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“Isn’t she a beauty?” my sister said for the 77th time. Or so it seemed.
It was Connie’s 13th birthday, and she was admiring her “new” bicycle. A spring growth spurt had left her first two-wheeler behind, and she had spent the summer begging for a new bike. My older sister was deaf to reasons why the brand-new blue bike at Barr’s department store could not be hers. Connie’s self-absorbed mind could not fathom the reality of a family of seven living on a concrete block worker’s salary in the late 1960s. All she knew was she had to have a new bike and it had to be blue.