The tricycle story

I told most of this story in class, but here is the longer version. And for those who were not in class that day, or not paying attention to me (I really can't blame you), now you will know why I am making a tricycle for my memory project.

When I was young - pre-school young, probably about 4 or so - my older brother broke my tricycle. He didn't do it on purpose.

We lived in a house with a lovely, long sloping ramp that curved from the front porch, across the lawn, down a slope, to the sidewalk. I recognise it now as a wheelchair ramp, but then it was a really fun place to ride a tricycle. We would start at the front porch and ride really fast down to the sidewalk that ran in front of the house. Fun without leaving the yard. I wasn't allowed to leave the yard. There was also a short flight of steps that ran from the porch to the sidewalk. We would ride down the ramp, then drag the trike up the steps - it was a shorter trip - then do it all again. All afternoon. I remember playing this game for hours.

The tricycle was mine, not my brother's. This is important. We didn't have much and what we had was shared, but the trike was MINE. Having somethinga as big as a tricycle (think like a 4-year-old) was huge. It was a special thing.

So my brother broke my trike. He is about two years older thatn I am, so the gap isn't that major. If I was four at the time, he was six. He broke my tricycle.

This is what happened: We were doing our usual ride down the ramp, drag the trike up the steps, ride down the ramp thing. Then my brother decided to ride the tricycle down the stairs instead. On my tricycle. It broke. He wasn't hurt, but the trike was. He was upset. I was upset. Mom was upset. I was really upset. I cried. He didn't cry. I rememebr being more upset thatn I had ever been before. For days and days I was upset. It really affected me.

I was not upset because I had lost my favorite toy. What upset me the most is that I never got to ride down the steps myself.