MY FIRST GUEST COLUMN

I was musing yesterday about the friends I have who are gifted in so many ways -- writing being one of the talents they possess. I decided to ask each of them to submit a little article from time to time for me to share with you. This is the first. June is a former high school classmate that I reconnected with during our 50th Class Reunion time. She and I had not seen each other or corresponded since the birth of my second child, Carajean, in 1960. I recalled that June kept my older son Craig to play with her son Tommy while I was at the hospital giving birth! Reading June's brief autobiography of the 50 years since our high school graduation while I was compiling a class handbook, I realized that June had many experiences and good qualities to share with us. I present her first guest submission. I know you will like it.

The Amazing Trust of a Parent

By June Hash Curry

"I was recently reminded of what remarkable parents I had during my 1950s high school years. For the most part I was totally trusted to do the right thing when in their presence and out of it. And that trust was not always warranted, but somehow I think they knew that and trusted me anyway. I find that so humbling, especially now in the ripe old age of 72. My teenage kids mostly scared me to death, and I was not always that trusting.

But this story is about my dad and his amazing trust. I happily received my driver’s license at the tender age of 14 with no restrictions and couldn’t wait to begin that wonderful activity of “making the drag” in Ballinger, Texas, population 4,800 (plus or minus a few). This wonderful activity consisted of gathering up your friends and making a complete loop through the downtown area and back to the other end of town which ended in a triangle of streets. Those of us with access to an automobile did this over and over and thought not at all about the cost of gasoline, which was 17-1/2 cents per gallon at that time; nor had pollution of the planet ever been brought to our conscious minds. We just cruised and giggled, and it was wonderful. Life was truly good.

My dad had never in all my memory purchased anything on credit. He simply worked hard in his welding shop, saved his money, and when he had enough, whatever was needed or desired was bought with cash. He purchased a new Buick in this fashion every few years, then traded the old one in on another new Buick. The summer of my sophomore year in high school, which was in 1955, Dad purchased another beautiful pale green Buick sedan with a gorgeous white top and with all the lovely chrome trim of that day. He took possession of it a few days before our planned vacation to San Diego, California, and allowed me to take it out for a drive, just as I wished.

I was dating my future husband during this sophomore year and on this day I was deeply concerned about his having just gone home from Ballinger Memorial Hospital after minor surgery. Grady lived several miles outside town on a farm with his mother and stepfather, and they had no telephone in their home. Since I couldn’t call and check on him by telephone, I decided to borrow my Dad’s brand new Buick sedan and go see about Grady in person. We had a lovely Sunday afternoon visit, and I started home happily singing to the radio and not paying a lot of attention to my driving. The country road on which I was traveling was not the best and had sand pockets along the edges of the pavement. On one of the curves of that road I suddenly hit a sand pocket traveling considerably too fast, and before I even realized what had happened, the car flipped completely over onto its beautiful white top. The only sound in that car after the accident was the radio playing some wonderful song and a quiet motor still running. I can’t begin to communicate my horror.

To this day, I don’t remember getting out of that car or anyone coming along to call my dad or a wrecker or any other individuals. But suddenly they were all there -- I hadn’t even turned off the ignition. I just remember being in tears at what I had done to my father’s brand new, fully paid for, shiny Buick sedan. I expected him to be furious with me, even though the times in which he was angry with me prior to that event were so few I could not even remember them. He simply walked up to me, put his arms around me and asked, “Are you hurt, Junie? Let’s go get an x-ray and make sure you haven’t broken something.” At that compassion, my tears started in earnest. What my amazing father was saying to me was that I was what mattered to him -- not his beautiful, shiny, paid for new Buick. I vowed to never drive any car again, but my dad was having none of it and insisted that I get back behind the wheel within the week to get over my fear.

I never forgot that day or what that response meant to me. His trust never wavered, and I don’t believe he ever worried about what I would become. My mother did, a lot. She knew Grady mattered deeply to me, and she had other plans for my future, including college and the foreign mission field, which is another story altogether. But my dad just trusted me to do what was right for me, and even today I find that so remarkable."

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Editor: Did you find -- like I did -- that this stirred memories of your own teenage escapades? I, too, remember "making the drag" in Ballinger. However, I was never allowed to drive the family car. Our bunch usually borrowed a boyfriend's car, or we all piled into one friend's little foreign made car that got many more miles per 25 cents worth of gas than the big V8 engines such as June's dad's car had.

I also flipped a car into a ditch on a country road when I was only fourteen. This was my girlfriend's family car. Terrified, we told her parents that she was driving, and their insurance bought them a new car for the one I totaled. When my conscience got the better of me and I confessed to my own dad, I didn't get the kind treatment that June did. I was promptly grounded for two whole months! Dad called her parents and helped to pay for what their car insurance didn't pay. What is amazing to me about both of these stories is that without seatbelts none of us was killed or even seriously injured.

An amusing side note, in lieu of the plethora of telephones each family has today, is the fact that Grady's family had no telephone. It was not unusual in 1955 for some folks who lived in the country to be without a telephone. Those who had one, like my friend Nancy's family, were usually on a "party line". Several families in the same vicinity would share a phone line, each having their own number of rings. You had to listen carefully and count the rings to see if a call was for you. You also had to be careful about what you said on that call, as some bored housewives were known to eavesdrop on party line conversations!

If this stirred up some memories you would like to share with us, just click on "comments" at the bottom of the article, and let us know about it. Or, send me an email with your memory.

Until next time...

May all your memories be happy ones.

Peace and love,

Marilyn