Sometime in the early 70’s before I learned to drive, my father got him a white 1964 Cutlass F-85 convertible with red interior. That car had a big engine with a four barrel high compression carburetor. The speedometer had a top speed on it of 220 miles per hour. I got my first speeding ticket in this car. Once when my dad was on a trip to Dallas, TX a bunch of kids hot wired it and took it for a joy ride. The police clocked it at 175 mph on the Central Expressway. It was able to do that even though it needed an engine overhaul.

Years later when my younger sister was sixteen, she liked riding around in that car with the top down. Many times she was out driving it without permission.

One day as I was eating and about to go to work at the radio station where I was a DJ. She came in crying. She and I were the only ones home. Before I could ask what was wrong, she started blubbering about the convertible. She wasn’t exactly making sense. But it was obvious that she had done something to dad’s favorite car.

Having no idea what I could do to help, I went out to see what she had done to the car. I went out the front door and at first look, I saw nothing wrong. She was standing right beside me with her hands up to her face like she was afraid for her life. This is when she said in a mumble that it was the door on the other side.

So I went around and took a look. There wasn’t a scratch, dent or anything to indicate that anything had happened. I looked up at my sister with a bewildered look and she went into this big ‘I got you’ grin. Then when I tried to give her the ‘you are in big trouble’ look, but she just laughed and laughed. Then she curtsied and ran inside.