This is my very first time linking up with Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop. The prompt? Write a post about a childhood memory as if you’re in that moment again…from the perspective of yourself as that child.
My name is Vickie and I’m nine-years-old. My family is camping in Yellowstone National Park in our motorhome. It’s really beautiful here. My brothers love to go fishing and hiking. I like it too, but one of my favorite things is gettng to ride my bike to the camp store. I never get ride my bike to stores at home. The streets are too busy and the stores are too far away. But here in the campground, there isn’t as much traffic so my parents let me ride my bike to the camp store. Today I have money to buy some candy.
Mum doesn’t let us eat much junk food so it takes me a long time to pick out what I want. I pay fifty cents for a package of Peanut M&M’s. It’s only a quarter at the grocery store at home. Stuff costs more here. I eat the candy outside before I get on my bike. On the ride home a car comes up behind me so I steer my bike closer to the side. It’s sandy there and my bike slips. I feel the tires start to slide into the ditch. I hit my breaks too hard and fall off the bike face first. There is sand in my teeth and my chin is bleeding. I am crying. There is no one around. I stand up and try to get my bike back up to the the road.
A motorcycle stops by the side of the road. The riders take their helmets off. The man has wild black hair and a thick beard. My dad has a beard too but he trims it all the time. It’s nice and neat. The lady has straight blond hair—it’s even longer than Marcia Brady’s hair. I wish my hair was like that, but it’s curly and brown.
“Are you okay, Honey?” She asked me.
I am a little hurt but mostly scared. I learned at school not to talk to strangers but I don’t want to be rude so I nod my head.
“Can you walk?” She asks.
Again, I nod. They seem nice. I don’t think they are going to hurt me. I’ve never met anyone with a motorcycle before.
“Do you know the number of your campsite?” She asks me.
“Yes,” I tell her. “We’re at site C5.” My parents always make sure I know the number before I go for a ride.
“We’ll take you back there.”
I start to walk my bike up the road. “Want me to walk the bike back for you?”
“That’s okay,” I said. I was embarrassed by the cut on my chin and I feel a little shy. I feel better leaning on the bike.
“Are you sure?” The man asks. “I could give you a ride on the motorcycle and my wife could walk your bike for you.”
I shake my head. I’m sure my parents would kill me if I accepted a ride from a stranger—especially on a motorcycle.
He rides very slowly and she walks along side me until we reach my family’s campsite. My dad shakes the man’s hand and my mom takes me inside the motor home to clean my cut and wash out my mouth. There is a very small chip on one of my front teeth and the scrape on my chin looks like a beard. I can’t stop crying.
My dad comes inside the motor home to check on me. “Are you okay Sweetheart?” he asks.
I nod but the tears keep coming.
“The cut isn’t too bad, but her front tooth is a little chipped.” My mother tells him.
“Is that the problem?” He asks me. “Does your tooth hurt?”
I shake my head. The chip feels a little weird, but it really doesn’t hurt.
“Then what’s the problem? Why won’t you stop crying?"
“Because I really wanted to ride on the motorcycle!”