When I was 16 years old, I got a job working for a local grocery store. I had become part of the workforce, but I knew that my job enabled me to acquire the things I needed in order to sustain myself.
I viewed myself during that time of my restless youth as a valuable contributor of the Crain’s household budget; my parents accepted my thriftiness; and so, they didn’t chastise my assistance yet encouraged me to remain in school until I had graduated.
When that milestone was upon me, I had an inkling of what I wanted to do: I envisioned myself as a writer; I had read a timeless book, a memoir, by John Gunther who wrote about his son’s struggle with a brain tumor. This book is called, “Death Be Not Proud.”
The year was 1971; I was in the 10th grade.
I had just gotten my driver’s license, but I didn’t have a car. During that era, my father and I sat down for that man to man talk: He informed me of what I wanted to hear; “Son, I hear that you want to buy a car,” He said.
“Y-Y-Yeah,” I stammered.
“Oh, yes.” One more thing. You don’t have to contribute to the household budget; that’s my job.”
I beamed.
When I had saved up enough money to afford my first car, my father and I went down to the local car dealership to bargain hunt. When I saw the car of my dreams, I stopped dead in my tracks: “There she is!” I hallooed; I couldn’t contain myself.
My father, the car salesman and me walked over to a black-and-red model; it was a 1968 camaro.
In 1971, we had our concerns: The War in Vietnam, Nixon’s impending resignation and discontent among the working-class; yet, Generation X was not only smack in the middle of an identity crisis, but also devoid of any serious commitments to family ties.
Great story, Roger.