Real Regret

While riding in a combine with my father in a small basin just to the left of the cedar covered hill we called Cedar Mountain, my dad was edgy and a bit at a loss for words. It was harvest of 1971, the last one I would experience while living at home. I listened for the sound of the engine and the rhythmic sound of grain going into the tank behind our cab. I was aware of any smell of hot bearings on the machine. This type of hypersensitivity is what you did, when my father showed you how to operate expensive, heavy equipment.

I watched the cutter bar for rocks, a common problem on any farm. It was the curse of living in the place where lava activity made the soil so rich. The purple stones with large holes ranged from the size of a grapefruit to several feet in width and height. You found them each year, after plows pierced the soil and forced them into the sunlight.

It was weeks before I departed for a large university. My dad was worried about something. Finally he spoke.



"When you choose a woman you want to marry, you have to choose carefully, wisely." He looked at me directly for a moment, before focusing again on the golden rows of wheat being cut and whipped onto the platform below us. He watched in silence for a few minutes, and then he continued: "You have to select someone who loves you, someone who takes care of you."

The second part is not a direct quote, because I didn't listen to the exact words of the latter part. I was this prideful nineteen-year-old, who thought he knew everything about the world. The comments were somehow irritating, because I always dated nice girls, pretty ones with intelligence. And I felt sensitive that my dad thought me unable to make a judgement like that. He was just worried about me.

I went to college and dated a girl from a big city, who did what my father warned me about. We went everywhere together, spent hours daily going to movies and to concerts and to college sporting events. I dated more there than I did throughout high school. We were together every day.

You see I thought she felt as I did. When you find the truth of the matter is when you step onto a plane and leave the country for two years. In fact, the relationship--in spite of a little ring--didn't last two months.

It seems silly now, because it was a "promise ring." I still find euphemisms interesting.

So now I'm going to tell a story about my soulmate. In the summer of 1970, we had spent a long week working on the farm. We finished that day in an 80 acre field just below Cedar Mountain, the field beyond the barbed wire fence. I drove a Caterpillar D-6. It was a dusty mess. Hours after driving it, your ears would ring.

That was the fact that always made me nervous, because we had a neighbor. This man drove a D-4, and during the winter, he rode in his truck with the windows rolled up tightly. His son, just a bit older than I, would throw bales of hay to his cattle. I could hear the radio playing two hundred yards away on a winter evening. I feared old age. I drove a tractor, a loud one. And I loved loud music.

On that summer day, there were no cows, and I didn't hear our neighbor's favorite radio station, but I spent the day driving tractor and setting large areas of straw ablaze. The combination of dust and soot made me look like Al Jolson, all decked out in black face makeup. We arrive at our house in Malad about 9:00 p.m. or so. Dad parks the white '63 Chevrolet pickup in the front of the house, where we always did. Suddenly, dad says this: "Hey, there's a carload of girls there."

I hear them laughing and talking. I make a break for the back door, when I hear my dad's voice again. "Jon, they're not here to talk to me." I'm still walking quickly. I turn momentarily, hoping no one is looking at me. There is Ann Thomas.

"We're having this party tomorrow night, a cookout. I want to know if you'd come with me."

I told a class once that I was shy in high school. They laughed. I told my college girlfriend I was shy. She laughed. Everyone, who knew me reacted the same way. But I was shy.

I said I would go. "I'll see you tomorrow night at 7:00." Ann turned and walked back to the car. A smile stretched across my father's face. He knew me. In spite of my "black face" of homegrown makeup made of dust and soot, I blushed. Somehow my dad knew it.

My dad grinned, just like he did when I he told another story about me. I was in sixth grade. Some classmates threw their high school stepsister into the waters of a reservoir, where dad and I fished. The girl was Malad's version of Dolly Parton, except for the singing part. She must have been home during the day, and it was hot, which explains why there was nothing under that T-shirt. Only a pervert would have noticed, until of course she emerged from the water. I looked once, and then I turned red-faced and stared away. My dad began to cackle, all while the girl called her step-brothers sonsabitches.

"Let's go home Jon." He didn't call me Jonie as usual. All the way home, he laughed, and then he said how he witness that his "Jonie was not a boy but a man now."

Dad told that story at every family reunion for 20 years. I called it The Day Jonie Became A Man story, and he finished by telling everyone how red my face and ears were. I blushed every time, and it made everyone laugh--even after hearing the story a dozen times or more.

