It was summer, 1966, Fort Stevens State Park on the Oregon coast. I was 14 years old and on a family camp-out that included my new step-brother, Ronnie (age 7) and three new step-sisters.
The sky was blue, the air was sweet and warm as I raced through the camp on my Stingray bike with its high-rise handlebars and banana seat. I swung by our campsite to tell my folks I was going to ride down to the beach. They said, “Take Ronnie.” I said I didn’t want to take Ronnie. They said to take him or I couldn’t go, so I sat him on the handlebars and begrudgingly peddled away.
Biking down the pathway was fun; it came out of the trees at Coffenbury Lake, not far from the ocean. With Ronnie still cradled in the handlebars, I peddled towards the lake and stopped at a pick-nick table resting my foot on the bench seat for support.
“Well,” I said to Ronnie, “There it is. The Pacific Ocean.”
“Wow!” was his reply.
“And see those trees over there?” I pointed across the lake, “That’s Europe.”
“WAOOOOW!!”
Blended Family
Stories On The Side 