MUSTANG FEVER

While I was in Vietnam, I saved all I could to buy a new Pontiac GTO. Having accumulated a whopping $900.00, I was a little short of the $5,000 necessary to purchase the machine of my dreams but I figured, at least, it would make a good down payment. However, when I got home, I discovered my Mom, Dad, brothers and sister were moving from California to Washington State and required some financial assistance, not only for the move, but also after they got settled in their new home. Things like a TV, a washer and dryer, a couch and so forth, pretty much used up the $900.00. They never asked me for anything, of course, but I just couldn't see having a new car when they were hurting for basics.

I began saving again and then bought a brand new 1969 Mach 1 Mustang, a car that I immediately fell in love with. It was a beauty and had a manual four speed, wide oval tires, bucket seats, a 351 Cleveland engine, the works. It cost me 36 payments of $104.72 and I was making $120.00 every two weeks. By the time I got it insured, I could barely afford to put gasoline in it, but I would look at it longingly and sigh. By then I had risen to the lofty rank of staff sergeant (E-5) and thought I had arrived.

It was all I could do to let my girlfriend drive it. It was just too beautiful to take a chance on getting it dinged. I had it a few months when, one morning I got in to start it up and nothing. It wouldn't start, it wouldn't make a sound when the ignition was turned on. What was this? I lifted up the hood and no battery! Someone had taken my battery and it was parked right in front of my apartment door. From then on, hood locks were essential equipment. In those days, there was no such thing as "popping the hood," from the inside of the car.

A few months later, my girlfriend became my wife. We started a family, got a mortgage and suddenly my wonderful Mustang was not "big enough," for a man with a new daughter. But I hung on as long as I could anyway. Eventually, by 1977, we had three more children and I traded in my adorable Mustang for a larger four door sedan. A sad day. Two years later, we received orders for Japan and then Germany for a total of seven years away from the States. I couldn't have taken the Mustang with me anyway. But, every now and then when I see a Mustang go by, especially the new body style of the 2006 Mustang, that copied the look of my former machine, I heave a sigh once more.

MOTORCYCLE MANIA

I needed another mode of transportation when my first vehicle died, my 1955 Pontiac "Wonder Wagon." Money was tight but I was fortunate to land a job next to my Dad's locksmith shop. A guy by the name of Duke McCracken owned a motorcycle rental shop and he hired me on, when I wasn't working for my Dad, more as a favor to Dad than anything else.

This was 1963 and previous to this, most motorcycles were huge machines, not practical for young, unexperienced drivers. Then about that time, the Japanese market introduced a whole line of smaller, cheaper motorbikes. Duke rented Honda 50cc trail bikes and Yamaha 80cc street bikes. It was sort of like riding around town with your bicycle that had a lawn mower engine attached to it to drive the rear wheel.

The bikes were tiny compared to the Harley's and Triumph's but, nevertheless, they created quite a sensation on the market and began to sell by the hundreds. People wanted to try them out first and Duke would rent them for $2.50 per hour and he couldn't keep them available fast enough. He made loads of money and hired me and others to help him out.

After closing time, he'd bring along about ten of us and we would drive around the local hills and "break in" his new machines. We'd drive at night and go to the hills chasing rabbits and have all sorts of fun on the bikes. This was before there were many laws or restrictions on where you could go or if you needed a helmet or a motorcycle driver's license. Sometimes we would just drive until they ran out of gas. It was all kinds of entertaining but also dangerous. Often new bikes would come back to the shop, beat up and broken. We'd stay late and fix them so that we'd be ready to rent them the next day.

I got many of my first lessons on simple and minor repair of these machines and eventually, with Duke's and my Dad's help, bought a Yamaha 80 for my very own. It had a top speed of about 45 miles per hour if you were going downhill with a wind at your back. I buzzed through a school zone at about that speed and received my first traffic ticket. Eventually the bike proved too small for my liking and I upgraded to a Yamaha 250, YDS2. Still a small bike but to me it was a power house. The Yamaha's, at that time, were two stroke engines and sounded like giant popcorn machines when they were running. My 250 was dual cylinder instead of single and I had it painted candy apple red with a bell helmet to match. By then (1965), I had graduated from high school and started my first year of college. I added banana grips, an oversize rear tire, a parallel extension handle bar and even got a leather jacket. I thought I was hot stuff, and even got to go on the freeway, since the 250 would do over 60 mph.

