Turn, turn, turn—and turn around

For my sixth birthday, April 30, 1975, I got a new, gold-painted Ross bike with high handlebars and a banana seat.

Joyfully and with growing confidence, I rode it around our big driveway in counterclockwise circles, while my mother sat in a lawn chair, smoked Kent cigarettes and supervised from behind a novel.

After a couple of hours, Mom suggested I switch directions and practice riding clockwise.

I couldn't do it, and crashed over and over before finally getting the hang of right turns.

That's a metaphor-in-waiting. But for what?

Maybe in my 45th year, I'll find out.