My JC Higgins bicycle (Provided photo — Jack Drury)

I spent my early years in rural Locust Valley, Nassau County, which though only 30 miles from Manhattan, seemed like a hundred. Our house was set in the middle of six acres surrounded by a chain link fence and had been the caretaker’s property for one of the old Gilded Age Estates. It was perfect for raising five kids, a dozen or so Newfoundland Dogs, a horse and a Black Angus.

As anyone over the age of 70 knows, the 1950s were a different time. Kids spent daylight hours outdoors, rain or shine. We played sandlot baseball and found ways to settle our arguments without adult supervision. Parents didn’t worry about their kids and my best friend Mike Douso and I played in the woods that covered over half our property. His dad even made a special ladder to easily get over the fence that bordered our property.

One of my life’s defining moments occurred when I was a 10-year-old. My mother asked me to take a couple of important letters to the post office. I was thrilled that she thought I was big enough to bicycle the two miles into town by myself. The fact that she gave me 10 cents to buy myself a candy bar didn’t hurt either.

I dutifully put the letters in my bike basket and started pedaling my JC Higgins (Sears and Roebuck) bike down our driveway. The first quarter mile of the trip was the most difficult as the skinny tires wobbled down through the thick gravel threatening my balance. Once on Overlook Road I headed past the old estates and took a left onto Skunks Misery Road. (I can only imagine what a skunk’s misery would be.) There was little traffic, and I made good time. Then I got to the intersection with Weir Lane and took the right towards the village. Weir Lane was right out of “Leave it to Beaver,” with maple trees overhanging the road and nice homes on either side. It was also straight as an arrow, which meant that cars drove down it faster than they should.

I was cruising down Weir Lane, lost in the rhythm of pedaling, feeling proud, sitting upright. That is, until I looked into the bike’s basket; it was empty. Empty? How could it be empty? Where were the letters? In a panic, without thinking I turned across the road to go back and look for them. As soon as I turned, I heard the screech of tires and saw a brown station wagon locking up its brakes and come to a squealing halt just a couple of feet from me.

I pulled my bike to the curb, heart hammering, mouth dry and hands shaking. How could I have been so stupid? In my panic over the letters I never checked the traffic and just dashed across the road.

I was terrified and on the verge of tears. The driver got out of the car, and he scolded me. “You nearly got killed,” he said. He wasn’t so much angry as he was concerned. His words stung as I held back tears. My legs were shaking, and my heart was racing. I was embarrassed. Tears finally ran down my cheeks.

What made it worse was I knew the man who nearly killed me. It was Mr. Hinkley, the director of the Boys Club.

I gazed at the car as he got in and headed down the road. Then he gave me a wave and drove off. All I could think was how close I had come to being roadkill.

As I headed back to look for the lost letters I was still shaking. I had to stop and calm my nerves. I got off my bike and bent over to catch my breath. I was gasping with snot running down my nose. My heart rate finally started slowing and I stood up and prepared to get back on my bike. As I did, I looked in the basket and saw the letters. They were upright against the rear of the basket out of my view from the bicycle seat and … they’d been there all along.

I still had to mail the letters, which I did.

Life after that pretty much returned to normal … but the world never felt quite as safe as it had before.