree over there. It flew off a few days ago,” she said. “We get one every few years. The last one fell from the nest and died, but this one made it and left with its parents. Pardon my voice,” she said, touching her throat. “I have polio. It took away half my voice.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“My husband wishes it had taken the other half, too.”

I laughed out loud.

She continued, “Well, that’s what happens after 57 years of marriage,” and she smiled and left.

“Take care,” I called after her.