Like this:

It’s not everybody that retires and then goes to Harvard.  But, that’s exactly what Luana and I did.  In reality, I guess she’s the one that retired; I am only partially so, having assumed a responsibility for interim pastoral duties with our small fellowship of churches.

But, here we are at Harvard…Nebraska, that is.  This little town of about 1000 inhabitants has an interesting history that includes being selected as the home of an airbase for B-17 bombers in World War 2.  In fact, on the northeast edge of this burg there sits an area containing the remnants of military housing erected more than 60 years ago for the airmen and their crews.  ”The Courts” is what the area is called today, and it is inhabited mostly by Hispanic folks that work in either Hastings or Grand Island, larger communities to the west and north.

We’ve not had much difficulty meeting our anglo neighbors, but making contact with the folks in The Courts has been a bit more difficult.  The answer, perhaps, is establishing friendships with the children.

Every day between 3 and 4 pm I see them as they make a leisurely retreat from school to their homes.  I wave and smile, and earlier this week I was able to talk with three boys.  Luana and I had just returned from purchasing a new bicycle for her, and were unloading it from the back of the pickup.

“Hey, what are you gonna do with that bike,” one of them asked as they rode up on two bicycles.  The boy who spoke was straddling the rear wheel, standing behind his friend on the footpegs of the kid’s BMX model.

“Well, we just bought it,” I said.  ”You could give it to me,” he replied.  ”Don’t you have a bike?” I asked.  ”No,” he said.

A kid without a bike, I thought.  That’s tough.

“What’s your name?” I asked.  ”Angel,” he said.  ”And, what about this guy?” I pointed to the kid in the front.  ”Steve,” Angel replied.  There was another boy, smaller than the first two, who was riding alone on his unit.  ”What about you, what’s your name?” I queried.  ”Brian,” he answered.

The next day I was working in front of the garage, building a couple of bookcases for my office, when the three amigos appeared once again.  Only, this time they were all riding bikes.

“Is that your bike?” I asked the one who’d ridden as a passenger the day before.  ”Yes,” Brian said.  ”I thought you said you didn’t have one.”  ”Well, it’s my Grandpa’s.  He lets me ride it.”  ”He only lets him ride it to school and back,” volunteered Steve, who was riding a different bike than the BMX.  ”I like to pretend it’s mine, that’s why I said that,” Angel admitted.

“Do you live here?” Steve asked me.  ”Yes, we have this new house.  Oh, I guess it’s not new.  We’re doing some things to it.”  ”It’s nice,” said Steve.  ”It looks old, man,” Brian opined in his delicious Spanish inflected English.  I laughed.

When Angel had told me he didn’t have a bike, I thought immediately about the old Trek 800 Luana had been riding – the one that didn’t fit her correctly and that caused her to lean forward on her wrists as she pedaled.  That, in fact, was the whole reason for the new Giant Sedona we bought.  That Trek would be perfect for a kid like Angel.  But, I didn’t want to give it to him in front of his friends.

They all rode north to The Courts.

Next day, school out, kids coming past the house.  This time Steve and Brian showed up, accompanied by a kid named Santiago, but who went by the moniker of “Junior.”

“Hi, Mr. Bancampen,” Brian shouted as they rounded the corner of 7th and N Kearney.  ”Hi guys,” I called back.  ”You can call me pastor, if you want.”  I pointed to the Catholic church building across the street.  ”I’m sort of like a “father,” I said.  ”A Protestant “‘father.’”  They looked at me blankly.

“Um, you got anything in the house I could drink?  Something cold, a pop or something?”  This from 8 year-old Brian.  I could see where this could lead, should I acquiesce.  ”I have some water.”  ”Water?  Is that all you got?” Brian replied.  Santiago, aka Junior, punched Brian on the arm.  ”They’re old, man,” he spoke in a tone the whole neighborhood could probably hear, “they can’t have that much sugar!”

I laughed loud and long.  I laughed as I reached out and tousled each head of black hair.  I laughed as I said, “You guys are funny.”  I still laugh when I think about it, and when I say to Luana, “We’re old, man, we can’t have that much sugar!”

“Where’s Angel?” I asked.  They thought he was still at school, and as Brian and Junior made their way northward, Steve pedaled back in the direction from which they’d come.

About ten minutes later, here he came.  ”Well,” I called out, “did you find him?”  As he drifted up on his bike, Steve said simply and to the point, “He puked and went home early.”

I saved my laughter until he’d ridden a couple of blocks towards home.  Ah, the unvarnished truth from lips of a child – no matter the ethnic background.  But, I have to admit the explanation sounded almost lyrical from this English-speaking Mexican lad.

I made it a point to be outside the next day when the horde was dismissed from educational incarceration.  After Steve, Brian (with his “Hi, Mr Bancampen – forgetting all about the “pastor” option I’d given him), Junior, and Daniel had disappeared up the street, here came Angel, riding his grandfather’s old department store ATB.

“Hey, Angel, I missed you yesterday,” I said.  ”I was sick,” he answered.  ”I know – Steve told me you ‘puked and went home early.’  Come here a minute, there’s something I want to talk with you about.”  I went into the garage and wheeled out the Trek.  ”I want to give you this bike,” I said.  ”It’s an extra one we have, and I think it might work for you.  What do you think?”

“It looks like it would work,” he said, eyeing the bicycle.  I adjusted the seat down to its lowest point.  ”Try that,” I said.  ”See if it fits.”  It was a little tall for him, but then, so was his grandfather’s rig.  He rode out on the street and back to me.  ”It works ok,” he said.

“OK, here’s the deal.  You take your grandpa’s bicycle home, and then come back to get this.  I’m going to lean it against this big tree here – you come back and get it.”

“Um, Mr Bancampen,” Angel said, “sometimes people lean the bikes against the tree, and somebody else comes and takes it first.”  ”OK, I’ll park it up in front of my truck by the garage.”

He thought a minute.  ”Um, do you think I could take it with me?  I can ride it and pull my grandpa’s bike.”

“Well, if you think you can do that,” I said.  ”But first, here’s the deal.  I’m giving you this bike for a trade.  I want you to help me learn to speak Spanish better.  I know a little bit, but I want to learn more.  Will you do that?”  ”Yes,” he said, ” I can do that.”

That fourth grader mounted the Trek, I brought his grandpa’s bike alongside, and off he went, slowly pedaling toward The Courts.  ”You’re welcome,” I called after him.  ”Thank you,” was the reply that floated back from his retreating form.  This time I just smiled.

Next day, here he came…on the Trek.  He stopped and said, “Mr Bancampen, my mother says ‘Thank you’ for the bike.’”  ”Why don’t you tell your mom to stop by and see me?” I asked.  He said he would.

And right there by the curb at the end of my driveway, my young Mexican Harvard Spanish instructor gave me my first lesson!

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