My Shoebox

Here’s a place where I’ll store lyrics to songs, poetry, and thoughts. It may evolve to include other things.

Table of Contents

Lyrics

Farm Stories

Heroes

When I was a child, I collected comics and believed in every superhero I ever heard of. In some ways I still do. As tragedy and disasters unfold around our little planet, I find myself waiting for a masked crusader to appear and make it right.

When I was a kid, I’d grab my mask
My sword and pistols, my cape and sash
And ride off, with them all by my side
With the might of right we could not fail
We always knew we would prevail

The outlaws never had a chance to hide
We’d take from the rich, give to the poor
And I can tell you this for sure
We all made this world a better place
Me and the Lone Ranger, and Robin Hood
Never got tired of doing good
Isn’t that what heroes are all for?

On the darkest night, they would appear
They’d never hesitate or fear
They’d save us all and do it with a smile
For nothing but fair maiden’s thanks
They’d turn the tides back to the banks
Defeat the force of evil for awhile
Spiderman, Batman, and a guy called Flash
They’d fix things up and they’d do it fast
You never had to ask a second time
Swing through the jungle, ride through the plains
Fly through the sky in a pouring rain
Doesn’t anyone believe in heroes anymore?

Well now it’s late, and the land is dark
It’s not safe to walk down a street, through a park
Nobody’s too sure what the future holds
I wish I could go back and be one again
I wish I still had all my old friends
We’d join together and stop those bad guys cold
We’d take from the rich, give to the poor
And I can tell you this for sure
We could make this world a better place
Me, and the Lone Ranger, and Robin Hood
We’d still be out there doing good
Doesn‘t anyone believe in heroes anymore?


 

Song For My Dad

Don Adams 1990

This is a personal song that I wrote for my Dad a long time after he died. I think it speaks for itself.

I remember as a child, he would hold me on his knee
Sing me to sleep with “Danny Boy”, when I was two or three
The summers gone, the leaves have fallen
You can still come back to me
Just a few memories I have about my Dad
He loved his farm, he loved his land
He loved the life he led
Every day at the break of dawn
He’d jump out of bed
He always had a song to sing
In times both good and bad
Smilin’ even when he was sad
That’s how I see my Dad
As I grew older, our opinions always clashed
I could see the future, he could only see the past
How he loved the old ways
But the world was changing fast
And only when I sang could I seem to please my Dad
I can see him smoking cigarettes, in that old chair where he sat
With a polka-dot bow-tie and a silly old straw hat
Never had a chance to say the things I wish we had
But I always promised him a song
And this one’s for my Dad
There came a time I sat beside the bed where he lay
And held on to his hand as his life slipped away
And I swear I saw his lips move
I could hear the music play
And I sang that song one last time softly for my Dad
Now time’s moved on and here I am
Wish we could meet again
The things we used to fight about
They don’t matter in the end
Never had a chance to say the things I wish we had
Wish you were here, wish you could here
This song for you, Dad

 

Superman Died

Don Adams 2004

We were travelling to southern Ontario to a OCFF music conference, when it was announced that Christopher Reeves had died. I wrote this song that night in a hotel room in Marathon.

Have you heard that Superman died ?
He perished from a massive dose of kryptonite
And he could not move, oh he could not fly
Have you heard that Superman died ?
Lois Lane had to meet the press
They asked if she loved him ? And she said “yes”
When she stopped there wasn’t one dry eye
Have you heard that Superman died ?
Now what are we gonna do ?
Who we gonna run back to ?
Where do we go when we’re all black and blue
And there’s no one to take our part
How is it gonna end ?
Without Superman our friend
He did his best to rise again
But he died of a broken heart
I just heard the news today
And I had to turn my face away
All over the world so many people cried
On the day that superman died
Most of us saw him as plain Clark Kent
But he donned his cape when the alarm was sent
I used to see him streaking across the sky
Have you heard that Superman died ?

