Link to pictures of my Motorhome for sale
Click Here ----> 2004 Pace Arrow Pictures
Growing up in a small North Carolina town during the 1960's has certainly left me with vivid memories as well as a yearning for those simpler times. Our family never locked our doors; in fact, we didn't even know where the keys were. If we needed a key, however, we could borrow a “skeleton” key from our next door neighbor, which would work on our locks as well as theirs. My brothers and I played from dawn to dusk, ranging the neighborhood freely. We had a one-minute commute to school, as we only had to cross the street to arrive on school property. We had one car, one television, and two dogs. Lightning bugs were our magic, and our father was our amazement. The town barber, he became legendary in his exploits of daily living.
Daddy ran a barber shop located in the town square, where the only stoplight in town proudly hung. Our house was two blocks north, and the post office was two blocks south. His shop was located between the only grocery store/gas station and the only beauty shop, so he had the advantage of seeing all the town's citizens as they came and went with their daily routines. If he stepped out the front of his shop, he could look left to see our yard and right to see the churches and post office.
Every day at 9:00 AM, just when the postal clerks had finished filling P.O Box 103 with our daily mail, Daddy would leave his shop open, hop into his car, and whisk up the street to get the bills and letters, always leaving the car running so he could get back to any customers in the shortest time possible. A quick leap from the car, a twirl of the box dials, a hurried glance at the mail, and he was back in the car making a U-turn to head back to work. If no customers had arrived, he would sit in his barber chair and study his mail. For twenty years, this daily routine remained unchanged.
One early spring day, Daddy repeated the same routine, so he thought. On his return from the post office, he read the mail, cut hair, sat on his bench out front and greeted customers, and listened to the obituaries on the local radio. About noon that day, he prepared to go home for lunch, tidying up the shop and checking his pockets for his keys. His keys could not be found. He searched every inch of his shelves and cabinets, and no keys appeared. He decided that he must have left the keys in the car and started out the door. He stopped in his tracks. Not only were his keys gone, so was the car. Panic filled his mind as he calculated how someone could have taken his keys, which never left his right pocket, and his car, which sat right in front of the picture window of his shop. Running around crazily in the parking space as if he were trying to convince himself that the car was not there, he glanced inadvertently up the street, and to his amazement he saw the car sitting in front of the post office, still running. For three hours, our car had patiently waited for his hurried leap into the seat, the quick shift into gear, the whirling U-turn, and the final glide into the parking space. Daddy, engrossed in his mail, had walked out the door and continued walking until he was back at work. With customers waiting that day, he did not realize that he had picked up his mail but left his transportation.
Sheepishly, Daddy “headed out” to get the car. Because this action of walking toward the post office at noon was completely out of his routine, many passers-by questioned him about his break with tradition. Admitting that he had somehow “forgot” his car, he was never able to forget the episode. After the story spread throughout the town, hardly a day ever passed that a passing friend failed to ask, “Did you get any more of that fascinating mail today?” My brothers and I began a routine of asking, “Did you bring the car home?” when he arrived home each day. We have spent hours remembering and laughing about what kind of mail could make him forget his car.
Yes, that was my dad and my town, a place where life and laughter and amazement dwelt together in harmony.
More to come later