My first car was actually a truck, a bright yellow 1953 International Harvester pickup that my father bought for me when I was a senior in high school. It had belonged to the custodian at the high school who committed suicide. It was rumored that he killed himself on the baseball field because he was tired of getting the field ready for the games. The truck was somewhat “tainted” so my dad got a good deal for $300. I had to pay for getting the truck painted and fixed up. I was working for my uncle at the time who owned a car dealership in town. I was the car washer. His body shop guy “volunteered” to paint the truck for me on a Saturday if I provided him with the paint and two six packs of Budweiser. He did a great job painting the truck blue, my favorite color, but after awhile was to drunk to go on; but most of the truck looked great except for the part he couldn’t get to. About the only passengers that I got to ride with me that year were my sister Marilyn and her friend Paula. They didn’t care about a “tainted” truck they wanted a ride to school...