I remember the exact moment when my father handed me the keys to the family car. I was 16 years old, and it was toward the end of my junior year in high school. I had lined up a job in the mill for the summer and had been selected to go to Boys State at The Citadel.
One fine day, with no prior notice, my father walked up to me and said, “If you’re going to be working the third shift in the mill, you’re going to need a car.” With that matter-of-fact statement, he handed me the keys and title to our 1963 Ford Galaxie 500. He added, “Take good care of it and it will last you for years to come.”
I’m not sure words can convey the gravity of that moment. It was like the days I graduated from high school, college and graduate school. It was right up there with that grand and glorious day my wife, Jane, and I stood, grinning and giddy, before Judge Lee Alford in the town of York and took the big leap into wedded bliss. It was one of those moments in life when nothing is ever the same after it happens.
My mind was whirling with thoughts of all the benefits of having my own car. No longer would I be dependent on my uncles or anyone else to go fishing. At any time of my choosing, I could run down to Greenville and get a Whopper from the Burger King that had just opened across from where Cherrydale is now. I now had a snazzy car that would allow me to take girls on dates. In short, I could go anywhere I wanted, anytime I wanted…