I was shy.

The next day came. I was the kind of kid, who could hear his heart pounding in his throat, when he called or talked to a girl. Just thinking they could also hear that sound made it worse somehow. We did the dinner. Ann and I had fun together. She made me feel comfortable with everyone there. It was a small town, but I still felt uncomfortable.

The next Saturday, we are in town early. We clean up. The sun is still bright. Dad looks at me. "Did you call Ann?"

"What? Why would I do that?" My dad shakes his head and smiles. He looks at me again. You need to thank her for asking you to that party.

I get on the phone immediately and dial the number. My heart is pounding in my throat. Within 15 minutes, I start my Model A pickup, and I'm driving toward Ann's house. We went to the Malad Drive-In. I know it doesn't sound like much, but on fancy nights, I took Ann to The Chat 'N Chew, a diner not far from the fast food place.

Ann and I sat in my truck. She talked. I listened. We sat in the shade of a large tree at The Malad Drive-In.

In October, my dad put my cassette stereo in the family car. It had this anti-theft bracket, so I not only could remove it, but I could also put it in additional cars as I wished, and I did, after I went to school. On that night in October, we rode in our family car, an olive green Ford Torino GT. It was a great car. It had bucket seats. I was a gentleman. I opened the driver's side, which meant that Ann sat on the middle hard part between the seats next to me. For me, it was about having her close to me.

I played Buffalo Springfield's album entitled Retrospective, a greatest hits album. As soon as I shut the door, Ann identifies the band's name, which was my favorite. Then she tells me the names of the members: Neil Young, Stephen Stills and Richie Furay on guitar; Bruce Palmer on bass, and Dewey Martin on drums. I was in love. It was a match in heaven.

We dated until January of 1971. When we stopped dating, I was devastated. It frightened my parents. For months, I listened to my Buffalo Springfield collection. My mom even encouraged me to buy additional albums, something new. Led Zeppelin and The Moody Blues showed me a bit of relief, but when it came to college, I listened closely.

I had a music scholarship offer to go to Utah State. The main person is someone, who really liked me as a person and especially as a musician. Not only did I play in several summer band programs he conducted, but I also had the chance to tour Europe with a large band he put together after my senior year. I didn't do it. It's the curse of being the only son in a family with a large ranch.

There were applications sent to Utah State University and BYU. I had housing approved and waiting at both schools. I waited to see, where Ann went. She had scholarship offers at both universities. She went to BYU. Anyone, who knows me, also knows that it took something like this to get me to Happy Valley, yet all while I was there, I didn't date Ann: not even once. We hadn't talked sine January.

The dating of a girl from Salt Lake was something I don't understand. I wasn't mature enough for a relationship, so maybe it was fun to see the look on Ann's face occasionally, when she saw me with someone there. I had been unhappy, and I wanted to share that gift I guess.

One semester is how long I spent at BYU before going on a mission to Germany. Within weeks of being in a language training center, the girl from Salt Lake distanced herself from me emotionally.

We began fighting in letters, not a good sign of a healthy relationship.

In February of 1972, my mom sent this large package with three types of my favorite homemade cookies, two cakes, Rice Krispy Treats and other assorted things. There was enough to feed at least 15 nineteen-year-old males, and I did exactly that. My mother sends me this note. She tells me that she sent the package to Provo from Malad with Ann, so that I would get everything freshly baked and nice. And by the way, she continues, "It's Ann's birthday on the nineteenth of February."

I wrote a card. We began writing, and we continued for two years, with only a few weeks when we didn't send anything. It was usually when Ann had finals and when I had to travel to conferences in Germany.

Before January of 1974, I told Ann about my intentions of not returning to BYU. She sent me materials to sign up for school there. Ann encouraged me to complete them.

On January 9, 1974, I stepped off a jet in Salt Lake City, and there was this beautiful brunette with chocolate brown eyes, red cheeks, blue bell bottomed slacks. Ann hesitated, when I told her to ride home with our family, but we began dating immediately.

She rode with me to see the stake president, when he released me from my mission, which by the way was something that would not be seen as appropriate today. Ann and I rode there alone. Ann and I spent every day together, going to movies, to concerts, to athletic events. We drove home together.

Within four weeks of getting home, we talked about marriage. Here's my regret. I regret not marrying her sooner, but that was pretty much impossible. I regret not dating her in my first semester in college, but that was not possible either. I would have been unable to leave her, and that could not have been a positive option.

