Memorial

On Memorial Day, I usually pay mental tribute to those who have fought and died for our country, although I don't know anyone personally. I think about my grandparents, whom I miss and love and appreciate. I'm glad I knew them in life. But honestly, the holiday becomes just another Labor Day. We play more, work less, and enjoy the nice weather.

Unfortunately, "work less" didn't apply to Doug this year. He got up and hopped on a plane first thing in the morning, on his way to an East Coast business trip.

The girls and I tried to do something fun. We went on an afternoon bike ride. When it comes to pedaling, Hannah doesn't last as long as the rest of us. So after a roundabout ride to the elementary school, we parked our bikes and played on the playgrounds. We started out at the kindergarten playground, and eventually moved around to the big playground at the back of the school.

After we had swung on the swings, and slid down the slides, and I, as the "bark shark", had tagged all of the girls (YES!), we were ready to go home and make dinner. I buckled Olivia into the bike trailer and started pedaling towards the front of the school, where the girls had already headed. Before I got very far, Katelyn came back to inform me that Hannah and Lauren's bikes were gone.

I thought she was kidding. She wasn't.

Hannah and Lauren had left their bikes in the bike rack at the front of the school, but Katelyn, Emily and I had brought our bikes with us to the back playground.

The two little bikes were gone.

So, on Memorial Day, we mourned the loss of two kid bikes who had served our family well, and were now lost to some unknown enemy.

The blue bike that Emily got for her eighth birthday. The one that her Grandfather and her Father picked out and put together for her.

The one that had gotten accidentally switched at a different school bike rack last year, but quickly returned and exchanged. The one that got Lauren to and from second grade as often as the weather was decent and the tires were not flat.

The little red bike that Lauren and Hannah learned to ride on. The one that had patiently endured collisions with garbage cans, and nights left out in the rain. The "boy bike" that was handed down to us from a friend, which now carried a personalized license plate that read "HANNAH" on the back. The one whose brakes and pedals had been fixed and reattached more times than I can count.

Thank you for serving us well, little bikes. I hope you'll find peace and rest, wherever you are. We won't forget you.