My Memories of Mother

By Stephen C. Schultz


It was a warm summer morning in Eugene, Oregon. At 5 years old, I was hoping to spend the day on my bicycle. The gold Schwinn Stingray with the “Slick” rear tire was something to behold. I went around to the back of the house to get my bike. As I approached, my heart sunk. The rear tire on the bike was flat. I went back in the house to ask mom if I could walk my bike down to the gas station on the corner of 32nd Ave and Hilliard Street. There was a nice guy that worked there and he often helped me put air in my tires.

My mom said, “That's fine…be sure to look out for traffic.”


So, off I went down Harris Street walking my bike. My arms were out stretched about shoulder height, hands on the handles, walking on the left side of the bike. When I approached 32nd Ave, I turned left and headed down the hill. It wasn’t a steep hill, but there was a pretty good slope. The bike started to roll faster than I could keep up. I picked up the pace and started jogging beside the bike.

This situation wasn't out of control just yet and I wasn’t too worried. Just a few more blocks and the slope leveled out,

“I can make it…no problem”, I thought to myself.

I realized that as Kinkaid Street approached, the curb might cause a bit of a problem. I checked to make sure there were no cars at the corner and then proceeded. The front tire dropped off the curb and then the rear. The bike moved faster and as I approached the other curb, I tried to slow the bike. There was simply too much momentum for a five year old so I decided at the last minute to try and lift the front end of the bike. No good…the front tire hit the curb and the bike bounced back, handle bars spinning to the left. The left handle hit me solidly in the right eye brow splitting about a two inch gash.


I stood there stunned for a second, looking at my bike lying next to the curb. I put my hand up to my right eye to see what the throbbing was about. Blood dripped between my fingers and I began to cry. I decided I better get home. Mom was a nurse and I knew she could take care of this situation. I just left my bike on the corner and began walking the block and a half home.

About four or five houses down from our house on Harris Street, there was a man out watering his flowers. As I a came closer to his driveway, he stood there staring at me walking down the sidewalk. I stopped for a brief moment thinking he may speak to me or help in some manner. The blood had run down my face and across my eye lids so my right eye was stuck closed with dried and gooey blood. The man stood there, water from the hose washing out his flower bed. He just stared at me and didn’t say anything. I decided to move on and walked the rest of the way home.

I came in the front door and yelled for mom. She came out to the living room and in a calm manner said,

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

There was no panic, there was no questioning, there was simply a calm, trained loving mother taking care of her son. She got me cleaned up and put a “butterfly” bandage across my wound.

I have many memories of my Mother. The times that she comforted me; the time she got a ticket for going too slow on the freeway. There were many times out deer hunting when she helped with my school work and times when she rocked me to sleep, softly humming those motherly songs that all mothers seem to know. She taught me patience, service to others, kindness, courage, resilience, confidence and faith.

I hope we can all take a moment and show appreciation for those who gave us life.

Here is a previous post on my blog about an experience I had with my mother. Check it out.

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