The real regret is this. I didn't get down on a knee and formally propose and hand her a ring. We made the decision like every one we made throughout our 37 years of marriage. We did it together, after talking about it and deciding on a course of action.

She remains the love of my life. She is the woman my dad talked to me about all those years ago--a woman, who truly loved me as much as I loved her, a woman, who took care of me for as long as I remember, a woman, who loves me in spite of my being me.

I still am in love with the beauty with the chocolate brown eyes. And we still enjoy the music of Buffalo Springfield. My dad was right. My Annie has been a blessing to me in my life.

July 3, 2011: A Family Get-Together In Malad

Sammy was mystified with the dog. Here she poured a bit of water, and during the meal, she would take a bite of a biscuit or anything else, and then she would feed the dog.

"How's that taste?" Her voice was clear. She basically said what her mom said to her, whenever she gave her anything solid to eat, and Lydia had said that since Sammy was old enough to eat baby food.

It was hilarious to see the fuss Sammy made over the dog, but even better was to see how the dog let her hug, pat and stroke her--especially in between sitting on the small beagle mix.

The look on Sammy's face was pure wonder at being able to fuss over something that fun, something besides one of her dolls she occasionally carried about the house. Sammy ran about yard, enjoying the cut grass and the shade.

Jack and Tommy fuss over the dog too, while Mary Rose watched and coached them a bit. Neither boy has really been around dogs that much, although Kristin had a little dog for a while.

I'm still trying to talk Ann into getting one, but it's a tough sell. Ann watched me react to my Springer Spaniel, when his hip dysplasia forced me to take him to the vet one night to have the dog "put down."

I sat in a chair immediately after in the dark. Ann and I watched TV together, and I sobbed in silence like a little girl. Ann let me talk her into a second dog--an English Bulldog. We had fun and loved the dog like one of our children, and during the worst part of my cancer, I had to give him to family.

That was not easy either, but I knew it had to be. Ann can't deal with the kind of sadness that you feel when you get so attached to something so magnificent, so loving. A dog loves unconditionally, expects little, entertains constantly. To live in a vacuum again after a pet's passing is something Ann refuses to do.

But I'm working on it.

Brent and Mary Rose sit in the center. My mom is at the right, and Jill's twin boys Jess and Dan sit at the left of center beside Zach's wife ShaNae. It is frustrating to me that I didn't get everyone in a picture. I walked about with two different cameras taking pictures, but I didn't want to be a best, so I stopped after taking a few.

Jess Blaisdell sits beside Kevin Keller, my sister Ann's husband. On a day like this everyone realizes just how important it is to drop things and meet for a few moments as a family. Keven, while driving down a canyon in Northern Utah, fell asleep at the wheel. His car plunged off a steep embankment. Kevin walked away from the accident, but he injured his neck and wears a brace, until doctors clear him and eliminate the recurring problems from the initial accident.

Life is a blessing. People don't realize how fragile the whole thing is, until of course something like this happens.

My sister Ann is at left of center, sitting by her husband Kevin. Addie sits next to her, and my mom is at the far right.

Tommy sits next to Sonny and Whitney's little boy in this picture. I'm embarrassed that I didn't get a picture of Jill and Keith or Whitney, although I will continue looking on my other camera.

 The boys relax a bit here in the shade, after playing about in the large yard.

 My sister Jill went to a great deal of work to put this together. It was a beautiful day.

 Keith sits at the left, and Jill is at the right in this picture. Mary Rose is talking to them here.

Jill's twin boy Dan sits here. He is a championship wrestler, and he and Jess played on Malad's baseball team this year. For Dan, it was only seven months after a severe injury during a wrestling match, where he broke his arm. It prevented him from another chance to win an individual wrestling championship, but the twins played well on Malad's team that took first place at state this year.

This is the only picture I have of Sonny Blaisdell, Jill's oldest boy. I didn't get a shot of Mandy either. And Sonny's wife was not in one of my pictures on the camera. I'll do better next time.

 It was a great day for Kristin and Jack.

And for me, it was exciting to have Lydia home for a week or so. Ann felt the same way, she shows the joy of having more grandchildren at home. It's the noise you miss after they leave--the squawks, the giggles, and even the occasionally fighting when little ones come together. Tommy and Anna were here as visitors early, but my son-in-law and our little Anna would not arrive until the next day.

