The Bicycle
When I was a lad of 6 years age, I made the annual December pilgrimage to the Brown-Rogers-Dixon hardware store in downtown Winston-Salem for the purpose, on this particular occasion, of expressing to Santa Claus my urgent desire for him to bring me a Schwinn on Christmas Eve.
Sure enough, come Christmas morning, a beautiful bicycle had magically appeared with my name on it. Santa was a man of his word.
Out I went on a test drive of my new bicycle with full intent to visit my grandparents two houses down the road and show them what Santa had brought me. And, as I drove past the intervening driveway, I saw tire tracks — bicycle tire tracks — in the sand on that driveway. Upon careful inspection I found these tire tracks to be identical in every respect to the tire tracks made by the bicycle Santa had delivered earlier and that I was then riding.
For reasons I'll never know, but will always remember, a question arose in my formative mind: Had Santa ridden my bicycle to test it out before delivery? Or, considering that I had never seen or heard of Santa riding anything other than a sleigh, had someone else?
The death of a belief held to be a truth, it seems, always begins with a question.
Sure enough, come Christmas morning, a beautiful bicycle had magically appeared with my name on it. Santa was a man of his word.
Out I went on a test drive of my new bicycle with full intent to visit my grandparents two houses down the road and show them what Santa had brought me. And, as I drove past the intervening driveway, I saw tire tracks — bicycle tire tracks — in the sand on that driveway. Upon careful inspection I found these tire tracks to be identical in every respect to the tire tracks made by the bicycle Santa had delivered earlier and that I was then riding.
For reasons I'll never know, but will always remember, a question arose in my formative mind: Had Santa ridden my bicycle to test it out before delivery? Or, considering that I had never seen or heard of Santa riding anything other than a sleigh, had someone else?
The death of a belief held to be a truth, it seems, always begins with a question.
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