All You Can Find

Don and Laurel Adams 2005

Laughing dog clouds in a rubber ball sky
Chasing their tails at play
Sun winking down at the earth floating by
Letting it take me away
I see it all on a morning like this
You say it's all in my mind
Back to a world where dreaming exists
You'd be surprised at all you can find
Dragonfly planes swooping circles in flight
Dandelion parachutes fall
Sunflower soldiers saluting the light
Storming the east garden wall
Green whispered breeze and an apple red kiss
I see it all in my mind
How can you doubt at a moment like this
You'd be surprised at all you can find
Spider web sweater that sparkles with dew
Just like a diamond it shines
Doesn't it seem like they made it for you
Could anything be quite as fine
I see it all on a morning like this
You say it's all in my mind
Back to a world where dreaming exists
You'd be surprised at all you can find
da da da------------------
 

Gravitational Blues

Don Adams 2006

Woke up this morning on the wrong side of bed
Got an ache in my side got a pain in my head
My body feels so old it’s like I’m turnin’ to lead
Gravitational Blues
Been waitin’ all day and I can’t get in
Doorman says you got to come back again
If the door is gonna open oh I don’t know when
Gravitational Blues
Feel myself sinkin’ just like a stone
Stuck in a corner, oh, I’m always alone
Call out for help but there’s nobody home
Got the Gravitational Blues
Been waitin’ so long at the back of the line
By the time it’s my turn I’m gonna run outta time
There’s nothing’ to do for these old bones of mine
Gravitational Blues
Feel myself sinkin’ just like a stone
Stuck in a corner, oh, I’m always alone
Call out for help but there’s nobody home
Got the Gravitational Blues
It’s one step up and two steps back
Nobody here gonna cut you no slack
It hits you so hard like a heart attack
Gravitational -- Unidirectional -- One dimensional
Gravitational Blues

Farm Stories

Introduction

Several years ago, we were preparing for Christmas. The house was a mess as we sorted through decorations and old wrappings of the season. As my wife went through the Christmas ornaments my eyes fell on an old pair of cheap plastic bells that we still put on the tree every year. Those bells probably should have been tossed away a long time ago, but I couldn’t quite bear to part with them. You see, I can remember them being on my family’s Christmas tree fifty years ago on the farm in Oxdrift.

As I looked at the bells, memories of living in the country came rushing back. When we went to set up this website, I realized that this was a place for them. From time to time I’ll try to add more. There is no particular order to these stories. I just jotted them down as I remembered them.

As we rush into the future, sometimes it’s good to stop and think about the past. Too many things I used to believe in have somehow slipped away. I hope I can touch your heart with a few of my memories.

I call them “Farm Stories”.

 

A Day In The Life

Our daily schedule on the farm was pretty busy for all of us. It went something like this.

My Dad and the hired man were up by 5:15 am. After a quick cup of instant coffee they headed for the barn. I was supposed to be up with them but often managed to sneak an extra fifteen minutes or so of sleep. My Mom got up a little later and did a bit of house work and prepared breakfast.

From about 5:30 to 7:15 we did the morning chores, milking, feeding and cleaning. At the end of the milking my Mom came out to help clean the milking equipment. In the winter I usually left to get ready for school. By the time I was washed and changed everyone was in the house and we sat down to a hot breakfast of cereal and usually bacon and eggs.

 

I left after breakfast and drove out to the store with the truck picking up the neighbour girls on the way.( This was several years before I was old enough to get a license ) We caught the bus and continued on to high school in Dryden.

Meanwhile, my Mom and Dad drove to the store and sorted the mail before opening up for business. Mrs Tuckey, who worked at the store, came in shortly after 9:00 a.m. Soon the place was bursting with activity as people came in to get their mail and supplies.

After the morning rush my Mother came home to do the housework and cook lunch for the hired man and also to make any preparations for the evening meal. After lunch she returned to the store and my Dad came home. He generally had a short nap or watched soap operas for an hour or so. Depending on what was happening on the farm he sometimes got involved in afternoon chores or field jobs. He then returned to the store at about 3:30 p.m. or 4:00.

I returned from school at 4:pm. walked home, had a snack and did homework or practiced piano for a while. ( Usually I practiced rock and roll or popular ballads , instead of the classical pieces I was supposed to play ). Then I went out to the barn to help the hired man with the milking and the evening chores.

Shortly after I went out to the barn my Mom came home and prepared supper. She then returned to the store to help my Dad close up. They both returned at about 7:p.m. and by this time we’d finished the chores and we all sat down for supper.

The evenings might be spent watching television, doing homework, playing hockey or doing other recreational activities. But it was generally early to bed.

And that was our day. The store was opened six days a week so Sunday’s were a little less hectic. On Saturday’s, although I was home from school there were always special jobs to do around the farm. The hired man got Sunday off so on that day me and my Dad had to do all the farm work.