It was a great day, a time to celebrate memories and to enjoy new additions to our family.

The Thing About Being A Grandma

My Sweetie is the quintessential grandma, so I thought I would take a few moments to explain why I feel that way. We just finished a trip in California, and it was the third one since March. That is a major part of it. Vacation plans do not revolve around anything but having fun with grandchildren, and that is what makes life so precious at this point in our lives.

As any grandma super hero, she would rather spend a day at Disneyland fighting crowds and standing in lines that walking down Rodeo Drive clutching a shopping bag.

In fact, there are times, when I wish she would shop for herself, but what makes her so great, is that she puts grandchildren and children first.


Pop Pop still has the inside track. Even though I sometimes irritate her with teasing or watching Castaway for the 100th time, she loves me and allows me to wallow in my eccentricities. It's what she does. It's one of the reasons I love her. It's also important to understand I married her for her intelligence skills, although were some particular things about physical attraction that also played a role, but I'm so old, so at my age, there are still a few things that I find particularly fascinating.


For example, her chocolate brown eyes that sparkle when she teases me or when she finds something I do or say to be very funny. I love everything about her, but at this point, the way she dotes on me and my grandchildren means everything to me.


When you arrive at a point, where I am in life, you realize how much a woman can love you in spite of everything else--idiosyncrasies, handicaps, insensitivity. It basically sums up the problems that most men have, but even at that, if they make the right choice in a soulmate--like I did at an early age--things work out for the best.


The touches the hearts of those who know her. The effect is something magical, at least it appears to be that way for me, my children, my grandchildren.

This Year's Fourth of July Parade

The day started early. Ann, Kristin and I drive to Iona to do the breakfast. It was once a tradition, and I decided I wanted to do it this year. It was something I looked forward to experiencing.

It's funny how sometimes you never quite learn from mistakes. Nostalgia is not a good thing. The breakfast was a disaster. I told Ann, that even if the meal was horrible, at least we'd be able to get a good shop broom there--yet another silly assumption.

I was furious after our experience. Within a short time, I did the research, and I sent an e-mail to Iona's mayor:

Dear Sirs:

My family has visited the Iona Breakfast for many years since moving to Idaho Falls. We've been in Idaho Falls since 1989, although we haven't been to Iona for this event for at least eight years; however, it once was a yearly tradition.

We arrived this year promptly at about 7:15 and were some of the first to go through line. My wife and youngest daughter went with me. The breakfast price was $21 for my wife and daughter and me.  I bought three brooms, so I'm now at $52, and I didn't mind, because we always enjoyed the people at Iona.

Now this is where it gets interesting--the beginning of the breakfast line. There were scouts helping. I am an Eagle, getting the rank in the late 60's. I enjoy seeing them do service. They were nice kids. They would have known how to cook pancakes. We wait for the first adult to cook one that was brown on both sides. He seemed puzzled that we wanted cakes that weren't still white with a hint of brown.; however, he was nice, even if he probably didn't understand that a hot cake isn't done until it cooks a bit longer. I can wait a while. No one is behind us anyway. The eggs were great.  You served yourself. We scooped medium amounts for each of us. We didn't overindulge. We just wanted breakfast. The people seem friendly. My wife and daughter don't really like breakfast, so they are there to keep me company, because I really insisted that we do it this year.

Then this oddball with glasses, probably about 50-60, appears in line. He's the kind of guy that knows when a glass is halfway empty.  For what he is about to do, I figure he must represent PETA or something. He assumed the role of commander in chief. A boy standing on the other side of the counter in line rations the sausage--two links per person, if you're sure you want that many. I asked for two more. The old PETA guy, who must want to save pigs, wears these 50's style  hard-rimmed glasses. He glances over the top of them. I get the look, and then he says gruffly to the boy scout. "Give him only two for the first time through the line." He doesn't really look at me. He talks to me via the young boy. He is a--well, I won't say it. Why give you the wrong impression of me, when you don't really know me at all anyway. You see, it's important to note that I am not the "man" or t"hat person" or even "the fat white guy." He refers to me as "you." It's always painful to have someone treat you rudely, but to have them do it as if you don't really exist, or as if you're invisible is something a bit worse. Did I mention this person is rude? I let it go. I'm not one to look for trouble, but I don't let things like this happen, without saying something. It's 7:00 a.m. in the morning. I don't want to ruin the day for the few others who will soon be referred to as "you" too. I think, I'll just go back for seconds and get two links.

