By Anada Holtz – Leduc, Alta.
I was 12 years old and yearned for a bike of my own. For two years, I’d listened for my name on the radio every month when a draw was made. I just knew I’d win the bike this time. Of course, it never happened. I begged my dad to buy me one. Finally, we made a deal. “If you can save half the cost, I’ll pay the other half,” he said.
One day as I walked past the neighbour’s house, I spotted a bike lying in the tall grass. I knocked on the door and asked Mrs. Jones if the bike was for sale.
“Yes,” she said, “Glen was asking $5 for it.”
“Please don’t sell it. “I’ll be right back,” I told her.
I shook my piggy bank until I had $5 in change. On closer inspection, I found the bike had a broken handlebar. One of my classmates teased me that the bike was “dehorned”.
My dad ordered new handlebars from the Eaton’s catalogue and my friend, Elsie, and I painted it bright red. At last, I was the proud owner of a flashy, just-like-new bike.