Although this was the routine, things changed according to the season. In the summer there was always field work to do. If I was working in the fields my Mom and Dad had to change their schedule so my Dad could do the chores I wasn’t available for. Sick cattle, mechanical breakdowns and other unplanned occurrences also made a difference. There were also periods when we didn’t have a hired man and my Dad and I did all the chores. Many different situations arose.

Looking back, it’s not so much that I disliked farm life. It was just that it was a 365 day operation. For many years after the cattle were gone and the farm lay dormant, I’d jump up in the morning and be partially dressed before I realized I didn’t have to go out to the barn in the morning.

Dog Story

The first dog I had was shipped from out of town on the train. I still remember how excited I was when we picked him up at the station. He was a beautiful golden brown collie. I called him Skippy.
The thing about Collies is they are kind of a one person dog. And this dog didn’t choose me as his master. He chose our hired man, John as his one and only master. Through most of my younger years, that dog lived to be with him. Although Skippy liked me fine, it was really no contest. The really sad thing was that when the dogs health failed years later it was John who had to put him down. It’s the way things were done then. It must have broken his heart.
This story is really about my second dog, Trixie. An old man my dad knew had a pure-bred female collie. He talked my dad into letting her mate with Skippy. We got one of the pups. Trixie was always my dog. Whenever I was in the house she loved to lay her head on my foot so she always knew if I moved. When I played the piano she’d lay underneath the bench and listen attentively. She was my first fan!
She was a nervous dog, anxious when left alone. Many times she would “visit” the store if left alone at the farm. She always chose to run through the ditches and swim the creek instead of walking the road. She’d show up at the store covered in mud from head to toe much to my mother’s disgust.
When she had pups, she was content to be with them as long as we were around, but wanted to leave them alone as soon as we left the barn for the night. You see, she thought she was a person. However she was a good cattle dog, and knew how to work the cows when necessary.
I remember all the hours I spent with that dog! She was always with me, working in the fields, going to bringing the cattle in in the morning and evening.
As she got older, and when the farm was no longer in operation, I took up running. And so did she. We used to run 5 or 6 miles nearly every day up and down the local roads. There was nothing she loved more. The problem was she was getting arthritis and I often had to stop to let her rest. Near the end there were times when I even carried her partway home.

One day I ran along the road that partially bordered the farm. I ran around the corner as she ran about behind me. A car went past me, rounded the corner and I heard a yelp of pain. I ran back and there lay my dog, dying. The driver never even stopped. I cradled her head and soothed her for a few moments until she died. Then I walked home, got a shovel, came back and buried her in the field beside the road.
 

The Hired Man

Throughout most of my farm years we nearly always had a hired man. Most of the time our hired man was John, but I’ll tell you all about him in another story. There were times when my dad and John had a falling out and he quit for a period of time. He always came back sooner or later. In the interim, and later after John got cancer, we had a succession of different hired men, some of them drifters, some just boys a few years older than myself .
A hired man was a strange occupation. In return for a minimum wage of perhaps one hundred dollars a month and room and board, he lived with the family all year round. He usually was given one day off a week, and if he had family locally he might go” home “ for the day. If not, we’d probably take him into town, he’d spend the evening at the “beer parlour” and come back to the farm late at night by hiring a cab. The next day was spent nursing his hangover, and although it was his day off, sometimes by evening he decided to help with the milking, probably out of sheer boredom .
My mom and dad were always pleasant enough on the surface to the hired men. My mom always made sure he had a three good meals a day. If he had to go to town for a doctor or dentist appointment arrangements were made to drive him. But at the heart of it, the relationship was basically employer -employee. My parents usually thought the hired man didn’t work hard or long enough. Add to that their basic disapproval of someone who had spent their lives drifting from job to job. And the hired men never thought my dad paid them enough. So often they did try to get out of work. Sometimes grievances caused the hired man to quit and hire himself out to another farmer eager to pay him minimum wages. And we’d have to get someone else. Such was life .
As for myself, I usually ( not always ) got on well with the hired men . A couple became almost like family. Several were just oddball characters who had travelled all over Canada and were full of interesting stories. In the last years, some were nearly my age with the result that sometimes we went to town to the poolhall or movies together.
I usually heard stories from them my parents never knew about . Sometimes we shared drinks together and they showed me memorabilia from their past. One had a pistol that had to be kept secret ( my parents would never have allowed this forbidden weapon ) . Another had a hi-fi portable record player (something I’d never seen ) and all sorts of weird music. Still another had a beautiful gold flake electric guitar which neither one of us could play a lick on. But we sure tried.
I suppose that having a young boy hanging out with older men of unknown character could have led to problems. I certainly would never allow this with my family now. But in those days, few worried about these kind of things. Perhaps the times have changed. Maybe all the demons have been let loose. And maybe I was just lucky. Anyway, none of these men ever abused me . My memories of the hired men are mostly good. That is not to say there were never arguments. There were even a couple of fistfights!
Mostly, I think of the hired man as a sad, lonely remnant of another time . I remember one of them left an old trunk in our basement. My curiousity eventually got the better of me and I opened it. Inside, on top of the worn out clothes, beside the strong “mothballs” placed to ward off insect damage, were a few photographs and a couple of letters. One letter was from a distant nephew and one was from a girl. They both promised better days and better times ahead. And both ended with a thinly disguised plea for money . To this day, it still saddens me when I think of those two letters so crudely written that a child of ten or eleven could read through them. Because ,you see, that’s all he had.
 

