Letting My Hair Down by Grandpa Jim

(The title is a joke. To see the humor, you need to look closer at my picture. Even then, it isn't TERRIBLY humorous.)

The thing is, I am running out of tales to tell. In one or two, I've had to go back almost 75 years or so. In many, I've summoned memories of 60 years. Here's my point; in the beginning, I said I did not want this to be just about me and MY memories, but I hoped we would SHARE some recollections. I see myself as a "prompter," one who prompts, prods, or even goads others into doing something. BUT HARDLY ANYBODY IS 'BITING!" OK, so I'll try another.

It was late summer, 1958. Jean, I, and the girls (now 8 and 10) had driven from Bettendorf, Iowa to Charleston, Illinois, where I was to be interviewed for a teaching job at CHS. The job opening read: wanted; speech and English teacher/drama director. I was excited, because I had been patiently waiting for six years for just such an opportunity. How I happened to quit at BHS is too long a story. (I was even out of teaching for 15 months and missing the classroom a lot.)
When the interview was over, the principal informed me that the job was mine, and that was not all that unusual in those days. So, we started out on the five-hour drive to Bettendorf, thinking that we would probably stop for the night, somewhere. (Now, we had a great excuse to do so in celebration, of course.)

Just a few miles out of Charleston, on a black-top, county road, the car slowly quit running and
a glance at the gas gauge told us the bad news. It was five miles in both directions to a gas station, but there was a farmhouse about one half mile away. I walked to the neat, white, inviting structure and found the elderly farmer in the yard. I asked him if I could borrow a can of gas, and would be glad to pay for it. He may have mumbled something, but I didn't really catch it. I followed him out to a tool shed where he got a can, walked to the gas pump, and filled it. Next, he walked to his pick-up truck, and, as he expected, I followed him. On the way back to our car, he said, "Not from around here." I answered, even if it wasn't really a question. "No," I said. "What brings you to these parts?" "I was in Charleston, interviewing for a job."

"Did you get it?" "Sure did." "Doing what?" "Teaching school." "Hmmm, he said. Appears to me that anybody smart enough to be a teacher oughta be smart enough to look at a gas gauge."

The man wouldn't take any money for the gas. He had found another way to collect a toll.