Parma, Idaho – 1955. The first year since we’d moved there in 1952 that the spring frosts had missed our huge old apricot tree. It was so loaded Dad thought it might break down.
In addition to canning all the fruit she could, Mom was trying to give it away so it didn’t go to waste. Dad shipped his milk to the creamery in the old 10-gallon milk cans. Val Feller, the milk truck driver, was one of the takers of the offer for free fruit. Said he wouldn’t have time to pick it, but he would pay me $1 if I would pick him a bucketful of apricots. That was the first non-family money I ever earned. I remember having change left over after buying a genuine “Lone Ranger” cap gun and several boxes of rolled caps that both made a bang and gave off the aroma of burning gunpowder when it was shot. (In later years, I found out that if you laid a whole roll of the caps down and hit them squarely with a big hammer or rock, they’d almost all go off at once with a very nice “boom” and smoke cloud.)
My next non-family income was after Dad’s chronic back pain had caused him to sell the farm, and I found myself being a town kid. A lady stopped at our motel and asked my mom who her groundskeeper was since she needed help with her yard. I became a mower and irrigator of lawns at age 13 and generally had my own spending money from then on. Such freedom. The family finances were usually on the skimpy side, so I was in hog heaven when I didn’t have to justify “need” when I took a fancy to a new jacket or pocket transistor radio.
Dad brought up the subject of me getting my own car the summer before my senior year of high school. Times were different and people more trusting. I’d find a car I thought might work and drive it – solo – from whichever dealer in Nampa to where Dad worked west of Caldwell, Idaho. We’d discuss the merits of the car, the price; then I’d return it. We finally settled on a 1953 Mercury four-door sedan – 255 cubic inches of the final year of Ford’s flathead V-8 engine. A three-speed manual transmission with column shift (three on the tree) and a number of areas of neglect that left me with no time to get in trouble because I was trying to keep the Merc running.
That is, until I got my first speeding ticket. I just paid it, then watched the local paper for the “court report.” The day my name appeared, that section of the paper somehow vanished from home before anyone else saw it.
My cover-up didn’t last long, as my Mother had a couple of friends who seemed to know more about everyone else’s business than their own. One of them said something to Mom.
“You do not just pay it and not say anything about it when you get a speeding ticket!” was my greeting upon arriving home a few days later.
First paying job, first car and first speeding ticket. I was thinking of mentioning first kiss, but that would lead some into a discussion of first “meaningful” kiss, which would lead to hurt feelings and awkward explanations, so how about we don’t go there? (No, it wasn’t on my first date – not gonna go there either. I’m just glad I got over the “awkwardity” before I met the one I wanted to keep.)
As I contemplate firsts, I realize how lucky I’ve been because some firsts have never occurred in my life. I don’t want to consider a first marriage, because – going on 54 years – I’m still hoping it’s the only one I’ll ever have. Elli has yet to introduce me as her “first” husband, so I’m hopeful … .png){kind=icon}
