I'd got my first ticket when I was 9, we were just outside of the Haynesville woods, in upper Maine, my Dad was asleep in the back of the station wagon, (does anyone still make them) with the back seat folded down, the officer didn't see any driver, and pulled us over. I had a panic attack yelling at my Dad that the police was behind me. My Dad actually was the one that got the ticket, but I was driving, lol.
That was also when I first rode a motorcycle, an old Indian. It was 1957, there was still fear and respect for the law, and, at the same time, a rebellious nature. Korea was over with, helmets weren't much in the protection department, and rarely worn. We all drooled over Annette, on the only color television in the neighborhood. If the neighbor's Mom had to clobber us, you can bet you would get it again when you got home. We would jump our bikes, that we bought and paid for with soda bottles, and walked to the store about 2 1/2 miles from the house to return them, and never considered asking Ma to give us a ride. Someone mentioned having their 22's on their handlebars, we were never accused of being terrorists, if anyone said anything at all, it was be careful, son. We would sometimes go camping with Jim in his Model A pickup that he'd been paid to haul off, he'd pick us up, we would bring our rifles, fishing rods, and sleeping bags, along with some just in case food. Eric, my cousin, was 364 days older than me, he'd bring the matches, his sleeping bag, and his trumpet, I learned to love "Midnight in Moscow" on that horn, as well as many other classic and jazz music, and never thought it was strange to like "homemade" music. We could get a box of 22 LR at the hardware store for a quarter, about 13 soda bottles, and we would walk that 2 1/2 miles, after rounding up those 13 bottles from the neighbors.
Why don't we get back to those days.
Doc