Wheels--Part 1

There was always something magical that attracted Jory to wheels.  He couldn’t walk yet, but he could climb onto his toddler 4-wheeled scooters and roll all over the house.  At Grandma Bertha’s house, it was a yellow Playskool ride-on scooter with 4 blue wheels, a spindled backrest and handlebars that stuck out of a cartoon giraffe’s head.  He’d push his feet along the floor, picking them up as he gained speed, and coast down the hallway with a huge smile and a gleeful giggle.  At home, he rode a Playskool Tyke Scooter with a banana seat and chrome hi-rise handlebars.  He was hot stuff!

It wasn’t long before he was ready to ride a 3-wheeler.  He didn’t care that the yellow and black, heavy duty Murray trike was a hand-me-down from older brother Darren.  It had rugged, heavy duty tires and cool, bent-chrome triangular handle bars.  He’d jump on it like a cowboy rear mounting a horse and peddle as fast as he could down the sidewalk and around the cul-de-sac of our street.  

At pre-school there were bigger tricycles and a painted roadway on the blacktop playground.  Miss Shelley had to coax him off the trike to swing or play with the other outdoor toys.  His teacher informed me that Jory’s favorite was to ride the trike with Rosy.  I assumed that Rosy was another 3 year old in his class, but I was wrong.  Rosy was the class rosy boa constrictor.  Jory would take her out of the glass terrarium and gently place her around his shoulders. Off Jory would ride, while the other kids squealed at the sight.

Before Jory entered Kindergarten, we moved to a new neighborhood.  The semi-rural streets were without sidewalks.  Our house had a long driveway that ended in a wide cemented area intended for cars to make u-turns into a double garage.  It was perfect for the boys to ride bikes, play Four square and basketball.  

 
By the time Jory entered kindergarten, tricycles were for preschoolers and big wheels were the “in thing.”  Again he inherited a hand-me-down that Darren had outgrown.  It was low to the ground, red plastic, with a huge front wheel and 2 smaller back wheels.  The yellow handlebars were like “Easy Rider’s” and Jory sat a few inches above the ground between the back wheels, stretching his legs so that his feet could barely reach the pedals coming out of the center of the front wheel.  In our driveway, he learned to “burn rubber,” do “donuts,” and skid to a stop.  

At the same time, Jory was perfecting his skills on another hand-me-down red and white Schwinn 18” 2-wheeler.  Once the training wheels came off, he begged for more pavement, specifically the sleepy cul-de-sac across from our house.  Because there was very little traffic, he was allowed to ride his bike in circles to his heart’s content.  Usually, Darren joined Jory, and sometimes a teenage neighbor rode with them on a skateboard.

That bike lasted until younger brother Shanon reached an age to ride a 2-wheeler.  For Jory’s 9th birthday, he was gifted with a new ten-speed bike.  Jory was ecstatic!  He rode that bike up and down the hills where we lived.  When he entered Parks Jr. High, Jory was finally allowed to ride his bike to school, as long as he locked it on the bike racks and followed the rules of the road.  

Seventh grade went well, but in 8th grade, Geoff, the kid that had bullied Jory since third grade, slashed the bike tires sometime during the school day.  Jory called home as deflated as his tires.  

“I know it was Geoff,” he blurted out.  “Some of the kids saw him hanging around the bike racks.  He’s such a coward and I haven’t done anything to him.  I can’t ride it home,” he told me over the phone.  

I met Jory in the school parking lot and we lifted the bike into our black and silver Astro van.  Dad came to the rescue over the weekend and 2 new tires were purchased and installed on Jory’s bike.  

A few months later, Jory called me after school.  “I’m at Sav-on.  Can you come get me?”

“Why can’t you ride your bike home?” I asked.

“Because someone stole my bike,” he whispered into the phone.

“Are you sure?  How did that happen?”

