Little red wagon, little red bike, I ain't no monkey but I know what I like. ~Bob Dylan
The silver wagon, the one that was born red; maybe some day songs will be written about her.
She's lived a quiet life in our preschool up to now (although, on her days off, she's marched in a half dozen summer solstice parades and spent an August at Burning Man).
In the old place, there was really nowhere for her and her little red sister to be of service, so they sat unused, taking up valuable storage space. Regularly, I would think, We really should get rid of them, but I couldn't take that step because what kind of self-respecting preschool doesn't have wagons?
Wagons live best where there is more space. We have just enough now, space, barely, and a hill that can be cleared to make a track.
The silver wagon is always the first one chosen.
And down we go, rocking our bodies back and forth first to get her going, then following the slope, bumpily . . .
. . . with a meager ability to steer and none to brake . . .
. . . all the way to the bottom.
It's a perfect ride, slow and bumpy to a natural stopping point where the ground levels out, although with just the right amount of challenge.
I love that there are friends on the scene to help; to turn us back to the fun we're having; away from the disappointment of tipping over.
And friends with whom to ride.
Because riding together like children in a Norman Rockwell painting . . .
. . . is among the best things in the world.
We come to a stop where gravity and obstacles will have us, always laughing from the thrill of the ride.
He told me, "If I pull back on the handle, it slows down." That can't be, I know, although it worked for him every time.