Forged by Fire Read Free Page B

cookie dough and the turkey dressing just enough to make ends meet.
    His gifts were never frivolous or the result of Saturday morning cartoon advertising, but thoughtful and delightful. Last year, when he was eight, in addition to two books (he loved to read), a new winter coat, and a used but still bright and shiny blue sled, he got a flashlight, two sets of batteries, and permission to explore the basement and the attic (which had previously been off-limits). No amount of money could have purchased the adventures he had in the next few months, exploring the secrets of the outer limits of the house.
    In the basement, he had found an old wheelchair, covered with dust and cobwebs. Gerald never thought much about Aunt Queen’s being in a wheelchair. Rather than being a limitation, her chair seemed to be merely an extension of her personality. She wheeled around the house and neighborhood with very little difficulty, although buildings without ramps and inaccessible public transportation could really start her to fussing. He knew that she had been born with brittle bones, and that she got fractures easily, and that two of her six children and two of her grandchildren also had the condition. She could walk for short distances, but it was sometimes very painful. However, she treated it the same way she treated any other difficulty in her life—first with a sigh, and then a smile.
    â€œNo use stewin’ about stuff you can’t change,” she’d tell Gerald. “It’s the things we
do
have control over that I’mworried about. Like whether you’re going to finish those carrots—or that book report—before midnight!” He had smiled, and finished both.
    She had given him permission to take the old wheelchair apart, and he had made something that he had called his go-cart. It was lopsided, but it rolled, and when he was in it, he felt like he was king of the world. He had begun it in the basement, but it was cold down there, and there was not much room, so he brought it out to the back porch. Every day after school he hammered and nailed and pounded on it, making it the “ultimate racing machine.” (He had heard that on TV somewhere.)
    Of course, he had to practice on Aunt Queen’s ramp. She had fussed, “You’re gonna tear up my ramp, boy. How am I gonna get down it to go to the market if you got it set up like the Indy 500?”
    â€œAw, Aunt Queen, I ain’t messed up your ramp. I made it better! I put racing skids on it, so it won’t be slippery for you when it rains.”
    â€œLord help me! Racing skids! Do I look like some kind of race car driver? Next thing I know you’ll be tellin’ me you put warp speed on my wheelchair!”
    But the tar paper that Gerald had found and nailed to the ramp really did help her, so she had let him play on it. He had soon grown tired of the tameness of the ramp, which had a gradual slope, and he looked with interest at the driveway of the house next door, which was steep and sloped right down to the street.
    One afternoon, when Aunt Queen was taking a nap, Gerald quietly took the go-cart to that driveway, got on, and rolled cautiously down the big hill. He had used his feet to stop himself every few yards, so it didn’t go very fast that first trip. The second time, he only used his feet once or twice, and then it was just to slow himself down when he reached the curb leading into the street. By the fourth or fifth trip, he had increased both his confidence and his speed. He even gave himself a little boost with his feet before he tucked them on the piece of wood that was his rudder, so he sped down the hill this time like one of those bobsledders that he’d seen on TV in the Olympics. Just as he got to the curb, he turned the rudder slightly, rolled to the left, and slowed to a halt by bumping into one of the garbage cans sitting there.
    This is awesome!
he said to himself.
One more time!
    On that last