Mother's Day | 04/20/2009 3:49 pm

The Bike Basket: A Mother's Day Tale

By Elizabeth Flock

And so our layaway plan unfolded. My mother bought the beautiful basket and tucked it safely out of reach in some hiding place I couldn’t find — and trust me, I looked, if only to salivate over it. Each week I eagerly counted my growing nest egg supplemented by extra work here and there (washing the car, helping my mother make dinner, running small errands on my bike that already looked naked without the basket in front). And then, weeks later maybe, I counted, re-counted and jumped for joy. Oh, happy day! I made it! I finally had the exact amount we’d agreed upon.

My mother made a big deal about it. At dinner that night, she and my father raised their glasses and toasted my achievement — it was my first "big" purchase and this was to be celebrated. I remember that dinner tasted better than any other. The sky outside was bluer, I was sure of it. Everything had a sheen of happiness. Then, as if from heaven, my basket appeared in front of me, the price tag still on. I nearly cried. My smiling dad fixed it to the front of my bike and minutes later, in the twilight of the evening, they watched me ride up and down our street for all to see. It was one of the sweetest nights I can remember.

Days later the unthinkable happened. A neighborhood girl I’d played with millions of times appeared with the exact same basket strapped to her shiny, new bike that already had all the bells and whistles. My eight-year-old feet pedaled hard and fast home to tell my mother about this calamity. This horrible turn of events.

And then came the lesson I’ve taken with me through my life: "Honey, your basket is extra-special," Mom said, gently wiping away my hot tears. "Your basket is special because you paid for it yourself."

I sniffed, "She didn’t even want a basket. Her parents got it for her after she saw mine!"

"“Elizabeth, listen," Mom said, pushing strands of my hair out of my face and behind my ears. "Your basket is different. You don’t know it yet but it is. It might look the same but it’s not. You worked hard for a very long time to be able to buy it. You earned it. You set a goal for yourself and you reached it and we are so proud of you. If you got everything you wanted when you wanted it, you wouldn’t care about any of it. I know that doesn’t make sense to you right now, but it’s true. You have to work for it sometimes. And when you do, you appreciate it more. She’ll stop caring about it after a while but you will never forget this basket, I promise."

I have worked very hard throughout my life, professionally and personally. I have achieved a level of professional success that pleases me. I have tried hard to be a more-evolved person. I have struggled with marriage and though I failed and that is heartbreaking, I know I did everything possible to try to save it. Rarely have I gotten everything I’ve wanted when I’ve wanted it. I’ve had to earn it all. And I have appreciated every milestone reached. And so my mother was right. I have never forgotten that white, plastic, daisy bike basket.

For more information, please visit Elizabeth Flock.com.

3 Reader Comments (so far…) Sign In or Register to comment

I grew up in the south, but our childhoods sound one in the same. I went to public school instead of private (I’m not sure if we even had private schools back then around here-AR). I too at times felt like and underpriveleged child, not havein all that my friends had. I know now that I had all that I needed and then some, and I live today by several of the life lessons I was taught as a child.

By Eldebbo C on 05/01/2009 8:31 am

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A joy to read this post! Not simply enjoying the telling of it and what it meant to Ms. Flock but it took me back to 1976 when my daughter was desperate for bicycle…one with banana seat, high and wide handlebars with streamers and, too, the cards in the spokes. We were a career military family, newly transferred to California. We were enlisted, lived on a tight budget. The new shiny bike was out of the question. Except…her Dad was a backyard mechanic, worked on cars to help out his colleagues (no charge) so decided to extend his ability to building a bike. Through various conversations with our daughter we knew her dream bike would be deep yellow and purple. Most of my husband’s days off were weekdays when she was in school so he spent them building "the bike". The frame came from a junked bike he found somewhere…I didn’t ask!…he respoked wheels and took them to be tested, he painted, he recovered an old found banana seat in shiny purple vinyl with glitter. We bought the purple hand grips, he buffed and polished the chrome (couldn’t do much about the pitting!), we bought the yellow and purple streamers and opted for a horn over a bell. The bike was put together from bits and pieces of several bikes and looked amazing! He then took it to a local bike shop to ask them to check it out for safety. We got the all-clear (he was even offered a part-time job…lol) and when she came home from school that last day she found her prize in the middle of her bedroom when she went upstairs to change into play clothes. I will never forget the look on her face…or her Dad’s. After that success we never saw much of him…he would spend his days scrounging old and junked bikes, de-rusting, re-painting, putting together to give kids without a bike. Thanks for your memory, Ms. Flock…and mine.

By Nancy Cleveland on 05/01/2009 9:36 am

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Oh this story is so timeless. Seriously, it put me right back in Fairfield County, CT, 9 years old and my first bike in the 50’s. And just like Ms. Flock’s mother made her work to earn the money for the basket, mine made me work for that beautiful blue Schwinn bike with the streamers coming from the handlebars, the little headlight, and the button on the side of the mainframe that let out a beep-beep when I wanted to alert people I was approaching. I can barely remember what color my car is but that bike is frozen in my mind.

Every week I put money in the envelope for my bank account which was turned in at school [and they turned it into the bank]. Mom matched every dollar …….it took me a whole year of saving allowances and doing odd jobs to earn enough money. She even took me down to the bank to withdraw the cash for the bike. I’ve had a lot of nice things in my life, but like Ms. Flock remembers that basket, I remember my bike. It’s true, that which you work so hard for creates the best pleasures and memories.

Thank you so much for this story.

By Andrea Brandon on 05/05/2009 5:55 pm