At about the age of four, when we lived at 1728 Engle Avenue, Norfolk County, Virginia (now the City of Chesapeake), I would walk to the end of the road closest to Military Highway and wait for Daddy to come home from work. At that corner was a little convenience grocery store run by Mr. Hendricks, a neighbor on the street. Daddy dubbed the store "Hinky-Dinks," and we called Mr. Hendricks, Hinky-Dink. So I'd usually go into Hinky-Dinks and get a Brownie soda pop and wait for Daddy's car to turn off the highway onto our narrow lane, and he'd stop and pick me up and let me drive--well, steer, I guess I should say. I'd stand between his legs on the seat and put my hands on the large steering wheel and "drive" home. It was such fun, and he'd always say, "When you get old enough to drive, I'll buy you a car."

So good at steering was I that when my maternal grandfather, Harry C. Higgerson, was losing his sight due to age and cataracts, I'd sit in his lap and drive for him as he operated the accelerator and brakes. Since Grandma, Grandpa, and Margie lived in a rural area, we never were seen by any authorities.

By the time I was eight years old, we'd moved to a larger house on Bay Island in Virginia Beach, and I was past the age of wanting to meet Daddy at the end of the road. Before long, I turned 15 and eight months, old enough to obtain a learner's permit, and I drove a lot with Momma, Daddy, and Grandpa in the car with me. Sometimes I'd even drive without someone, which was courting trouble, but I was fortunate and never was caught or had an accident. Truly, I was a good driver as I'd been "driving" since age four!

By the time I was a teenager, Mom had a 1964 automatic Oldsmobile 442 Cutlass Supreme in pale yellow with black interior, and it was a "cool" car. The thing was so powerful, it idled at 35. You had to keep your foot on the brake to keep it from taking off, similar to holding the reins of a horse back to keep it from bolting. The 442 is the car I learned to drive in. I was so short, my feet wouldn't reach the accelerator very well, so Daddy brought me a chunk of wood about the length of my foot and the accelerator and wrapped black Duct tape around the accelerator to hold the wooden block on so I could reach the accelerator to drive. It worked well and remained there for many years.

My half-brother used to take Momma's car--the 442--and drag-race it, unbeknownst to Momma. The Five-Mile Stretch (now Princess Anne Road near the courthouse) and a race track near Pungo were venues he frequented. Once he brought Momma's car back damaged and never said a word until she went outside to go somewhere, and there sat the wrecked car. She was shocked and pretty ticked.

            Here's Mom's Olds 442--the muscle car-- with me wearing hotpants!                      

Daddy bought D.Y. (my half-brother) a used Plymouth from the late '50s or early '60s. I remember that it was a caramel color with white trim, had large "wings" on the back, and had a push-button transmission. D.Y. never really liked it, and as soon as he could, in the '60s, he traded it for a new Chevrolet Chevelle, which had a five- or six-speed standard transmission. Since D.Y. drove a truck to and from work, he left his car at home all day; consequently, he'd sometimes allow me to drive his car to school. I felt really cool driving his car! It was a standard shift and didn't have power steering; therefore, it was hard to drive. Apparently, my feet reached the accelerator, brakes, and clutch okay, but I can recall that whenever I turned a sharp curve, I had to pull so hard on the steering wheel that it pulled me out of the seat. While I felt "cool" driving his car, I never truly liked it. Seems I recall now that D.Y. wrecked his Chevelle, probably drag-racing!

Here's D.Y. with his old car wearing the en-vogue madras pants of the 1960s. He sure was a cool cat back then!

Finally, at age 18, I'd let Daddy get by without buying me a car for several years, so I held his feet to the fire saying, "You always told me you were going to buy me a car when I could drive, and I've now been driving two years" which was undeniable, "so when are you going to buy me one?" He agreed and went with me one day to a Ford dealer and purchased my first car, a brand-new beige 1970 Ford Pinto hatchback. My maternal grandfather, Harry C. Higgerson, called it a "cracker box." And at that time, it was small. Compared to today's cars (2011), it probably would look perfectly normal.

Many years later, I read about Ford Pintos catching on fire if rear-ended. Fortunately, I never had an accident in that car and hope no one else did either. The Oldsmobile 442 and the Ford Pinto were subsequently traded in on newer models.

  Here is my 1970 Ford Pinto sitting at Grandma and Grandpa Higgerson's backyard by the back door and clothesline on Centerville Turnpike South in Chesapeake, VA.