The Store

When I was very young, it was part of my morning routine, to go to the store with my parents when they opened it up in the morning.
A country store, in those days, was a fascinating place, full of bulk candies, nuts, meats, and cheeses, the latest in new foods, and all sorts of exotic knick knacks, that travelling salesmen would sell to my parents.
Supermarkets were not quite established in small towns like Dryden, and so the town was full of a number of smaller stores and corner stores. Most people did not go to town very often, and bought every thing they needed at our store (a co-operative), or from our arch rival Fotheringham’s store. (Sometimes I used to sneak into Fotheringham’s, as they always seemed to have more interesting objects and candies than we did.)
It seems strange now, but at Christmas, some families did their entire Christmas shopping at the store, including toys and clothing for the kids. This was partially because people had a hard time getting around, but mostly because of credit.
When I was young the accepted way to buy groceries at a country store, was to put it on “ the bill”. Nearly everyone had an account book. All items purchased were entered into the book and the farmer walked away with his purchases. As most farmers were interested in purchasing equipment and livestock, paying off “the bill” was not a high priority for them. And there were also many people in the country at that time that had a hard time getting by. So credit for groceries was a godsend. When they did pay , they usually charged more, and got even farther behind.
My Dad loved farming, but he absolutely loved the store. He was a social animal, and loved to talk about farming (and anything else) with all the neighbours. He also liked meeting strangers. Hitch hikers would come into the store and my Dad would feed them meat, cheese ,and bread. People down on their luck might trade something for gas to continue on their way. I got my first set of golf clubs when my Dad traded $5.00 of gas for them.
He usually had about three cigarettes going at a time which he would forget about as they burned out on the various counters.

The Hockey League

When I was a small boy an outdoor hockey rink was built in the community. It had a change room heated with scrap lumber and a pot bellied stove

For the first several years after it was built it was maintained by older boys . These young men in Oxdrift had a hockey team, and challenged Dryden teams to games. They often won these challenges. Our team had a star player who insisted on wearing his pads (and jockstrap) outside his pants.

Eventually, the team fell apart, and the rink fell into a sorry state of repair. This is how me and a few friends got involved.

I had played as a pee wee in a Dryden league, but I wasn’t very good and had a hard time getting to a game anyways, so I had quit playing hockey. One day, a few of us were down at the rink, and came up with the idea of having our own league in Oxdrift.

The next few weeks were busy with anticipation. I started a raffle and sold tickets at the store to raise money for sweaters. We got the school to make the tickets for us. My Dad helped me find a supplier through the store who sold us four sets of sweaters and leggings. Repairs were made to the rink. Teams were chosen.

Each team consisted of ten or eleven boys with great sounding names like “Sharks” or “Wolves” . Gone would be the days when we sat on benches in the Dryden leagues while the town boys played.

The raffle was a success, the sweaters were ordered, and the great day arrived. Sweaters of purple, green, blue, and red were handed out. The Oxdrift hockey league was a reality.

Most of us weren’t very good, and we sure didn’t have much for equipment. But we did have a good time. And we all got to play. If you couldn’t afford skates, you played goal.

