Everybody Has a Story: Dad floored it, son reacted, and dad had comeback ready

I was born in Spokane. When I was 9, I started delivering the Spokane Daily Chronicle. I collected 23 cents a week from each customer — and immediately spent it.

My father explained to me that most of that money belonged to The Chronicle. He gave me the money I owed, and I learned my first lesson: You always save part of what you have earned.

One cold day, an elderly couple invited me inside and gave me 23 cents, and I put it in my money bag. As soon as I had walked down the sidewalk, I realized I had left my bag on their table — but when I returned, they said I had never done that; my money was gone. Another customer, who owed 46 cents, always offered a $20 bill, knowing I wouldn’t have enough change. My father solved that problem: He went to the bank and got a bag of nickels and quarters. When the man gave me the $20 bill, Dad stepped up and said, “We have change” and began to count; the man gave in and found 46 cents in his pocket. I never had to come back again. Two valuable lessons were learned.

We moved to Portland when I was in sixth grade. I continued delivering newspapers through high school and bought my first car when I was 16. It was a 1937 Ford Coupe with A46 Mercury engine. I bought it with $300 I had saved. It had mechanical brakes, which was an adventure when you were trying to stop quickly.

My father had purchased a 1949 Ford, and I asked him if I could take it to the senior prom in 1951. He said no.

I said, “But everyone is getting their father’s car for the prom.”

He said, “Well, you’re not getting mine.”

Of course as a teenager, I thought I was being treated unfairly and pouted for about an hour. My father said, “Jim, if you promise faithfully not to drag race with my car, you can take it to the prom.”

I thought about that. It was tempting. However, I told my dad, “I can’t promise that.”

He replied, “Then we understand each other.” So I went to the prom in the ’37 Ford and still had a good time.

Dad’s turn

When my son, Mark, was 6 years old, I bought a 1965 Chevy Super Sport: beautiful, white with red interior. When Mark was old enough to drive, our understanding was: “It’s a privilege for special occasions; drive carefully, and if you ever get a speeding ticket, you will never drive it again.”

Mark never got a ticket. I understood that most teenage boys will take a chance. But, had I made Mark promise as my father did me, Mark would have kept his word.

Mark loved that car, so when he graduated from high school, I gave it to him. It was still in pristine condition, and he was a good kid.

He had earned it. He didn’t drive it for long, though; after graduation he enlisted in the Coast Guard and spent seven years in Active Service (and 28 years in Reserve Service, and retired as a Commander).

We stored the Chev for seven years. Mark returned from the Coast Guard and took it out of storage. He moved to Eugene, got a master’s degree, married and took good care of his car. One day, my wife and I decided to visit. I said to Mark, “It’s been a long time since I drove the Chev.”

Mark was protective of his car and seemed reluctant for me to drive it, but he finally relented. The car ran just as good as new. We headed for the freeway, and I put the accelerator to the floor. He said, “Dad, remember, the car is old.”

I said, “You did that when it was mine, now it’s my turn.”

Mark knew what I meant. He had a look on his face I’ll never forget; it was like a kid getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar!

Those few seconds of acceleration have provided memories and a lifetime of smiles.

Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.