Father motions her behind the steering wheel. We’re on the field he graded with a landing strip in mind, so where’s the harm?
All tagged car
Father motions her behind the steering wheel. We’re on the field he graded with a landing strip in mind, so where’s the harm?
I was sitting in the car when the phone rang. The caller I.D. made me pick up.
Desperate, I tell Alexa, “Play some music.” Truth Hurts by Lizzo comes on.
I waved, said “Sorry,” smiled out the window, and that’s when I noticed the words he was screaming.
Like every sedan back then, the Fleet had a closed-in trunk. We decided to put it to good use.
Climbing trees, skinning knees, falling off bikes, go-carting down hills, building things, breaking things, getting lost in the woods, and floating down rapids—everything was fair game until that time my brother and I tried a physics experiment.
As a goof on a sweltering day in August ’73, my cousin Aldo tried to fry an egg on his brother Rocco’s beloved ’66 Mustang GT. It wasn’t hot enough; uncooked egg oozed over the Mustang’s candy-apple-red lacquer.
The A-Go-Go, a huge air hangar in the Dennis woods, has a dance Saturday and unbelievably, Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs are playing. My parents checked out the grounds once and saw a pair of underpants. Crime site.