When a memory is this good, you can recall every detail—50 years later
I sat on my knees in the deep back seat of dad’s new 1965 Galaxie 500 with my chin on the rolled-down window sill. I was 5 years old, but I always had a window seat because I got car sick. Dad worked at Ford, so we always drove Fords. “A man supports the man who feeds his family,” dad would say. I opened the glove compartment once and saw the emergency-flasher light switch mounted there and decided (since it read “EMERGENCY”) it was evidently some kind of police flasher and siren. I told myself that dad must be some type of secret agent for Ford Motor Company. He actually was a metallurgist, which I had no idea what that meant, so secret agent was the shortest line between two points. When you’re 5, you can come to conclusions like that … and then ask what’s for lunch.
So, I did.
OK. Dad’s a secret agent. “Are we stopping for lunch?”
“Sure,” my mom said, turning around to smile and look at my two sisters and me. “That’s part of taking a vacation.” Her big cat-eye sunglasses often scared me when she turned around fast. Ah, the sixties.
