Anyway, getting on with my story, I had this Ford touring car and I wanted to see the ocean. It was only 350 miles to the Gulf, and it would take about four gallons of gas for each 100 miles— and gas was 9 cents a gallon—add two quarts of oil at 10 cents a quart—total one way only $1.50. My goodness, I could drive down there and back and eat a week on five dollars. No problem, I had $11 in my pocket. With that kind of money I could rent a cabin and have money left over for a few movie tickets at 15 cents each.
So, a day-and-a-half later I was standing there on the beach looking at that big body of water with that little body of a girl swimming in it. We had a wonderful time for a week, and my financial estimate turned out to be almost correct. To get back to Hamlin, I only needed $1 more than I had. And that was on account of the girl's little brother. I hadn't figured there would be three of us so much of the time. But I soon learned that the third party could add up to an extra dollar in just a few days, as well as taking away a lot of the pleasure I had planned.
And so, that was another time I started home on just a little money. I knew that the girl or her father would have been glad to lend me a dollar. But I wasn't about to let them know I was that near broke. I was a big boy, an independent man, out on my own. At least that's the way I wanted it to look to them. But to me it looked altogether different.
I had $1.20 in my pocket when I headed out for Hamlin. But I wasn't afraid; there was no anxiety. I had been in tight spots before. There was not even any hurry. I stopped along the road to pick up hitch-hikers. One fellow I picked up was heading for a ranch somewhere near Mason. He rode with me a long way. His home was about six miles off the highway in wild country, and it was a hot day. I told him my money situation and he told me how he hated the thought of having to walk six miles on a hot day carrying a suitcase. I offered to drive him home for a dollar. It was a deal. I drove him right up to his house, he paid me the dollar, and I sailed right on into Hamlin without any trouble.
I think a lot of my self-confidence came from reading the Bible and one other little book. After we moved to Hamlin, someone gave me a set of little leather-backed books. They were so small four of them would fit in my shirt pocket, maybe even five or six. One was titled "As A Man Thinketh." It was my favorite. I read it through many times and kept it long after the others had disappeared one by one. It was rich food for thought and it strengthened my trust in me and in my fellow man. Its teachings helped me over many a rough spot. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, whatever the circumstances, its philosophy made me unafraid. And being unafraid, I would tackle most anything.
For instance, there was a kid in Hamlin who had an old motorcycle he couldn't get to run. For some reason he thought I might be able to make it run, so he brought it to me to piddle with. It didn't take long for me to get the motor running. But I should have looked it over better before I tried to ride it. It proved to be quite a wreck and it had certain parts which were ready to come apart from other parts which were supposed to stay connected together.
After I started the machine, I took it out on main street and headed toward down-town Hamlin. It was going pretty good when I discovered the throttle wire had broken and the throttle insisted on remaining wide open. I tried to cut off the gasoline at the carburetor, but it was too hot to handle. By this time I was a lot closer to town than I meant to be and was traveling a lot faster than I wanted to be. I couldn't switch the thing off because it had no switch. It usually died when I closed the throttle, but this time I couldn't close the throttle.
What should I do? I could jump off and let the thing go. But then there was a good chance the machine would suffer great damage. I was certain I would suffer, and I didn't like the idea of looking at my own blood. Nor would I enjoy hurting here and there all over my body.
Quickly I thought about what made the thing go, gasoline and spark. The gasoline was beyond my control. The spark—let's see- -can't get to the spark plug wires, but I can get to the magneto. Two clips held the back end of the magneto on. Did I dare try to steer the thing with one hand at the speed I was going, while I leaned over and tried to take the mag apart with my other hand? Why not try it? If I fall, so what? I was going to fall anyway. And I just might succeed. It was my only hope, I had to succeed. So I did it. I took the mag apart and it stopped. And that's the way this motorcycle story ended, just one city block short of down-town Hamlin.
A few years later I bought myself a good used motorcycle. It was an Indian Scout and it proved to be the best little machine I could ever hope to own. It could do everything but cook. We kids had a lot of fun riding it all over Hamlin. On the paved street I had as many as six of us on it at once, one on the handle bars, two on the gas tank, me on the seat and two on behind. Sure I was in the driver's seat; it was mine wasn't it?