I have never kept a diary or a journal, but if I did, I would title it "Life Lessons I Have Learned, The Hard Way"
Ummm...let's see now, open up the journal of my mind....
1949...13 years old...going up the road to a neighbors house in the Ozark Mountains, ‘cause the neighbor boy that lives there has invited you home for supper...sitting down with the good, hard-working, but poor family...taking the first bite of the unknown meat on your plate....asking, politely, "what kinda meat is this, ma'am?"..."possum, son, ain't it good tho?"...swallowing it anyway, like it really was cause you knew that was all they had...and you'd rather eat a stinkin' possum than hurt their feelings. At 13 years old, learning the ways of the world the hard way....
1953...17 years old... at the Corral Drive Inn, Springfield, MO...sitting in my 1948 Chevy Fleetline, candy apple red, split manifold twin pipes, lowered 2 inches in back, additional lowering by putting two sacks of horse feed in the trunk of the moon hub capped beauty...J-45 Gibson sitting upright in the floor behind my front seat as always..... been working on the cute car hop for about two hours...think she may let me take her home later...deciding to move my car so I can show off my smitty muffler pipes...rev the 6 cylinder engine twice, back up and hit the cute car hop who was carrying a tray of root beer floats behind me.....Root beer and ice cream run down and into the trunk of my dream car, mixing with the old sweat socks and sacks of feed in the trunk…cute car hop gets up, dusts herself off and gives me the look to kill......sadly, go back to the farm alone.
Love and the fickle hand of fate do not always work out together. Another lesson learned.
Six months later, the cute car hop has given in to my persuasive personality….agrees to let me take her home after work…this time I am very careful to not back up and hit anyone. The town boys, in their hot rods are all glaring at me as I pull out of the drive in with the cute car hop….pop the clutch and squeal my tires to show them town boys who’s cool…make it about one block from the drive in….run out of gas…even though I had put 50 cents worth of regular in it when I left the farm…cute car hop hops out of my cool car….huffs off walking back to the drive in…Once again, love and fickle hand of fate are totally out of sync….
Synopsis: Root beer, ice cream, old sweat socks and sacks of horse feed make a mix of odors that is nigh impossible to overcome in a custom car which does not run far on 50 cents worth of gas, which, joined together can defeat the most carefully planned out romantic evening. It can also lead to a lifetime of craving for root beer floats. -Stan
1949...13 years old...going up the road to a neighbors house in the Ozark Mountains, ‘cause the neighbor boy that lives there has invited you home for supper...sitting down with the good, hard-working, but poor family...taking the first bite of the unknown meat on your plate....asking, politely, "what kinda meat is this, ma'am?"..."possum, son, ain't it good tho?"...swallowing it anyway, like it really was cause you knew that was all they had...and you'd rather eat a stinkin' possum than hurt their feelings. At 13 years old, learning the ways of the world the hard way....
1953...17 years old... at the Corral Drive Inn, Springfield, MO...sitting in my 1948 Chevy Fleetline, candy apple red, split manifold twin pipes, lowered 2 inches in back, additional lowering by putting two sacks of horse feed in the trunk of the moon hub capped beauty...J-45 Gibson sitting upright in the floor behind my front seat as always..... been working on the cute car hop for about two hours...think she may let me take her home later...deciding to move my car so I can show off my smitty muffler pipes...rev the 6 cylinder engine twice, back up and hit the cute car hop who was carrying a tray of root beer floats behind me.....Root beer and ice cream run down and into the trunk of my dream car, mixing with the old sweat socks and sacks of feed in the trunk…cute car hop gets up, dusts herself off and gives me the look to kill......sadly, go back to the farm alone.
Love and the fickle hand of fate do not always work out together. Another lesson learned.
Six months later, the cute car hop has given in to my persuasive personality….agrees to let me take her home after work…this time I am very careful to not back up and hit anyone. The town boys, in their hot rods are all glaring at me as I pull out of the drive in with the cute car hop….pop the clutch and squeal my tires to show them town boys who’s cool…make it about one block from the drive in….run out of gas…even though I had put 50 cents worth of regular in it when I left the farm…cute car hop hops out of my cool car….huffs off walking back to the drive in…Once again, love and fickle hand of fate are totally out of sync….
Synopsis: Root beer, ice cream, old sweat socks and sacks of horse feed make a mix of odors that is nigh impossible to overcome in a custom car which does not run far on 50 cents worth of gas, which, joined together can defeat the most carefully planned out romantic evening. It can also lead to a lifetime of craving for root beer floats. -Stan
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