I Gave My Bike a Girl’s Name

I don’t know why two boys would name their bikes, but we did. My brother named his bike “Timothy.” His bike was red, much like all of his favorite stuff including his hair, shag carpet and the truck he drives today. Where did he get the name “Timothy?” I don’t know. Perhaps, his most recent Sunday School lesson was on Timothy. Whatever his reason, at least he gave his bike a masculine name. I, however, went with a decidedly more feminine name.

My bike was gold with a banana seat and sissy bars. I took it everywhere. I rode it to school, to the park, to football & baseball practice, and—if my mom would allow it—to the corner convenience store for an Icee.  I hopped curbs and jumped off ramps with this bike.  Riding this bike was, at times, my favorite childhood activity. But why did I give my bike a girl’s name?

I named my bike after a very special person in my life.  I choose to give my bike a name that was filled with honor, love, and kindness. My bike’s name was Colleen.

Our family was blessed with loving grandparents, cousins and numerous aunts & uncles. I don’t use the word “blessed” lightly, we truly were blessed with a wonderful extended family.  However, one lady stood out.  I knew her as Aunt Colleen. Those two words—Aunt Colleen—may seem quite bland to you, but to me they were the epitome of love, acceptance and comfort.

I remember one evening being sent to my room after my dad’s belt had found its way to my bottom a few times. I was crying and very upset over the discipline—which I am sure was unjustified. As I lay on my bed in utter despair, I remember saying, “Nobody loves me but Jetina & Aunt Colleen.” Jetina was our poodle. Aunt Colleen is the subject of this story. Aunt Colleen is my mom’s sister.

Aunt Colleen was more than an aunt. She was more like an abundantly loving grandmother. Mammaw, her mother and our grandmother, had died when I was only six years of age. Aunt Colleen, who had never married, showered us nephews and nieces with attention, gifts and time.  We couldn’t wait to go to her house on Christmas because we knew we would make a hauling. She loved giving gifts. Birthdays, too, were never forgotten—even in our adulthood.

Aunt Colleen always welcomed us loudly and with a huge smile.  She would sometimes entertain us on the piano, and on very special occasions, the accordion.  Nothing slowed her down. Even with a limp, remnants of childhood polio, she actively engaged in our lives. She taught us board games such as Chinese Checkers, Life, & Checkers. Aunt Colleen took interest in us.

Aunt Colleen, with two of our daughters, just a few months before her death.

Lunch or dinner at Aunt Colleen’s was always an event. I look back on those days and I now wonder “how did one lady make all that food!” Roast, chicken, turkey, potatoes, gravy, myriads of vegetables and salads and, of course, some type of yummy rolls filled the dining room table and any available flat surface nearby.  Never was there just one dessert, rather there was always a selection. I don’t know how she did it.

Aunt Colleen was a deeply spiritual woman.  She served the Lord and others with passion.  For 48 years she faithfully played the piano at our church, Westside Alliance Church in Birmingham, Alabama.  A true highlight of our Sunday services was the piano solo she often played while the offering baskets were passed down the rows of pews. As a preteen, I couldn’t wait till I was old enough to be in her Sunday afternoon Jet Cadet’s class where we memorized Bible verses and gained a greater understanding of Christian living.

Aunt Colleen’s faith was intimately melded into her love for her nieces and nephews. I remember one particular day we were discussing some issues in our family and she began to weep over one of my cousins who was making some wrong decisions. We were dear to Aunt Colleen—every one of us.

When it came time for me to go off to college, it was my Aunt Colleen and my mom who drove me all the way to Minnesota from Alabama.  When I married in Lincoln, Nebraska, she made the trip and played the piano at our wedding. Anytime I came back home there were two people I anxiously wanted to see, my grandmother—“Mother Bruce” we called her—and Aunt Colleen.

I say she never married. Well, we thought she never would. Yet, one of the thrills of my adult life was the day when I helped officiate her wedding.  At the age of 65 Aunt Colleen became a first-time bride.

Five years after her wedding, Aunt Colleen was diagnosed with cancer. She was given months to live. I guess the doctors don’t always know. Today, Aunt Colleen is in her eighties.  She has courageously battled cancer and dealt with numerous physical setbacks.  She limited now in where she can go and what she can do, yet her faith and loving heart remains strong.

Looking back on my childhood I would agree that Timothy is a fine name. Yet, I am very proud of the girl’s name I, as a young boy, gave my bike. My bike had to have a special name—Colleen was perfect.

