Or, the bicycle story continued:
The Christmas that I got my childhood bike is the one where I stopped believing in Santa.? Something about a bicycle not fitting down a chimney.
Which is what helped me reconstruct my personal timeline, because we moved into the house with the chimney in early ’82, so there was only one Christmas with Dad in that house, when I was 8, Edith was six, and Elizabeth was two.
For years I’ve been under the general impression that the bike, and my loss of faith in Santa, came when I was seven.? Memory is a funny thing.