I can remember racing down that rink, thinking I was headed for the big time. My skates sometimes actually shot sparks. This wasn’t due to my great skating ability but because our flooding skills were far from perfect, and there were often some areas of the rink where small rocks protruded.

Often after a bad storm the snow was not shoveled over the boards until days later. This infuriated everyone because the puck kept getting lost in the snow. Sometimes there were dark areas where low hanging lights had been shot out that we couldn’t afford to replace. Sometimes, it was so cold that you could only play a few minutes before having to warm up.

We didn’t notice any of this. We were playing hockey!!!

Our little league only lasted a couple of years. The rink again fell into a sorry state.

But one day a revival came.

I was older now and had a driver’s license. At high school, I hung around with a couple of guys from another small community, Eagle River. They in turn, knew some guys from Vermillion Bay, and some from the Aboriginal Reserve. We decided to challenge each other at hockey. I rounded up some of the old players from Oxdrift, and the fun began.

For several years, we would play a game on a Friday evening or a Sunday afternoon. There was no league, and games were either arranged at school, over the phone, or frantically on the bus ride home. I can even remember our team going to a tournament or two.

We could usually hold our own with Eagle, but would get beaten by the Reserve team. They took hockey very seriously, and were just a lot better. Vermillion Bay could also beat us easily, but we seldom played against them.

Our rink continued to deteriorate despite our best efforts. Our next door neighbour, Leo Hrankowski, welded up some goal nets for us. ( we had to use burlap bags to make netting ) There is nothing like firing a blistering slap shot that not only goes past the goalie, but actually goes through the net.

Now I have to tell you about Lornie, Leo’s brother. Lornie had a slap shot which I’m sure rivaled a major leaguer. He was also an adept stick handler.

I can remember him racing down the ice, ignoring everyone’s shouts to pass the puck, and getting past the entire opposing team to break into the clear. Then he’d wind up and…. Nothing . He’d either shoot it twenty feet wide and often into space, or fall miserably in front of the surprised goal tender. I used to tease him about it. He was the same way when we played ball. He pitched a blazing fastball that could tear your glove off, but facing a batter, he would slow down. I think it was because he just didn’t want to hurt anyone.

As time passed the change shack burned down and a new rink was constructed in a different location. I found other pursuits and never really played hockey much after that. But I’ll never forget our “league”.

