Today is the 110th anniversary of my father’s birth. To my sorrow he did not live half that long. Like me my dad was a storyteller and just recently it was impressed on me that if my father’s stories were to be learned by the younger generations of my family it would be up to me to tell them. I’m going to make a concerted effort to tell my father’s stories.
I don’t recall whether I’ve told this one before or not. One day when my dad was about 14 years old (I assume shortly after his father’s death but before his grandfather’s death), his mom wanted to go down to the drugstore—not an enormous distance away but too far to walk. She didn’t drive. So, in characteristic style, he told her that he would take her to the drugstore. He had never driven before.
He went back into the garage and started up the old Model T that had been sitting idle since his dad’s death. He drove his mother the several blocks to the drugstore and at one point noticed that the car was handling oddly. He saw something rolling in front of the car. It was the car’s right front wheel which had somehow become detached.
Shortly thereafter my grandfather bought my dad a brand new Model A which he drove to high school and, I presume, to college. I assume that at some point he got a driver’s license—Missouri had been requiring them since 1903, one of the first states to do so.
If you infer from that story that my dad was headstrong and fearless, you would be correct.
Sorta reminds me of a story from a rural Sheriff. The final test for a new deputy was gather up all the drivers in the family and take them in to get drivers licenses.