HUNTING WITH HOOT
One day, a long, long time ago, I was a teenager, full of all the usual male adolescent stuff, and becoming a man. I was well on my way, because for $70 I bought my first car, a 1941 Chevrolet. Most of the paint had been worn off of it, so I painted it. Knowing nothing about painting, I went to a store, bought paint and a brush and plunged in. I painted the bottom half black, and the top half yellow because those two colors were on sale. The color choice was also a form of rebellion. I did it just to irritate my Dad. He rose to the bait, and made me repaint to top half, so I went and bought pink paint. Over the next several months the pink faded, so it was kind of yellowish pink. That was a great old car. Flat out it did 74 miles per hour, but I put the entire JV baseball team in it when the team bus wouldn’t start. We made it to the game on time, but lost to some Jr. High team. That was just about as embarrassing as our uniforms. They had no budget for JV uniforms, so they made us wear old pants from the football team and our own tee shirts. No logos, no hats. You can imagine how silly that looked, football pants, with no pads under them. Anyway I drove the car for three years, paid no attention to maintenance issues, largely because I didn’t know about them, and it never quit on me. And, just owning a car gave me status with my friends, especially those who didn’t have cars yet.