Artwork: Baseball Players Practicing, 1875
by Thomas Eakins
Courtesy of

Music: "Climb Every Mountain"

Sequenced By: Jack Hall
Used With Permission

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 My sonís old tricycle is rusty,
Its red paint is barely in sight.
He rode it ever so proudly,
He peddled with all his might.

He traveled with that little bike,
He rode it fast, he rode it slow:
Now it sits idle, put aside,
It has no one to ride it; It has no place to go.

Many of his childhood memories
Are locked, stored away in the shed.
His baseball gloves, his trophies,
Including the red cap for his head.

In a box are his socks, wristband,
Along with his baseball suit and bat.
I donít chauffer anymore
But, oh how I miss all that.

Then came the high school years
That brought music, cars, and a girl.
The telephone rang constantly,
His life was spinning: it was in a whirl.

He never had money,
Always running out of gas.
But I would smile with pride,
As by our house he would pass.

Now a father he has become,
With a son to buy toys for.
An interesting life is ahead,
Many surprises are in store.

I thought,
Perhaps he will want his old tricycle back.
My heart gave a mighty leap.
No, instead Iíll buy him a new one,
For this one I want to keep.

Age and time move on,
Ah, but those memories are so dear.
The clickity clack of those tricycles wheels,
Again I would love to hear.

His riding sounds have been replaced
With a grandson so fine.
Memories are great to have,
But, today his family is also mine.

Shirley Oremland©