Mom, widowed and worried, couldn’t afford it, but there I stood in front of the greatest present I ever received or ever would receive.
A week earlier in a hardware store, while she was purchasing a screwdriver, I stood transfixed over the most beautiful sight a 13-year-old boy in 1962 could behold: A shiny red and white go-cart, sale price: $125.
Everything about it sparkled and said lightning fast, out of reach, and beyond hope.
But there it was on my 14th birthday. Not sure why Mom did it and in likely remorse, went through the rules: NEVER ON THE STREET, NEVER ALONE, NEVER ON THE STREET, NEVER AFTER DARK, NEVER ON THE STREET, DID YOU HEAR ME? “NEVER ON THE STREET!”
I was taking it for a spin around our circular driveway when my best friend, Stevie Bogard showed up asking if he could give it a go. When he was done doing a couple of laps he got out and said we should have races.
“Huh?”
“My big brother just welded together pieces of a rusty bed frame with our old washing machine’s engine,” he told me.
Glancing down at my sleek beauty, I said, “Sure maybe I could tow you around.”
Ya! You guessed it, a day later, on the forbidden street we lined them up, my beauty against a nasty, rusty, pile of ear-splitting, homemade junk.
And just thus, life’s early lessons are learned.
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