Peer pressure

When my father was in his late-60s he bought himself a moped. It wasn't something he was actually in the market for, it was more of an impulse buy . . . mixed in with a little bit of peer pressure.

It seems Dad and his golfing buddies were on their way home from their weekly match when they found a moped for sale. I have no idea if it was sitting in someone's front yard or if, for some reason, they stopped at a moped store. Regardless, Dad came home with a moped.

I can picture it. Dad looking at the moped trying to decide if Mom would be thrilled or dismayed. I am sure the memory of the surprise sail boat he purchased years before was fresh in his mind. I can almost hear his friends tell him he really needed a moped.

"Think about it Don. Your grandchildren can ride it around the block. You can use it to take garbage to the dumpster. I bet Chris can ride it down to the beach."

I don't think Mom ever sat on it. But Dad's friends were mostly right. The grandchildren loved riding around the block on it.  And I can still picture Dad riding to the dumpster, a trash bag perched on the back.

All was well and Dad thoroughly enjoyed his new toy. Until the day he showed up at my backdoor with blood dripping from the bridge of his nose and a huge scrape on his arm.

"The brakes didn't work on the moped. I didn't want your mother to see this. Can you help me clean up and send the boys out to get the leaves out of the headlight?"

It was difficult not to laugh at him, and I pointed out Mom was certain to see the cut on his nose, but we cleaned the scrape, stemmed the flow of blood and checked to make certain no fingers were broken. Dad was none the worse for wear. The moped had leaves stuck in the headlight and the mirror was bent a little, but the boys were able to make it look almost like new.

I am certain the scrapes and cut didn't go unnoticed by Mom, but to her credit, she never said anything. And Dad learned to slow down a little while driving to the dumpster.