Unfortunately all that excitement almost killed me and I had several near, fatal accidents. I had a motorcycle paper route, was chased by dogs, slipped and had the bike come out from under me when traveling on wet or gravel roads. Several times, I hit the front brakes too hard and flew over the handlebars. Road rash, torn clothing, scrapes and bangs and a lot of makeshift repairs, kept me humble. Freeway driving was especially scary when the road was grooved for icy spots and better automobile tire traction. I was on the California golden state freeway on my way to Disneyland and hit road grooves that shook the front end of the bike so bad that I almost lost control. There were cars going freeway speed all around me and if I would have fallen, I would have been killed or horribly maimed at least.

Since then, I have had many smaller and bigger motorcycles but in 1987, I sold my last one, when it nearly killed my wife as she was learning to ride. In a car, I was surrounded with metal and glass, had a seatbelt and music and a much better chance to surviving an accident. Besides, I never got rained on or froze to death in a car. On a motorcycle, what I saved in gas I spent on hospital bills. My Dad gave me great advice when I told him I liked the feel of wind on my face as I went down the road. "Son, if that's what you're after, take the front windshield out of your car!!"

WILL'S WONDER WAGON


The time had finally arrived; the moment of moments, the day of days, for I had finally reached the fantastic age of 15 and one half. Anybody who is anybody knows what that means. Experience, wisdom, knowledge; they all fold together to produce the young man that is ready at last to meet life head on. It is the beginning of freedom, when a youth achieves the ultimate, the numero uno, the coveted, yes, even the driver's license learning permit. At least, that's how it was in January of 1962, in Riverside, California.

There were, however, one or two slight hurdles to bound before the only other event that supersedes the permit, that is, the driver's license, could take place. The first challenge was perhaps the most difficult and that was convincing my parents that I was ready. That took some doing. Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that my Dad had several other kids to raise and that I was entering uncharted territory. As the oldest kid, I already knew that every time I turned another year older, my parents had never had a kid "that old" before. I was their trail blazer, a dangerous occupation, especially for an amateur.

My five brothers and I could put away quite a bit of hot chocolate and toast (breakfast), peanut butter sandwiches (lunch), and spaghetti and meatballs (dinner). This, along with a mortgage, utility payments, and many other living expenses, may have been a little taxing on Dad's income.

The family car presented another challenge. It was a 1955 Pontiac, 4 door, with a two tone paint job and a sight to behold. This vehicle resembled a Sherman Tank, minus the big gun. The manufacturer would have made it out of heavier materials, but none were to be found. In any fender bender accidents, the other vehicle automatically lost. It had a huge, gas hogging V-8 engine, (no matter, gasoline was only 15 cents a gallon) and that engine had over 200,000 miles. Special options included automatic transmission, power steering, power brakes and, get this, a push button radio. No seat belts were included, since that was only for wimps that didn't like flying through windshields.

I knew my Dad dared not part with so worthy a vehicle for the sake of driver training and the dangers thereof, so, being a shrewd business man, I set upon a plan. I would pay for the auto insurance and the car in one stroke. I had worked the previous summer, clearing weeds from vacant lots for the staggering sum of five dollars a lot. I had a whole $300.00 saved. $200.00 bought the wonder wagon and $100.00 covered the insurance. Suddenly, shazam, I was the proud owner of my own tank and I didn't even have my driver's license yet!