“I left my bike outside while I went in to buy a candy bar,” he explained.  “I was only gone a minute and the bike wasn’t there when I came out.  I went back in to talk to the manager and use his phone.  He says that several bikes have been stolen from in front of his store.”

“Did you lock your bike before you went in?”

“No,” he said in a shaky voice.  “I was only running in and out.”

“I’ll be right there, but I really should make you walk home for being so irresponsible.  Besides, you don’t have permission to stop at Sav-on on your way to and from school.”  Jory’s mode of operation was almost always to ask for forgiveness instead of permission.

Jory’s next set of wheels was another hand-me-down:  a red Mazda pickup truck with a white camper shell.  We bought the truck a year before Darren was going to be 16 years old and eligible to drive.  After researching safe vehicles and insurance costs for teenage boys, we chose this pickup truck because it had good safety records and the cheapest rates for insurance.  It turned out that insurance rates were based upon the amount of glass in the vehicle, and the pickup only had glass in the cab.  Another plus was that it had great handling, but was a sheep in wolf’s clothing when it came to speed.  We chose a red one because we like red vehicles, but we told the boys that all the neighbors would report crazy driving since they’d recognize the red truck as ours.  We figured that a little fear never hurt a new driver.

After school, on the day of Jory’s 16th birthday, we were at the Department of Motor Vehicles office celebrating his successful passing of the behind-the-wheel driving test.  He walked away from the DMV with a huge grin and his first driver’s license.  That night we celebrated with family and Jory’s friends. Darren presented him with the traditional family icon for new drivers:  an old steering wheel that had been rescued from a junk yard.  He was entitled to proudly display this icon in his room until his younger brother Shanon reached driving age.  Then, came the passing of the car keys ceremony, as Darren gave up the Mazda pickup and Jory proudly stuffed the keys into his jeans pocket with the confidence of new ownership.  

Of course, we still owned the truck and Jory’s driving privileges hung upon the Driving Contract that he had yet to sign.  We had learned from previous experience with a teenage driver, that the best way to make sure that everyone understood the rules was to put them down on paper with signatures to seal the deal.  The contract was fairly simple:  the driver had to follow all DMV laws; qualify for a good grades insurance discount; and be considerate, which entailed informing parents of where he was going, when he was returning, and who was going to be in the vehicle with him.  We also imposed a few special conditions:  a 10 mile driving circumference from our house that limited how far he could go without getting special permission, a limitation that restricted passengers to the number of seatbelts minus one —the truck had 3 front seatbelts and we didn’t feel it was safe to drive with a middle passenger, and a hard and fast rule that no one could be in the vehicle if they possessed or imbibed in alcohol or drugs.  Jory negotiated another condition:  his driving privileges could not be taken away because of a messy room.  We all signed and he was an official driver.

The first week, Jory drove himself to high school and directly home.  All was good, then came the weekend and Jory chose not to attend an activity that involved his younger brother.  When we came home, Jory was playing his guitar in his room.  All was well.  

The next day, Sam and I were shopping and ran into Jory’s Boy Scout leader.  He told us how proud Jory was of his new wheels and how funny it was when the truck wouldn’t start and all the boys gathered at his house had to help push the truck to get it started.  Hmmmmm......we had no knowledge of Jory being at the Scout Leader’s house or problems with the truck.

When we got home, we asked Jory is there was anything he wanted to tell us.

“Nope,” he replied.

“Did you choose not to go with us yesterday because you had already planned to go over to Mr. Gonzalez’s house?”

“Yep.”

“Was that being considerate?”

“Nope.”

“Then, you have broken your driving contract and cannot drive for a week.”   He had tested the contract and knew we meant business.

“I’ll get my buddy Nate to pick me up for school,” Jory replied.

Almost every new driver has some sort of fender bender within his first year of driving.  Jory’s was after school, driving home past his old elementary school.  He was thinking happy thoughts and didn’t notice the car in front of him slow down to turn left.  When he became aware, he swerved right but still clipped the back bumper of the car in front of him.  Of course, he stopped and apologized profusely to the elderly couple in the car he just hit.  After exchanging insurance information, he commented that his parents were probably going “to kill” him.  