My Football Jacket

One of the things I disliked about living on the farm was that I could never join some of the extra-curricular activities when I was in high school. I always had to be available for evening chores and I had no means of transportation. At the time I felt a great deal of bitterness towards my classmates as they joined bands and sports teams, and I felt trapped. The situation became a little better once I turned sixteen and obtained my driver’s licence. Now my problem was getting excused from chores and getting the car. In order for me to do this, it meant my parents had to re-arrange their schedule so that my dad could do these chores. Somehow I persevered and was allowed to try out for the Eagle’s football team.
Now when I went to school, football was a glorious thing. The football players were admired, they always seemed to get the girls, and even had special places in the school were they could stand to meet and greet each other. Best of all, they had these creamy leather jackets in the glorious blue and gold colours, complete with stripes and crested with positions and number. If you were lucky enough to have one of these jackets you were in the club. Even the coolest and toughest guys had to acknowledge you. And the girls! Well!
There was a slight problem. I really knew nothing about football and never was very aggressive. I was basically content to live and let live, avoid confrontation, and stay out of trouble. Now I would have to play with and against some of the toughest and meanest boys in school. And pretend to enjoy it!
Well, this was a small price to pay for an escape from those dreaded evening chores. Fortunately, I was six foot, one, weighed 240 pounds and years of hard work had made me quite strong. I’m sure the slightly demented coaches were never very impressed with my attitude, but they made a place for me. I was to play football! I was on the first string offence. It was not for me to endure the agony of sitting on the bench with the despised second stringers who had to suck up to the slightly demented coaches in the vain hope that they would get put into play.
Now when I call the coaches demented, I’m not trying to insult them. I just don’t what else to say. They were usually teachers or former players who gave generously of their time, accompanied us on road trips, and did their best to turn us into a winning team. But they were demented. How else do you explain the punishment drills we had to perform at practice after losing a game. How else do you explain all the complicated plays they taught us, that we never had a hope of remembering, much less, perform successfully. Given our skill level, they should have just told us to hold on the ball and run like hell, hopefully in the right direction.
The weekly routine went something like this. After losing the game on Friday, we had the weekend to lick our wounds. On Monday we had our first practice where punishment drills could be run. One of the favourites was having us run flat out, and then dive face first down to the ground. Since the field was nearly always wet and covered in puddles of water and mud, I think it becomes quite clear what the objective was. I can still see the figure of the coach ordering us to earth with each blow of the whistle and just a faint gleam in his eyes as her surveyed the results. If anyone told me to do something like that now I’d quickly tell them what they could do. Many players did just that and quit the team on the spot. The rest of us bore our grievances silently and dressed for each practice in our wet stinking uniforms which rarely if ever got washed. By the end of the season my practice jersey and pants had literally rotted away.
After that first practice, things settled down as we began our preparations for losing the next game. A class-room meeting was held where our mistakes were logically explained, sometimes with actual game video footage. New plays which we would never perform properly, would be put on the black board and memorized by at least a few of us. Then it was on to practice.
Preparations for the next game continued through the week. Finally the big day arrived. With any luck, it was a road trip and we were excused from classes, boarded a chartered bus, and headed off to another small Northwestern town accompanied by a bus of supporters and fans.
We dressed in our game uniforms and ran out onto the field like champions. We were introduced to the booing crowd. Cheerleaders cheered, horns blared, whistles blew. The opening kick-off fired our adrenalin. We settled down to begin the hard process of losing another game. In truth we didn’t lose every game. We certainly didn’t win many. Since we had to compare ourselves with former champion teams, that had won nearly every game, our efforts seemed small and futile.
The whole game was really kinda boring to play, I can only imagine what it was like to watch. The occasional touch-down was scored, once in a while a pass was completed, but usually play was frozen on a small area of the playing field and the ball kicked back and forth. Scores were usually quite low and often the team with the best kicker was victorious.
My job was to line up against the other boys and run into them each play so that an opening might be achieved for one of our star players to run through. We also tried to hold the others from advancing on the quarterback so he had a chance to pass the ball. Occasionally a grudging compliment might be granted the lineman if her did his job well, but that was about it. By the end of the season I was able to play double duty ( play offensively and defensively). Because so many players had quit or been injured.
The season finally ended and my life returned to normal. Now it was just a matter of time! One morning we were called down to the gym. Our jackets had arrived. All the mud, all the humiliation was now worthwhile. I had my jacket! Instantly I was accorded of some of my lesser classmates. Girls were suddenly interested in me. I was now the equal of the town boys who had long treated me as a country bumpkin.
I wore that jacket with pride, throughout all kinds of weather, for the rest of my high school days. Over time my attitudes and dreams changed, but I still have my jacket. Even today it still hangs in my closet, a memory I cannot quite bear to part with...

The Hill

It doesn’t seem like very much now. Most of the time it didn’t seem like very much to us then either. The road between the store and the farm was about three quarters of a mile long. It is named “Adams Road” in memory of my family’s pioneer days. And on the road, right after crossing the tracks you climbed the hill.

When I was growing up the tires on the cars were not nearly as good as they are now. Front wheel drive did not exist and people didn’t own vehicles with four wheel drive. Sometimes it was several days before roads where plowed after a storm. During these periods the benign hill became a must feared obstacle in our daily lives. If the roads had drifted in, or if it was very slippery, each navigation became a iffy proposition. Questions seeped into our conversations. How was the hill? Did you make it the first time? These were standard queries to everyone who stopped at the store or at the farm during these periods. Suppers were postponed as we waiting to see if the car would return from the store in the evening or finally we’d see the outline of my mom and dad struggling through the snow drifts.

The only way of making the hill in these conditions was by rapidly accelerating before crossing the rail-way tracks and building up enough speed to carry you to the top as the car skidded left and right. Sometimes people going the other way stood by near the top waiting to give you a much needed push for the last crucial several yards. If you failed to make the hill you had to perform the hazardous task of backing all the way down, getting across the tracks, and gunning up to try again. It was usually dark, there were deep ditches if you went off the road, the car was slipping and sliding, and you had to watch and listen for trains! If you tried several times, generally the car was driven back to the store and you had to walk home, usually without the proper outerwear.

There was nothing as disheartening as almost reaching the top and then being forced to back down. But there was nothing like the feeling of “ making it’ especially when others had failed that day. Somehow it meant you were a better driver and that you had prevailed over the hill.



 

 

 

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