I’m convinced the little boy who loved to ride his tricycle everywhere around the neighborhood still lives on somewhere inside of me…

I grew up in a beautiful little middle class neighborhood an hour or so out of Detroit. I had a lake across the street, woods to explore nearby, and a host of interesting friends scattered throughout the five streets that made up our “subdivision.”

I loved riding my bike. I was a serious little traveler from early on. My first big memory of that was when I was five years old and I’d hop onto my brilliant red and white three-wheel tricycle, pedal a few streets over in the hopes of seeing my “girlfriend.” She lived in a pleasant yellow house with clean white slatted shutters around the windows.

School days were hard to maneuver, but I decided that I needed to see her every Saturday and Sunday at least! So off I’d go down the street feeling the early morning breeze across my face and through my hair, all the while smiling at the sun in my eyes that made me squint. Life was good, but I had business to take care of with my “girlfriend!”

So I’d pull in around seven a.m. in the morning right up under her bedroom window and start yelling as loud as I could,

“Tootey, Tootey, Tootey!” (Tootey was short for Elaine, of course. I’m not sure where I came up with that.)

I’d keep yelling her name repeatedly barely taking a breath while hoping to see her peer through the window to smile at me. To my dismay it almost always ended up being her mother instead with an astonished look on her face saying,

“Jimmy, shush! Elaine’s not even awake yet! Please go home and come back later!”

I’d dejectedly mumble, “Okay…” and pedal off on my little red three wheeler with the determined attitude that I’d definitely be back again because a guy has to see his girlfriend, you know..

All in all as long as I could keep having some kind of adventure here or there I was okay with my life as a kid. Painting May is about the carefree little character I was as a child.

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