[This blog post was inspired by Truddle’s blog post here. Thanks, Truddle.]
When I was in high school, I worked all summer long in the school office the summer between my freshman and sophomore years. I worked a six hour day, five days a week. I earned $2.65 an hour, which at that time, was a bit higher than minimum wage. Although I did spent some of the money, the bulk of it was saved up so that I could buy myself a bicycle at the end of summer. I didn’t drive and there were too many siblings ahead of me to even dream that I would have a car when I got my license, or that I would get my license at 16. My parents knew that as soon as we got our license we had to be insured so we didn’t get our license, regardless of our age, until it became necessary for us to drive.
At the end of the summer, I had enough to get my bicycle. I could have gotten any bicycle but I had my eye on a special one. It was a Peugeot. The bike I picked out was a white ten-speed and because I was rather short (and am) it was a bit tough getting a bike that fit me, or that I fit. At my height I should have been able to ride a 21 inch frame with bike. I couldn’t. My legs are short. So they had to find me a child’s bike. My Peugeot was an 18 inch frame. That was the only way I was able to fit my bike. It had Michelin tires and just about everything I wanted on my bike. I got some extra things, too, like a chain lock and a water bottle and those little clippy things that you put around your ankles, over your pants (it was the height of bell-bottoms!) The year was 1972. I paid $149 plus tax and accessories.
I had a ball writing my bike. My parents didn’t let us ride our bikes to school but we did get to ride other places. We even got to ride to school after school and on weekends. We just weren’t allowed to ride them on a daily basis. I rode my bike all over. It was an awesome bike and I took special pride in knowing that I had worked hard to earn the money for this bike. It was very satisfying.
When I went to college, I really got a lot of use out of my bike. The campus was very spread out and I had classes all over campus and no car. So I got a lot of use out of it. The summer after my third year of college, I was staying with a friend in Santa Monica because I was attending a couple of classes there. The bike was stored in my mother’s garage in Long Beach. One day I got a call from my mother telling me that my bike had been stolen. My mother had been in the garage cleaning it out and the phone rang. In the two minutes she was inside to answer the phone, someone walked by and rode my bike away. The neighbor saw them and yelled at them but they didn’t stop, then he came and told my mother.
When I think of it I still want to cry even though it has been over thirty years. I loved my bike. I wish I still had it now.
Greetings for a blogger who has a blog by the same name, different spelling. Mine is Wasted Days, Wasted Nites
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Hi Junebugg. Your blog says you’re a 1955 model, right? So am I! Funny coincidence! Welcome.
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when my parents “gave” me to my gramma,, i didn’t get to keep my bike… i often wonder what ever happened to her,,, she was a blue and white old schwinn,, i inherited from my aunt,, but she was my pride and joy……
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It’s funny how things like this cause a flood of old memories to come back. When I was 16 I spent the summer with an aunt in Fla, my mother took that opportunity to have a yard sale and got rid of a great many things of mine. Record albums, 45’s, an entire collection of comics, and most of my old toys.
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You made $2.65 in 1972?! I remember making $2.03 and was the highest paid of any of my friends!
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It’s amazing what minimum wages are in different places, Suzy. California consistently has a higher minimum wage than other states. Recently I was pretty shocked to learn than not all employers have to comply to even Federal minimum wage standards. Federal Minimum Wage is 5.85 an hour. In California, our minimum wage is 7.50 but goes up to 8.00 on January first of 2008.
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How sad! Mine was a car, a very cool car I worked my tushy off for. My dad borrowed it one day and twisted the frame under it showing off. I still want to cry when I think about it.
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That’s terrible, and I agree, you never forget things like that. Or anyway I don’t (either). I still remember the “friend” who stole my baton in 2nd grade.
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Hi Corina,
Oh I feel for you! I remember friends who had certain brand bikes.Your sounds like a beauty, but it’s the hard work for it, the usefulness, the memories: all of it. Sigh.
Can you believe out of all the blogs, I landed here where my longtime blog buddy junebugg with your same blog name is here and I had no idea of that fact until I got here! I am here by chance, because I was reading another friend’s blog who doesn’t link to you, but is on wordpress and I saw your partial post and clicked out of interest.It IS interesting how certain memories and experiences stick with us forever, as if they just occurred.
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