"We're going for a ride."
Those simple childhood words. Declarative. Purposeful. Open-ended.
We said them all the time and off we'd jump on our three-speed bikes, no helmets, busy highway until we would branch off to idyllic back roads.
Mother would say "Okay, be careful, be back by supper."
Did she worry about our safety? I really don't think so. We had good bikes; we usually had good judgment; there were always at least two of us together. She knew we wouldn't get lost.
She had faith in us and the world, in a word.
Was life so vastly different then? I think it was - at least our safe little slice of it.
The world we pedaled by held tiny streams, creeks, covered bridges, fields smelling of new hay as well as manure, birds in flocks against wide blue skies, cows munching in wayside pastures, farmers on tractors working the soil, family laundry flapping against the sun and wind.
We had no idea.
It was truly a ride.
What a gift!. Soon enough, as roads led out of childhood, we would discover the underbelly of all that innocence.
Still, it is my staying point.
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