What literally device does the"The Bike Basket: A Mother’s Day Tale by Elizabeth Floc" have. Two things changed my life: my mother and a white, plastic, daisy bike basket. I have thought long and hard about it and it’s true. I would be a different person if my mom hadn’t turned a silly bicycle accessory into a life lesson I carry with me today. …
My mother and father were united in their parenting philosophy, but it mostly fell 5 to my mother to enforce it. Looking back, I honestly don’t know how she did it. Swimming upstream against strong, green currents of Ben Franklins 1 must have been a Herculean task, but she made it look effortless. If we complained about not having what another kid did, we’d hear something like, “I don’t care what [so-and-so] got for his birthday, you are not getting a TV in your room/a car for your birthday/a lavish sweet-16 10 party.” Grown-ups were addressed as Mister and Missus, not by first names. We shook hands and looked in eyes. We had to earn our allowance by doing chores around the house. We didn’t have a housekeeper; together WE were the housekeeper. I can still remember how long it took to rub brass polish into the legs of our coffee table and buff them shiny. My brothers can no doubt recall hours spent vacuuming or mopping or 15 cleaning out the garage. Like the two little girls growing up at 1600 Pennsylvania

1Ben Franklins — a slang term for $100 bills → → →
Avenue,2 we made our own beds (no one left the house until that was done) and picked up after ourselves. We had to keep track of our belongings, and if something was lost, it was not replaced. These were both non-starters and anomalies.3
And so we come full circle. It was summer and, one day, my mother drove me to 20 the bike shop to get a tire fixed — and there it was in the window. White, shiny, plastic and decorated with daisies, the basket winked at me and I knew — I knew — I had to have it.
“It’s beautiful,” my mother said when I pointed it out to her, no doubt knowing where the conversation was heading. “What a neat basket.”
25 I bet I tried to hold off at first. I’d like to think I played it cool for a short while. But then I guess I couldn’t stand it any longer: “Mom, please can I please, please get it? I’ll do extra chores for as long as you say. I’ll do anything, but I need that basket. I love that basket. Please, Mom. Please?”
I was desperate.
30 “You know,” she said, gently rubbing my back while we both stared at what I believed was the coolest thing ever, “If you save up you could buy this yourself.”… “By the time I make enough it’ll be gone!”
“Maybe Roger here could hold it for you,” she smiled at Roger the bike guy. “For that long? He can’t hold it for that long, Mom. Someone else will buy it. 35 Please, Mom, please?”
“There might be another option,” she said.
And so our layaway plan unfolded. My mother bought the beautiful basket and tucked it safely out of reach in some hiding place I couldn’t find — and trust me, I looked, if only to salivate 4 over it. Each week I eagerly counted my growing nest egg
40 supplemented by extra work here and there (washing the car, helping my mother make dinner, running small errands on my bike that already looked naked without the basket in front). And then, weeks later maybe, I counted, re-counted and jumped for joy. Oh, happy day! I made it! I finally had the exact amount we’d agreed upon. …
Days later the unthinkable happened. A neighborhood girl I’d played with 45 millions of times appeared with the exact same basket strapped to her shiny, new bike that already had all the bells and whistles. My eight-year-old feet pedaled hard and fast home to tell my mother about this calamity. This horrible turn of events.
And then came the lesson I’ve taken with me through my life: “Honey, your basket is extra-special,” Mom said, gently wiping away my hot tears. “Your basket is 50 special because you paid for it yourself.” …