This was an earlier post to my blog that somehow was regretfully deleted; Several who knew my Aunt Colleen had posted wonderful memories of her. I was able to give this “post” to her just a few months before her death on October 31, 2010. I spoke at her memorial service and much of what I said came from what is written here. I miss her dearly.

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Jack Bruce  lives in Atlanta, Georgia with his wife and four children.

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A College Graduation Letter

This is an edited version of the letter I gave my daughter for her college graduation one year ago. – Jack

Ambee,

You are one of the true joys of my life. You have grown from a young girl to a young adult with whom I enjoy conversing. I am extremely proud of you in so many ways. Though ashamed I could not pay your way through college and you are saddled with debt, that shame is overshadowed by how proud I am of how you have worked your way through school and proven to be a responsible student and employee. As you graduate and finish Georgia State University I am swollen with pride.

A gift for Amber just after I read this letter to her.

It hasn’t been an easy road for you. While others had their way paid by family, grants or scholarships, you walked a tougher road by working your way through school. When others were playing and hanging out with friends, you were heading off to work. You lacked sleep. You had fewer hours to study and prepare for class than many of your friends. Because of your work schedule, you walked lonely paths through Centennial Park and the streets of Atlanta to your dorm many nights ….and wandered through deserted parking decks

Too Evil to be Forgiven?

We all have those moments that are carved into our minds for the rest of our lives. One of those moments for me began on April 6, 1997. This particular evening I was driving from an appointment to my home in Elizabethton, Tennessee. As I listened to talk radio, I heard the news that a family from Johnson City, the Lillelids, had been shot and left along a rural unpaved road in nearby Greene County. Vidar and Delfina were shot multiple times and died at the scene. Tabatha, their 6 year old daughter, would die the next day. Somehow, Peter, the 2 year old son, would recover from the gunshot to the eye. It was a dark, bleak day for our community. It was a day in which intense outrage was birthed.

Upon hearing the news I, too, was immediately angry. With intensity, I thought “I hope they catch the guy who did this!” A few days later they did. However, it wasn’t “a guy;” it was six teenagers from a small town in Kentucky. The video clips on the evening news showed the world the faces and gothic garb of six delinquents. Their dress, their hair, and their faces combined to portray a gang of

Safe, and Out, at Second Base

I was the youngest one on the makeshift softball field, but I was confident I could play with the teenagers. I had tagged along with my parents who had volunteered to take the youth from our church to a camp outside of Birmingham for the weekend. I wanted to join the game. Certainly, I could play with the teenagers and their camp counselors. Some of the players were only a few years older than me. Furthermore, I loved baseball. To my delight, I was allowed to play.

There is only one part of the game I remember. It’s a play that has been repeated hundreds of times in our family—usually in our young children’s bedrooms and just before “lights out.” It’s was their favorite bedtime story from my childhood.

The Day I Lost My Gallant

It was the summer of 2007. Not a whole lot in my life was in order this summer. Finances were tight and I had made a decision that a career change was necessary or I would have some very difficult decisions thrusts upon me. Therefore, I had recently submitted my resignation and on this day I had only a handful of days left of employment. This was a stressful time as I began to formulate how I would go about finding a new job.

The Day a Black Man Came to Our Church

This is a story taken from my memory.  The story happened over 30 years ago when I was a young teen or preteen. I tell it as I remember it.

The Nameless

Ever had a car you were ready to get rid of and simply wished somebody would crash into it so you could get the insurance money? I had a car like that—actually I have had several.  This one was a maroon Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera. It was part of the package deal when my wife & I married. The miles had piled up. The dash and the fabric on the seats were faded. It was time to move on.  Wouldn’t it be nice if Somebody wrecked it?

Somebody did.

The Stranger at Six Flags

This is a story difficult to write. I shudder even as my fingers touch the keyboard. Though it happened over a decade ago, it still has the power to send me into a near panic attack.

One of the traditions in our family is for me to take each of our children on a trip to Six Flags over Georgia when they turn 7.  Our son Seth turned 7 over the winter months, and so when spring came in 1999 the two of us rose early one morning and drove down from Elizabethton, Tennessee to Atlanta to enjoy the day on roller coasters, water rides, bumper cars and other amusements meant to thrill or bring smiles. It was a memorable day.

This story focuses on a bridge in the park. This bridge is strategically placed over one of the water rides. Those on the bridge, as the ride comes crashing down a steep slope, are splashed with water just as the ride hits the pool at the bottom of the slope. On a hot day it’s not uncommon to see people lined across the bridge waiting for the big splash to cool them.