He arrived home and immediately told me that he had been in an accident.  He felt terrible and stupid.  He was worried about telling his Dad and stewed inside waiting.  Dad was late in coming home and before he arrived, the elderly gentleman from the other car called to tell us that Jory was such a charming and honest young man, that they had decided to not report the accident, and implored us not to kill him.  Instead, they decided to turn their car in on a new car and the car dealer said that their car was so old that the dent in the back bumper didn’t matter.  Jory was off the hook, which irritated big brother Darren, who had paid for the damage of his first fender bender.  We insisted that Jory pay for his damages in some manner, as well, so Jory bought a beautiful potted plant with his savings and delivered it to the elderly couple.  They were touched and thrilled, inviting him in for cookies and a visit.

Jory’s grades in high school were always just good enough to qualify for the automobile insurance discount, but never reflected his intelligence or abilities.  He scraped by with minimal effort unless he loved the teacher and was motivated to achieve.  The teachers that he didn’t care about called constantly to tell us that he was late in turning in work or projects.  It was a never-ending battle.

We took Jory to a career counselor during his junior year of high school.  After significant testing, she suggested that we take him out of high school band and enroll him in music theory at the community college.  She also thought that we should change his emphasis from math and science classes to social sciences and art.  We agreed and immediately made changes for the next semester, substituting psychology for physics.  

Jory’s grades went from mediocre to straight A’s.  We couldn’t believe our eyes when his report card came.  It was definitely an event to celebrate.  Grandpa Morris quietly suggested to us that this was a perfect time to reward Jory for his academic success.

“Jory has finally earned the good grades that you expected from him, so why don’t you reward him for his achievement.  That old truck has been having major mechanical problems, so now would be a good time for you to trade it in for a new car,” Grandpa urged.

 

We had never thought of buying him a car, so this was totally a new concept for us.  We thought it over and decided that Grandpa was absolutely right.  We looked at new cars and selected a black Mazda Protege, based on its large trunk space that could hold all his instruments and technical equipment, as well as its high safety and performance records.  

Jory had no idea that we had been to the car dealership and traded the truck for a new car.  The next night after dinner, we told him that his truck was going into the dealer for service and repairs.  Dad advised him to take all his stuff out of the truck, because the service and repairs would take several days.  He followed us to the dealership, where this beautiful Mazda Protege with shiny new wheels was sparkling and prominently displayed in front of the showroom.  While Sam and I were inside with the salesperson, Jory looked through the showroom and meandered outside.  He was checking out the Mazda Protege when we joined him.  

“Isn’t it a beauty?” the salesman commented to Jory.

“Yep!  It’s an awesome car,” he responded.

“Here are the keys.  Would you like to take it for a spin?” offered the salesman.

“Can I?” asked Jory, looking at Dad and I.

“You can even drive it home,” responded Dad.  “It’s yours.  You earned it with straight A’s this last semester.”

“You’re kidding!  You’ve got to be kidding!”  Jory reacted with astonishment.  His eyes grinned as he let out a raucous hoot expressing his disbelief and happiness.

Of course, we actually owned the car, but Jory was the assigned driver.  In addition, this giant reward worked magic in motivating Jory to succeed in the future.

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Jory Prum  2009
One day, when riding my bike down at Laguna Lake (the pond near my childhood home), I met a guy playing pan pipes. He was friendly and invited me to his home to see his collection of pan pipes. I have always been a trusting soul, so I went. He also made things from mirrors and gave me a better mirror for my shoe box "camera"!

I was a terrible student. I was bored much of the time and didn't do my homework. In order to get me to shape up, my folks often threatened to send me to military school. What actually worked better was rewards, such as a basketball hoop being installed on the garage if I got a B average.
 

 

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