Dad used the money as a down payment on another vehicle, for the family and soon my driver training began in earnest with Dad receiving the envious job as trainer. Oh, what days those were! What marvelous bonding between father & son! Running stop signs, running traffic lights, running out of gas; it was all there and more. I wasn't used to power brakes, so when we came to a stop, I would hit the brakes and Dad & I would hit our heads on the windshield. "BILL!" he'd say. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? TAP THE BRAKES LIGHTLY!" The most exciting event occurred when I pulled into the inclined driveway of our family home, stepped on the brakes a little too lightly and drove the wonder wagon into the corner post of Dad's recently built, six foot high wooden fence! The fence lost as advertised but Dad was not impressed.

I didn't have a whole lot of free time after that, since I spent every spare moment, tearing down the fence and putting up a new corner section. It was great fun. Finally, in June of 1962, much to the surprise of all my family members, I actually lived to see my 16th birthday. I took my driver's test in written form and only missed two questions, a proud moment.

Next hurdle, the driver's practical test, scheduled on the day of the junior prom, perhaps not a wise choice. I was somewhat distracted, having other things on my mind. I feared most the parallel parking but accidentally did it properly, the very first time. I drove about city traffic without a hitch until it came time for lane changes. I did four of these for the instructor. I looked into the mirror prior to changing lanes, without looking over my shoulder into my blind spot. A big no, no. The instructor said each no, no cost me eight points or a total of minus 32 for a test score of 68 or fail. I was devastated, worse, I was crushed. How could I go to the junior prom with the girl of my dreams, if someone else drove? Heaven forbid! I pleaded with the examiner to show mercy. I told him about the prom and begged for leniency. Finally he agreed to give me two points and my score was changed to 70 or barely pass. I was saved!!

That night, I wore my white sport coat, with a pink carnation, in memory of a song popular in those days. I picked up my date and we were driving to the dance when I suddenly, being distracted again, realized I had taken the left fork of the road, but I needed to be on the right fork. Now, a "normal" driver would have just turned around or pulled over and backed up, but, after all, that would be the same as admitting I made a mistake. Couldn't happen, not to someone who had been driving as long as I had. Instead I chose to play dune buggy and drove over the wide, dirt meridian, between the left and right fork. We were actually air born for a second or two. The take off was fine but the landing was a little rough. "What was that?" she said. "Oh, I always do it that way." I said matter of factly. "It was fun, don't you think?" Deep down I was thinking, I sure hope I didn't damage anything expensive.

The dance, the corsage, and then dinner, pretty much cleared out a year of earnings for a professional lot cleaner, like myself, but it was still a night to be remembered. The tank and I shared other wonderful memories like showing me the value of walking when it broke down. One of my first improvements to the Pontiac was a genuine $10.00 chrome plated accelerator pedal, a sorely needed expenditure, never mind that I needed a new battery. I proved my grit again by spending a whole $50.00 for a metallic, deep blue, single tone paint job. Unfortunately the painting was done by a "friend" of Dad's who took a month to do a two day job and painted it two tone aqua because he ran out of metallic blue and didn't figure I would mind. The result was disappointing at best but I was too embarrassed to complain, after all, the guy was a "friend."

The power steering and power brakes proved to be a setback. You ever try to push a tank off to the side of the road when it breaks down? Now try it without power brakes or power steering, since the engine is shut down. What a workout. Can't steer it and can't stop it without tremendous brute force.

Finally, I had a few more workouts than I wanted and sold the tank for $50.00 and bought a motorcycle instead. The last time I saw the Pontiac, some kid was using it for what I used it for on that prom night, a dune buggy. It bit the dust in the end and got sent to the wrecking yard.

Today, I have my own mortgage, cars, kids and grand kids but, sometimes, I think back to when the wonder wagon was the car of my dreams.

THE MOST CORRECT BOOK



I was raised Roman Catholic. Attending church, seminary and holy days of obligation, were all expected. My mother sang in the choir and my dad was a member of the Knights of Columbus, an organization of lay members that assisted the congregation or parish. I served as an altar boy when young and learned the mass liturgy in Latin. I was schooled by nuns and directed in spiritual things by priests. For many years, I toyed with the idea of becoming a priest myself and attending Catholic theological school. I do not begrudge those early years of spiritual training but I had nagging, soulful questions that could never be answered to my satisfaction.

