The '39, still in its beige raiment, standing in front of the rented house at 7610 South LaSalle. This is duriing WWII. Later on my Mom made a bad left turn off Jefferson, and got hit in the right side. I was in the back seat, no damage. For a few weeks the front and rear doors were tied closed by rope on their outside handles. Dad had always wanted a yellow car, and when the Buick came home from the body shop... guess what?

Dad was really proud of this car. It did work good. I remember it with a "B" sticker in the windshield, meaning we had some priority for gasoline and tires. Dad was in the Navy and important to the war effort. Not important enough to get a new muffler: I can remember his repairing it with a split-open tin can and baling wire, once every three months or so, until well after the War.

Some time along here I was sitting alone in the car, outside a market near Jefferson and Normandie, South Central L.A. A man came to the window of the car, and asked if he could have a ride, he needed to go to a hospital and get his stitches removed. He had a dozen or so on his chin, which was unshaven. He looked to be a "bum," as the homeless were called. I said I could not commit, it was my mom that was in charge of transportation. She was in the market.

The man said his name, expecting I would know it. He said it again, and that he was a major league baseball player. He asked if it would be OK to ask her for a ride when she came out, and I said Sure, but he staggered off down the street.

When I told my Dad, he knew who the man was, and could tell about him. I don't remember the man's name.

 

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