Just now, sitting here in my recliner, working the AM Sudoku puzzle, into my mind flooded a memory. It was 8500 Oriole Avenue, Saint Louis, in the early summer. A motorcycle policeman was sitting on his cycle, in the street, off to the side in the shade of our sycamore tree.
He was big, in uniform, with the addition of black shiny, leather leg protectors that covered his legs from the knees to the ankles. They had silver buckles on adjusting straps at the top and bottom.
Several of us kids, we were all little, maybe 4 or 5 years old, gathered in a bunch around him. We may have been asking him questions. I think we must have been intrigued with this apparition, which none of us had seen before.
He remained there a while, observing the intersection. Then, probably due to a lack of action, he kick-started his motorcycle and left. We were impressed. That was 80 plus years later, never before recalled.
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