Where did we come from? Why were we here on this earth? Where are we going when this life is over? What is God really like? Is there only heaven or hell? What about the myriads of people that merit rewards somewhere in between? If we are God's children and we have a Heavenly Father, how can we have such a Father, without a Heavenly Mother? Why are infants baptized, even though it is not mentioned in the Bible? Can infants sin? What about all the billions and billions of people who have lived and died and never heard of God? Are they consigned to Hell just because they did not know Christ? Is that fair? And on and on.

I was given answers to some of these questions, but most of the answers made no sense and seemed like confusing double talk. Other questions were not answered at all but instead I was instructed that I must accept some things on faith and that if the answer was given me, I would not understand it because it required that I attend theological school first. I wondered about surface things too, like, why did I hardly ever see a happy nun? They all seemed like grumps, bothered that kids had to be watched. Why did the priests, play cards and get drunk some Friday nights with the the Knights of Columbus?

The more I questioned, the more I was side stepped. After awhile, I just kept the questions to myself. Fine, I thought. If this is all there is to religion, I want no part of it. I came late to meetings and left early. As soon as I was old enough to be on my own, I left home and religion, far behind me.

Fast forward to 1973. I've been in the military seven years, returned from Vietnam and married a Mormon girl. We have a two year old daughter. My wife is off shopping with her. I'm alone, watching a football game at our home and two Mormon missionaries knock on our door. I answer and invite them in. After all, by then, I've been around the Latter-day-Saints for three years. I've been to their Church a few times, to keep peace at home, I've gone to ward socials and my in-laws are LDS and great people. We have home teachers who are our friends. The Church doctrine has been mentioned superficially, but no one has really pressed the issue. I'm now 27 years old. The Elders are not really elder, but actually a little younger than I am.

Later, I discover that my wife, Jean, has sent them over to visit with me and that this visit is not accidental at all. But, at first, we talk about football. They are kind and well mannered, easy to like. Soon the topic shifts to the Church. I ask questions, they answer and show me scriptural passages that back up what they say. After about a hour they tell me they must leave. They ask if I would read from their pamphlets and a few passages from the Book of Mormon. Seems reasonable and I agree. Could we have a word of prayer before they depart? Surely, I say. They pray for me and my family and the prayer is direct and sincere. I am fascinated by their demeanor and knowledge. They leave. I try to get interested in the football game again but can't. I start to read what they told me and finish it, even the Book of Mormon passages.

I was so enthralled by the Book of Mormon that I began from the front of book and was almost done with the first chapter, when my wife and daughter came home. I told my wife that the Elders had been over and that I was very surprised at the feeling that had come over me while they were there and after they left. She was very happy at my reaction and confessed that she had asked them to come. I began asking her questions about the Church. Some she could answer, others she deferred to other people, her father, our home teachers or even the local leaders. I further discovered that Jean had quite a library of Church books but that a deep understanding of the Book of Mormon was essential in conjunction with fasting and prayer.

Before we went to sleep that night, instead of watching TV together, as we usually did, we read from the Book of Mormon. She would read a chapter and I would read a chapter. After I had read for the third time, I looked over at her and she was asleep. I had to be up early in the morning but it didn't matter, I kept reading. I was about a third of the way through the Book before I finally went to bed.

That day, something happened to me and I have never been the same since. I had really known next to nothing about the Mormons as a boy. I heard something about Brigham Young, that he was a pioneer and had many wives. More than that, I didn't know and that actually was to my benefit, for if I had preconceived notions about the Book of Mormon, they would have colored my thoughts and slowed my spiritual progress.

Every day, after that, I read a little more, studied a little harder and asked myself, "Could a man have written this book?" Absolutely not. After many days of prayer and study I was eventually baptized by my home teacher in October of 1973. I served several stake missions after that and had the opportunity to teach many others about that Book of books. Even today, I read a chapter every morning from it's pages and I am reminded of it's great worth. Joseph Smith said that it was the "most correct book and a keystone of our religion and a man could get nearer to God by abiding by it's precepts than by any other book." I know it is true.