It was the fall of 1937. I would be a big 5-year-old boy in a couple of months. Our farm was on a hill about 3 miles from Battle Ground. The farmstead itself occupied a bench near the top.
My three older siblings were in school but I was at home on the farm, along with my toddler sister, Mom and Dad. There was no preschool or kindergarten in those days. If I was not otherwise occupied with my very own important stuff, my job was helping Dad on the farm, which I was very good at, if I do say so myself.
On this particular day, Dad had to go to town because he needed some piece of hardware from the Clark County Dairymen’s Co-op store, and joy of joys, I was going to go with him! At that age this was a very big deal for me because we didn’t have a lot of contact with other folks, and going to town was all new and exciting stuff.
Dad got out the family car, a Ford Model A sedan, and sent me down the hill to open the gate between the farmstead and the fields. I trotted down to the gate, held it open and waited patiently for Dad to drive through, when I would close the gate again.