rburg
Member
The old time 1950s TV show thing got me to thinkin'. I know, its dangerous but I haven't thought of this incident in decades.
I had this relative we called uncle Mel. He was really one of my Dad's cousins, but he was somebody's uncle. He was a good guy (now deceased). He could hit a baseball farther than anyone I'd ever seen, including my infrequent trips to the NL games. When I was kid and playing outfield, he'd start for the plate and I'd start running in center field, all the way to the tree line. He was a hero.
And he went to WWII, and managed to survive the Battle of the Bulge. Wouldn't talk about it, but he hated snow in winter. Go figure.
Anyway, back to the highway patrol thing. For some reason he was up in PA and crossed over into Ohio. He was on the Ohio Turnpike. Back in those days they gave you a card at the toll booth, and then you paid up when you hit Indiana or got off the road. It also had a time stamp and a 60 mph speed limit.
Mel was an Pontiac man. He got a new V8 Poncho in about 1958 (actually he got one each year.) So his driving style was pretty much "put'er to the floor and head out". So He was cruisin' along, not lettin' any grass grow under the car, but he had his one son and wife with him, and they were hungry. So they stopped at an eatin' place up on the road. You didn't have to get off to pay a toll and eat. So the way they told the story, the service was slow but they got their food and ate it. Everyone went to the bathroom and they headed out again. But the car was thirsty too, so they got fuel.
When they got to the toll booth, the guy clicked the time stamp and told him if he'd been a few minutes earlier, he'd have a ticket for goin' too fast. It was one of his favorite stories, how they wasted maybe an hour and a half and still averaged over the speed limit.
Thinkin' back, the story always got told when someone wanted to know how is 3 duces V8 ran.
Ole Mel also was the know'er of all things important. For as far back as I can remember (I'm still a young'un at 64) my dad had a Winchester M12. One day, not very long before Mel passed away, I asked him what dad hunted with before he got the Winchester (we still have the receipt for it from 1950.)
Mel had this high pitched giggle or laugh, kind of out of place for a guy that big. He said it was a junk old single shot. One that might go off and it might not. He said he and dad were out in the back field huntin' bunnies and he missed an easy one. The darn shotgun just didn't go off when he pulled the trigger. Maybe the 3rd time that day, too. And he took a lot of ribbin' over sticking with the semi-functional shotgun.
So's the next Saturday they were goin' huntin' again. They got all dressed for it (boots and coat) and headed out. But instead of the old gun, Dad had a brand spankin' new Winchester M12. At the time pretty much universally agreed the best huntin' shotgun on the market. To the best of my knowledge, he never had a failure to fire from then till dad died 30 years later. The old Winchester went from dad to me to my oldest son. We sure spent a lot of autumn afternoons hunting together with that gun.
And it kind of broke the old man's heart when it was time for me to buy a pump gun. I went with a Remington instead of a Winchester. Then I even disgusted him more in 1974 when I dumped the stupid Remington and bought a Browning double. He did concede that I was making a lot more kills with it than the pump. He used to make fun of me for missing. That all ended when I learned to shoot the double. He told me I spoilt all his fun when I bought a gun I could hit with.
Its odd what a diseased mind thinks about these days!
I had this relative we called uncle Mel. He was really one of my Dad's cousins, but he was somebody's uncle. He was a good guy (now deceased). He could hit a baseball farther than anyone I'd ever seen, including my infrequent trips to the NL games. When I was kid and playing outfield, he'd start for the plate and I'd start running in center field, all the way to the tree line. He was a hero.
And he went to WWII, and managed to survive the Battle of the Bulge. Wouldn't talk about it, but he hated snow in winter. Go figure.
Anyway, back to the highway patrol thing. For some reason he was up in PA and crossed over into Ohio. He was on the Ohio Turnpike. Back in those days they gave you a card at the toll booth, and then you paid up when you hit Indiana or got off the road. It also had a time stamp and a 60 mph speed limit.
Mel was an Pontiac man. He got a new V8 Poncho in about 1958 (actually he got one each year.) So his driving style was pretty much "put'er to the floor and head out". So He was cruisin' along, not lettin' any grass grow under the car, but he had his one son and wife with him, and they were hungry. So they stopped at an eatin' place up on the road. You didn't have to get off to pay a toll and eat. So the way they told the story, the service was slow but they got their food and ate it. Everyone went to the bathroom and they headed out again. But the car was thirsty too, so they got fuel.
When they got to the toll booth, the guy clicked the time stamp and told him if he'd been a few minutes earlier, he'd have a ticket for goin' too fast. It was one of his favorite stories, how they wasted maybe an hour and a half and still averaged over the speed limit.
Thinkin' back, the story always got told when someone wanted to know how is 3 duces V8 ran.
Ole Mel also was the know'er of all things important. For as far back as I can remember (I'm still a young'un at 64) my dad had a Winchester M12. One day, not very long before Mel passed away, I asked him what dad hunted with before he got the Winchester (we still have the receipt for it from 1950.)
Mel had this high pitched giggle or laugh, kind of out of place for a guy that big. He said it was a junk old single shot. One that might go off and it might not. He said he and dad were out in the back field huntin' bunnies and he missed an easy one. The darn shotgun just didn't go off when he pulled the trigger. Maybe the 3rd time that day, too. And he took a lot of ribbin' over sticking with the semi-functional shotgun.
So's the next Saturday they were goin' huntin' again. They got all dressed for it (boots and coat) and headed out. But instead of the old gun, Dad had a brand spankin' new Winchester M12. At the time pretty much universally agreed the best huntin' shotgun on the market. To the best of my knowledge, he never had a failure to fire from then till dad died 30 years later. The old Winchester went from dad to me to my oldest son. We sure spent a lot of autumn afternoons hunting together with that gun.
And it kind of broke the old man's heart when it was time for me to buy a pump gun. I went with a Remington instead of a Winchester. Then I even disgusted him more in 1974 when I dumped the stupid Remington and bought a Browning double. He did concede that I was making a lot more kills with it than the pump. He used to make fun of me for missing. That all ended when I learned to shoot the double. He told me I spoilt all his fun when I bought a gun I could hit with.
Its odd what a diseased mind thinks about these days!
