I don’t have a short memory

And I hope this helps me with raising our children.

Case in point, when I was seventeen or eighteen years old I had a 1979 Corvette to drive. I didn’t own it. My dad did, but he encouraged me to drive it. He had a short memory about a great many things, but he didn’t forget what it was like to be a teenager with a cool car.

I drove this car to the bank on Main Street in Newmarket. The branch of National Trust isn’t there anymore – I think it’s a shop for skater clothes and accessories – but when it was there, patrons had a habit of parking on the road in front of the bank, going in, getting their money, and getting back out again. Remember, there was a time and a place where we didn’t all have bank cards to take out our money.

So as I am at a wicket getting money, the very attractive tellers asks, “Is that your car?”
“Yes, it is,” I smiled. “It’s a 1979 Corvette.”
“Well, then,” she continued, handing me my money. “You’d better make sure that cop outside gets it right. He’s writing you a parking ticket.”

I want our boy to have the same kinds of memories.

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