I am driving through Everytown, USA. Kids are riding bikes along a street that weaves by brick storefronts. A boy rides past me. He has baseball cards on his bicycle spokes. I can hear the glorious sound his wheels make. And I am sucked backward into childhood.
I hope this nation never stops putting baseball cards to bicycle spokes
But then, maybe we already have. Baseball cards are a thing of the past. Young folks quit collecting them long ago—I heard this tidbit on the news.
As a boy, I had shoeboxes full. I had my father’s ‘52 Bob Feller—The Heater from Van Meter. And a ‘57 Hank Aaron.
I wonder if today’s kids know about Hank “the Hammer” Aaron.
Anyway, I stopped at a local gas station for some coffee. Only, it wasn’t a “gas” station. The proper term is: “filling station.” There’s a difference, you know.
A gas station is found along interstates. A filling station has old men sitting out front. If you’re lucky, those old men are boiling
peanuts.
The young man running the register was twenty years old. He had one semester left at Auburn. He was your all-American kid, and he looked like the kind who knows about baseball cards on bicycle spokes.
He glanced at my coffee. “Aw, you don’t want THAT coffee,” he told me. “It’s four hours old.”
Before I could say another word, he dumped the coffee and made a fresh pot.
They don’t do this at interstate “gas” stations.
I hope this nation never loses filling stations.
I browsed the aisles while coffee brewed. My eyes lit up when I found things from my childhood. Candy cigarettes, taffy, and a few other things that reminded me of the days spent catching fireflies.
I paid and left. I waved goodbye to the old men sitting out front. One gentleman was whittling a stick.
…