Tag: Donna Joy Hyland

You Parked Where?!

My wife, Donna Joy Hyland, and I began dating in 1959, when we were seniors at Garinger High School in Charlotte.  Sometimes –OK, pretty often– we parked on some quiet residential street after the movie, held hands, and counted stars.

Our senior year, 1960.
Our senior year, 1960.

Sometimes we dated in a 1951 Plymouth named “Suzie” that Dad drove back and forth to work. Sometimes we went out in her car, a heavier than lead ’49 Chevrolet she called the “Gray Ghost.”

One evening, after we had finished counting, her car wouldn’t start.

This was a problem, not because we were so far from her house —  we were only a mile, mile and a half away. It was a problem because of where we were parked. How was I going to explain that to her father, who had greeted me after one date holding a shotgun — Donna said he was just teasing.

The "Grey Ghost" looked like this '49 Chevy, but not nearly so shiny.
The “Grey Ghost” looked like this ’49 Chevy, but not nearly so shiny.

What I had to do, I decided, was push the “Gray Ghost” to a commercial area.

So I started pushing. Donna steered.

When we finally got to The Plaza, I thought, heck fire, why not push it on across Independence Boulevard?

And I did. And, by then, we were only two blocks from her street, Chesterfield Avenue.  And from there it was downhill most of the way. So I pushed her car all the way back home.

No explanation required.

Coming Monday: Jail Party

Here, Take My Blackjack

Dad did not help the seven kids he had by my mother with their homework, or show them how build a go-cart, or take them fishing. He was not that kind of father. However, he did try to be helpful when he could.

One of my older brothers, Pop, told me that when he was a teenager he got the daylights beaten out of him by a guy who was 20 or 21 years old — they were fighting over a young lady.

Blackjack
Blackjack

Like any good Dad should, Pop said our father offered to whip the guy himself, since he considered him old enough to be a grown man.

But Pop said he would take care of it.

Dad offered Pop his blackjack, just to even things up a little.

But Pop said, “No.”

Well at least take my brass knuckles, our father said.

Postscript: Pop told me he won the rematch, fair and square, with just his fists.

Dad’s Fighting Rules

  • If the boy is smaller than you are, try to get out of fighting him if you can do it gracefully.
  • If he’s your size, fight fair.
  • If he’s bigger than you are, anything goes: get behind him and hit him in the head with a 2 x 4 if you can.
  • But you must not hit a girl under any circumstance. Hitting a girl is unmanly.

NOTE: One day before we got married, out of the clear blue sky, Donna Joy Hyland told me, “You’re not going to hit me but one time.”  I’d given her no reason to say anything like that. I guess she just wanted no misunderstanding on that point.

Coming Monday: Oh, No! Broke Down in Hog Country