I finish two medium hot cakes and a small portion of scrambled eggs, and I go back for the two links I wanted.  I get a hot cake. It's white again. I get to the rude old man again.  He says to another ration person of pork servings, "Give him one link. He's been through once already." He announces it loudly and rudely. He doesn't look at me. I'm still invisible. But I guess that's what you should tolerate when you buy breakfast from the Lion's Club Fundraiser. 

We won't be back. And I know it's no big deal for you guys out there, because I'm sure you have plenty of people who don't mind paying over $50 for three mediocre brooms and three over-priced breakfasts, but I remember a time when a customer at your Fourth of July breakfast received something nice--both in terms of quality and portion size. And even if that hadn't happened. I could have been satisfied with poor quality food, if the man in question had been capable of acting politely. I'm not part of the empowered or entitled generation. I'm a 58-year old guy, who grew up on a farm in Northern Utah, and I learned important things about life: to be honest, to treat people with respect, to work hard. I don't think I'm somehow better than anyone else, but I don't treat people disrespectfully. And if someone treated me otherwise, they learned the hard way never to do it again.

I spared everyone that. I look at this experience as a lesson learned. I won't buy three breakfasts, which I can get much less somewhere else, or even better yet, which I cook better at home. I make sure the cakes are done, the hash browns aren't crunchy, and I never open my window and scream. "This fat guy's gonna eat all the sausages today." 

So, to avoid future misunderstandings, there needs to be a sign posted at the entrance: that place where they grab your money.  And instead of this nice lady saying, you can go back for seconds. They need to put the crabby guy, who hates his life there. He can set everyone straight. And then no one needs to go any further. It's the honest way to do business. He can say this: "Our brooms are poor, and don't even think about asking for more than one or two sausage links. We're here to make a buck. And if you go back, we'll embarrass and be rude."

An even better plan would be to put one of those over-priced brooms in his hands and point him in the direction of a place away from people. 

Jon Ward

Ann was a bit upset, when Kristin told her I was mailing a letter to report what happened at breakfast that morning, but I was not about to simply let things go without saying something. Iona is a beautiful spot, a place with an incredible small-town atmosphere.


My hometown has had breakfasts like this, and the successful ones function, when they not only place the right people in charge, but when they also find the right people to represent the community at a function like this.


It doesn't work any other way. When the wrong people are in key spots, the thing just eventually stops happening. Suddenly, there is nothing at all in a small place like that to make it interesting.


I watched that happen in my hometown,where after one key person, who always kept things going, passed away, things changed. 


No one took the time to create anything out of the ordinary. Then another individual, who grew up in Malad, moved back and slowly began restoring some of the positive things I remember.


I started to write a letter, when I returned home from the breakfast, but then I soon realized time was passing quickly. The Fourth wasn't about me. It was about two grandsons being excited to see a parade, where adults threw candy.We took lawn chairs and watched the parade. There were incredible bands from all the high schools. I'm not much of a fan of the whole dancing thing, whether it's a dance team or some float for the local workout center. Either way, I find much of that pretty much disgusting.


I'm too old to push and shove to retrieve Tootsie Rolls as they bounce across the pavement after one of the many adults through handfuls at the crowd. I'm too prudish to see women, either young or old, prance about and strut like sluts. 


My two grandsons seemed to be too young to understand that, or at least I hope they are. They sat in their chairs, sipped cold drinks and enjoyed the free candy.


The drive to Kristin's apartment to see the parade had been hectic, because the parade route began immediately in front of her place. 


Tommy was excited, and Jack was too. It was a great way to begin the Fourth. I should have been content with just doing the parade and fixing breakfast at home.





All was not lost. For me personally, I found the parade fun, but some of the floats and other things were a bit strange. 


Even though I probably should understand the float at the right, I don't. It was odd, even a bit funny, but I just didn't understand it at all.


Somehow, the Fourth seems to find me entrenched in some sort of moment. I wallow in memories of the celebration in my hometown. I miss the breakfast there. I miss the hometown floats. I miss the line of horses and riders that always made up a good section of the parade.
There was no street cleaner there, so the pungent smell of horse apples entertained every farm boy there, especially ones who long ago moved to the city.


