At our monthly Writing is Fun meetings we decide a prompt for writing for the next meeting. Length is set at 2 pages so we can read them at the meeting. There is quite a diversity of writing. Some are real life recollections, some fictional vignettes, and sometimes there's a poem. This is partially a real life recollection.
The prompt for June 2026: Transportation
What Carries Us – Carol Kagan
The steel mill built a town with rental houses for the
workers; all the better to keep them close. When a house became vacant, the
next name on the waiting list was called. Tommy Smith was next.
For Tommy Smith, who did not live near the mill, this was
serendipitous as his old Studebaker’s ailments became too expensive to fix. It
was tiring- the daily chore of finding someone on the same work shift to hitch
a ride. And now, at his new home, he found his new form of transportation. On
the road in front of Tony Dudowski’s house was Tony’s new Ford and in the yard
there was his used bicycle with scabby rust spots, no front fender, and
stuffing squeezing out of the seat. For sale - $2.
Tommy fixed up his new ride, sanding out the rust, painting
the body a bright red, replacing the fender, taping up the seat, and adding a
front basket. He couldn’t get the squeak out of the seat and was resigned to
ignore it. Ready to go to work.
His daily commutes became a kinetic time clock for the
neighborhood. At 6:15 a.m. he could be seen pedaling with heavy steel-toed
shoes on the tiny pedals, a domed, gray metal lunchbox, and dented thermos full
of hot coffee in the basket. On hot days there was an extra thermos with cold
water. This was the Day Turn work shift- 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. At nearly 4:30 he
could be seen sluggishly grinding the pedals, back hunched forward to the
handlebars. The effort of his up and down pedaling produced a small tempo from
the squeaky seat.
Then there was the 3 to 11 Shift. Few people saw him coming
home near midnight, the large, glaring headlight bobbing up and down as he
pedaled. And for Night Turn, when workers stepped in as 3 to 11 ended, it was the
little red rear light that danced as he headed into work.
In the small shed behind the house there was a bicycle
repair area. When opening the door, the smell of grease, oil, and cleaners
drifted out. With lots of care, he got quite a few years out of that ride.
When Ordell, his wife, brought home a Sears-Roebuck catalog,
a brand new bicycle model targeted at adults caught his eye. It had a larger,
more comfortable seat, a chain guard cover, bigger pedals, and a back shelf
over the rear fender. The dog-eared page was often checked until he finally saved
up enough money to buy one.
The now faded-red bicycle was handed down to young Tommy
Smith, age 12, ready to enjoy the freedom of exploration. He and his father repainted
it a bright blue, removed the front basket, but couldn’t get the squeak out of
the seat. Young Tommy was often found fixing a flat, oiling a chain, or carefully
taping the seat. He liked to ride with his friends around the neighborhood and
down the path along the creek, rolling his eyes as friends called out about his
squeaky seat. He also used it to earn money to buy a car. The bicycle took him
to the side of town where the managers and big shots of the mill lived with
lawns to mow and driveways snow to shovel. At age 16 he started working behind
the soda fountain at the G & G drugstore, still saving for that different
ride. Soon enough that well used and cared for bicycle was up for sale again.
The price for the pale blue bicycle, still in fairly good
condition, with a basket you could add on was now a whopping $10.
Who bought it? It was Carl.
Carl was the Umbrella Man
whose claim to fame was fixing broken umbrellas but he fixed a lot of other
things, too. He had no vehicle for transportation and had to hitch rides from
town to town or walk long distances carrying his heavy tools.
The bicycle was in good
condition and ready to work for him. After putting on the basket he fixed the
squeaky seat.
Perched on the seat, Carl came
around the small mill neighborhoods. Hanging from the front, the large basket
was filled with tools of one sort or another. Suspended from both sides of the
back shelf were two bulky leather saddlebags with large tarnished buckles. On
the shelf was a tall metal basket filled with a variety of things – sometimes a
jar of miscellaneous keys, a roll of rubber strips, a bundle of metal rods and
wooden dowels, or some unidentifiable objects.
It seemed that whenever he
was around for the week, boxes of broken items would appear on doorsteps or at
the end of a sidewalk.
Carl could be found sitting
on the ground, cross-legged fiddling with things from a box. You could see him
rifling through the objects in his baskets, grabbing a screwdriver, or
disappearing on his bike to bring back something that would let him fix whatever
he was working on.
Whether it was a repaired
doll chair, a restrung bow, or a small tin construction crane, he would leave
it on the doorstep and not ask for payment.
Often we would see a neighbor
running after him to offer payment. He did not refuse the offering.
In a town where the mill set the rhythm and the shifts ruled
the days; the bicycle became its own kind of witness. It carried a father to
work, a boy through halcyon days, and finally a tinker who believed nothing was
too small to mend. By the time Carl began pedaling it around the towns and
streets, the old bike had lived more lives than most people ever know.
In the end, the old bike showed that when something is cared
for, even the simplest, human‑powered machine can shoulder years of work,
wonder, and wandering.
