I was dying for a bicycle. What I really wanted was a Spitfire, dark blue! That had to be the most beautiful bike in the world. However, I was a realist. I had heard my mother worrying over Christmas enough to know there would never be enough money for a new Spitfire. That would have cost more than she had to spend for the whole family. I would have been happy with anything of a reasonable size without training wheels. It didn’t have to be new. It didn’t have to have a horn. It didn’t have to be blue. I just wanted a bike.
My mother did make a mysterious trip to Goodwill in Shreveport before Christmas. There is no way I could have missed knowing this. She was a timid driver. “Driving in town” was a frequent topic of discussion among her group of friends. The bolder ones proudly bragged, “I drive…
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