But I don't miss the band there. When it comes to that, Idaho Falls has a real advantage. But then again, listening to four or five bands somehow is more than I want to enjoy on a July morning.


The day, however, was not for Pop Pop. We do things for grandchildren, that we normally would never do. It's a part of being a grandparent.

It's a nostalgic moment in a way, because parents and grandparents did that for us, at least that's how it happened in our past. Ann and I both rode bikes in Malad's Fourth of July parade, when we were young. Our friends did too.


We decorated the spokes with red, white and blue streamers. I remember using clothes pins to fasten old baseball cards on a frame near the wheel. As the wheel turned, it made a sound, which in any child's mind, sounded like a motorcycle. At least, that was the rage at the time.


I just wish I had a handful of those baseball cards I used like that, not to hoard them but to sell them on E-bay.


The day was a great one. I returned from the parade, finished my letter to Iona's mayor--who by the way, was also in the Idaho Falls Parade--and then began the rest of the day of having a great lunch before spending the evening watching grandchildren. 


Fireworks in the front yard was never so much fun. We used half on the Fourth, and the rest we used the next night. Anna arrived with her dad, and the moment was complete. Having all of my grandchildren in one spot makes for a perfect holiday, although it would have been even better if Cles and Leslie had been able to be here. Virginia is too far away to make something like that possible. We'll hope for that on another holiday.


In the meantime, the mayor of Iona sent me this response today:

I am sorry about your bad experience you had and I will get to the bottom of this.  If there is anything I can do to make it up, please call me at 521-6970.  Again I am sorry, but thanks for letting me know what happen.  brad


In responding to it, I wrote this:


I really appreciate your getting back to me about this. The way I look at it, if you can correct the situation, it is what is most important. I am not the type of person, who takes advantage of a situation like this in any sense. As a former public employee, who worked for a very long time in the system, I just don't like seeing the behavior of rude people like this affecting a potentially positive program, especially when they appear to take a leadership role.

But I know that your having contacted me means that you will make the necessary changes. You have an incredible community--one that obviously is not only worth preserving but also worth promoting as a place, where other people would like to reside. Every town has people like the one I wrote you about, and I understand that fact, but I also understand the need to make positive change.

Your letter is the first step. I wish you the best.

Jon

A Visit To Riot Zone

I remember in the 60's, when the thing a young boy wanted most was a "go-cart." it was something of a novelty during those times. Ann's dad had one on display: fire engine red, all shiny and clean.

Placed in a spot high from the ground and above the produce section, I admired it every day. It was something you did when you were just over the age of eight.

Having watched Ann's brothers try out the impressive machine in the early weeks of having received it,
the tiny thing instantly became on obsession, and I rode my back daily past the parking lot of the grocery store, hoping to catch another glimpse of the incredible tiny machine or to hear the sound of the cart's tiny engine.

Any time I heard my father was going to the store, I went with him. Tugging on his sleeve and pointing to the machine became a ritual. At least twice, my father inquired about it, but then he became very assertive and strangely adamant about the whole issue.
It was the end of the discussion, the end of a strange dream of hoping that I would become the envy in the eyes of every kid in the neighborhood, as I spun about and enjoyed the moment of a hot summer day. But more importantly, it was about enjoying something no one else had.

"You'll drive it under someone's car." 
Those words haunted me for one reason: I knew it was the signal, that indicated that my father refused to think about even trying to win the tiny race car in the drawing. Our name would not be on any small piece of paper. 


There would be no sound of a go cart in the driveway of our house--no tiny trail of dust, no occasional splash of gravel from the acceleration of tiny tires, no confident smile on my face. I would never enjoy the hateful stares of every boy within the distance of at least fifteen miles.


Another kid won it--young and spoiled rotten. He had all the toys anyone could ever want. I hated that kid. Occasionally, I rode my bike to the house where he lived. There's something about looking at the eyes of someone, about seeing what you would like to have felt: enjoyment in having something no one else had.

 

Recently, I was in my hometown for the Welsh Festival. I hear the sound of a huge motorcycle. It passes. The engine throbs. The back tire is larger than one a person would see on any family car. The name of the vintage machine was on the side of the gas tank: Victory.

I arrive at my car. This man in his early 50's sits on it and adjusts these pretentious shades. "You look familiar to me," I said to him.

He said his name, the same kid who once owned that go-cart. And yes, I still hate that kid.