I wrote this little memoir about a birthday of my youth, and it was printed in the St. Paul Pioneer Press about a year ago.

* * *

I could call it the year I got nothing for my birthday, or I could call it the year I almost got a bicycle. I guess it's one of those half-empty, half-full things. You be the judge.

First, some background: My parents both grew up on farms in the South and were rather poor. They each moved to St. Louis during WW2, when jobs were plentiful - my father being too old to be drafted. That's where they met, married, and had me. They were always uneasy, though, about raising me in a place where people had to lock their doors. They never quite got used to the traffic and the proximity of strangers whom you couldn't trust, and who might, the minute your back was turned, make fun of your accent and your country ways. They thought of the city as a dangerous and hostile place.

It seemed to me they just never understood the importance of a bicycle to a city kid. They had grown up with horses and mules, not bicycles. And having lived through the Depression, they were rather tight with money. But they also must have known that having a bike would have made it easier for me to go off and play with kids whose families they didn't know well, who lived in neighborhoods where who-knows-what went on. So every time I asked for a bicycle, long after all my friends had them, they would take a deep breath and say: "Maybe next year."

One year, my birthday fell during the week of the family vacation. As usual, we spent it visiting aunts, uncles, and cousins on their farms. My parents confessed that, in their haste to prepare for the trip, they had forgotten to buy me a birthday present. So my Aunt Zella baked me a cake, and my parents promised they'd buy me something nice when we got back to the city.

My cousin Larry had both a pony and a bicycle. Now, you might think a city kid would be drawn to the pony, but in my case, it was the bicycle. I spent most of my birthday trying to learn to ride it. There was a little-used lane nearby -- actually the driveway to a country church -- that had a gentle slope to it. Though I never really learned to pedal, brake, or steer very well, I got so I could coast from the top to the bottom of that slope without losing my balance. I had to walk the bike back up. I was exhilarated. So at the end of the day, I asked my parents if they would buy me a bike when we got back to St. Louis. They said yes!

Maybe it was the relaxed, familiar atmosphere of the farm, and the loving embrace of family, that put them in such a generous mood. I suspect they soon regretted their rash promise.

We got back home on a Sunday, and of course shopping was never done on Sundays in those days. Monday, my dad had to go back to work, so shopping couldn't be done during the week, either. It would have been different if I had asked for some toy my mother could buy at the local shopping center, but a bicycle was a major purchase, so my dad had to be involved. Anyway, a bicycle, being a mechanical device, fell into his bailiwick. So nothing happened until the following Saturday. And then I found out that Dad had no intention of walking into Sears and plunking down $20, or whatever new bikes cost in those days. No, his plan was to study the want ads in the paper and find a used bike for sale.

It took some time to study the ads. Then a phone call had to be made. Then we had to get out the city map and find where the owner lived. Then we had to drive there, navigating through unfamiliar streets, into one of those neighborhoods where you-never-knew-what might be going on. And we had to talk to one of those people whose families you don't know, and who might even be one of those people you have to lock your door against! It was all very tedious and scary. But I wanted that bike!

I hadn't noticed, but my dad did, that the bike in question had a couple of rust spots. This made it unacceptable -- to him. We left without buying it. It had been a time-consuming project, and other errands had to be done, so we didn't look at any more bikes that day.

Following Saturday: similar process. This time the bike was OK, but my dad said the asking price was too high. The man wouldn't come down. So again we left without buying.

The third Saturday, I didn't nag Dad to take me out to look at another bike. I suppose he and my mom were relieved. They probably figured I had forgotten about it. But I didn't forget. I just didn't want to be tantalized and disappointed again. None of us ever mentioned the bike again, or any other present for that year.

That story has a sequel. Years later, as a college student in St. Paul, I still had never owned a bike or fully learned to ride one. I expected I never would. After all, what college student wants to be seen wobbling around on a bike? It would have been too humiliating. But then my girlfriend, who knew my story, bought me one for my 21st birthday! And then she accompanied me on my wobbly excursions down city alleys until I really learned to ride the darn thing. I was moved by her generosity, her patience, and by the fact that she didn't laugh at me. These were some of the things that convinced me I loved her. We married a year later.

But, alas, that story, too, has a sequel. We divorced a few years after that. Maybe the bicycle had helped blind me to certain other qualities she had that were not so admirable. For instance, I now think her generosity was at least partly motivated by guilt. It came at the end of a summer we had spent apart.

So now I wonder: If my parents had bought me a bicycle at the right time, could they have saved me from a bad marriage? Well, I'm a parent myself now, and I know the confusion of worrying about stuff like that. I can't quite bring myself to hold parents responsible for everything that goes wrong with their kids' lives. But chaos theory says that a butterfly flapping its wings on one side of the planet can start a hurricane on the other, so it bears thinking about -- but not too much. It could drive you crazy.