Butch Teaches His Brother How to Ride a Bike – OOOPS!

   According to my parents, I began walking at the age of 8 months. That led to a few problems as I got older…because I was also very inquisitive, and evidently could imitate fairly well the actions of grown-ups. One afternoon I watched my mother make a cake from scratch. That evening, while my folks and another couple were playing cards, someone caught the scent of vanilla coming from the kitchen. My mother found me in the kitchen pantry, where I had dumped an entire bag of flour, a dozen eggs, and a bottle of vanilla extract in a big pile on the floor…cake-making time for Butch!

   That was only the beginning, as several more disasters occurred. I will spare you the details, but they involved trying my hand at shaving, cutting electrical cords with scissors, and firing off a 12 gauge shotgun…just to mention a few of my pre-school activities. When I started up Dad’s International pickup by myself one afternoon and drove it back to the field…when I was 7 years old, my folks decided it might be a good idea if they got me a bicycle. A bit more safe than driving a truck.

   Well, of course I didn’t get a new one, but instead inherited an old worn out Montgomery Ward bike from a cousin. Not to worry, I slapped on some Farmall red tractor paint on the bike (and a tad on the tires and my blue jeans), and it looked like a new one…almost. I clamped a playing card to a rear wheel fender brace with a clothespin to make it sound like a motorcycle, and my red Harley was ready to hit the road. I pedaled that bike everywhere…to town, to my gravel pit fishing spots, to my grandparents’ house and to my best friend’s house.

    A few years later, one afternoon my brother Gary, who is four years younger than me, asked if I would teach him how to ride a bike. No problem. Our barn lot sloped down a hill to a gate and fenced-in area where there was a large bin that held ear corn. I told him to start at the top of the barn lot, climb on the bike seat, push off with one foot, and pedal as he coasted down the hill. I opened the gate at the bottom of the hill and stood there, waiting for him…intending to catch the bike and stop it as he approached…since he did not know how to use the bike brake by reversing the pedal. Well, pretty soon here he came down the hill lickety-split, pedaling away, with a big smile on his face. I don’t know what got into me, but it was then that I decided to wave my arms and act like I was going to block his path through the open gate. Unfortunately, Gary panicked…and swerved to the right…wrecking the bike into a barbed-wire fence. Not good.

    As Gary was laying there all crumpled up and screaming in pain, I yelled out for Dad, who was inside the barn at the top of the hill. Little brother had three long bleeding cuts across his abdomen from the barbed wire. As I checked out the paint damage to my bike, Dad carried Gary up to the house. I followed along to see what was going to happen next. Dad laid my brother down on his back across an old wooden table on the back porch. He proceeded to grab a bottle of turpentine and told me to hold Gary’s arms down over his head. I don’t recall hearing anyone scream as loudly as my brother did that summer afternoon, when Dad poured the turpentine over those large gashes. I actually felt a little guilty.

    That marked the end of my brother’s bike training, and I was fairly certain that he would seek some type of revenge. It happened a few weeks later when we were playing hide and seek. As I sat on the living room floor, my eyes closed and counting to 100, Gary proceeded to hide. However, I heard him tiptoe back a few feet…and then tiptoe right up behind me. When I reached 100, all I had to do is reach behind and tag him. Gary had other ideas. When I reached 90, I felt a warm liquid streaming down from the top of my head and down my face. I heard Gary laughing, and I turned around to see him with his pants and underwear down around his ankles. I’m sure you can figure out what he was doing.

   I’m pretty sure that my little brother learned a fact of life that day…yes, “revenge is sweet!” The next summer, after I had pelted him with dirt clods, he remembered that fact of life again. He hit me in the back of the head with a large rock…and knocked me unconscious. Oh, the painful travails of brotherhood.

John “Butch” Dale is a retired teacher and County Sheriff. He has also been the librarian at Darlington the past 36 years, and is a well-known artist and author of local history.