I was about nine when Mother suddenly announced that it was time the three of us should go for a visit with our father. We were all surprised, since there had been no previous mention of going,but there was also a bit of curiosity about these people we knew so little about. There was excitement mixed with apprehension for all of us, because this would be the first time any of us had been away from Mother.
So the plans were made and eventually we were sitting in the front room, looking out the window, waiting for our father's automobile to appear, which in itself was an experience, since up to this time, the only automobiles we had ridden in, had been taxi cabs. To realize that our own father owned an automobile was impressive.
The feeling was somewhat diminished, when there suddenly appeared at the curb, a noisy, banged-up old pick-up truck, spewing blue smoke from the exhaust. I hadn't much to compare it to, so to me it was still going to be an acceptable mode of transport.
We all ran to Mother to exchange good-bye kisses, and strangely, she didn't seem too sad at our leaving,but rather, impatient to get us out the door.
So without much of a greeting from our father, we were led to the truck, where he directed my sisters to get in the cab, and lifted me and placed me in the back of the truck, with an admonition to hang on tight, and while I was still looking for something to hang onto,we began the first journey of our lives.The farthest from home I had ever been, was to the edge of town, on the banks of Paint Creek, which was about four blocks from home.
Paint Street ended at the bridge over the creek, and although I had been tempted to cross over at times, I never had. So here I was looking backward from the bed of the truck, watching the bridge pass away!