Gravel in the Gas Tank Kid

Here's the culprit at about the age he dumped the rocks and gravel in my gas tank. Don't these look like mug shots?! Yep. He's even wearing stripes! Just like mug shots!

Each of us (those from the first decade of our parents' marriage that is) learned to drive on a red 1951 Chevy 2-door coupe. (Hmmm...I don't have a scanned photo of it. I'll have to go through Mama's photos again.)

Yeppers. I can still drive a standard without power anything or turn signals even! The gas gauge didn't work, but we each learned in our own sweet time how to manage. I watched the mileage. After the appropriate number of miles added to the odometer, I stopped at the gas station only to find out that it wouldn't hold but about 50 cents worth of gas before the nozzle cut off. When I got home, I asked Junior if he put gas in my car without telling me. I got the "Are you crazy?" look. That's what I figured, so I decided Daddy must've filled it up last time he was home. (He was a truck driver.)

I found out that 50 cents worth of gas didn't get you very far...even when gas was still cheap. I ran out of gas. Thank God that it was broad daylight and within a mile or so of the house. I walked home. (I waitressed at a hamburger joint in town and was so glad I didn't run out of gass at midnight. Spooooky old road!)

Junior checked the car out and found an obstruction in the filler tube. He dropped the gas tank. The best part of the whole deal was that the BRAT did not put sand in my tank so the engine wasn't ruined. The rocks were large enough that they lodged in the filler tube. No. The gas tank wasn't full of rocks. Another thing that saved the BRAT from instantanious death from his older brother and sister. Especially by the hands of the brother doing the work.

Junior and I waited with glee. When Daddy got home! Just wait you little BRAT!

Did he ever lie!!! Lemme tell ya!

"Son. Did you put rocks in your sister's car?"
"No, Daddy."
"Yes he did!"
"Beat him!"
"I'll ask you again, son. Did you put rocks in your sister's car?"
"No, Daddy."
"HE'S LYING!"
"BEAT HIM!"
"Son, if you tell me the truth, I won't whip you."
"I did it."
"Don't ever do it again, son."
"WHAT? Do you realize how long I worked on that car? BEAT HIM!"
"WHAT? I could've run out of gas in Longview! And had to walk home (45 miles). BEAT HIM!"
"No, he told me the truth."
In unison, "AFTER HE LIED TWENTY TIMES!"

The photo strip is Mama's documentation of his self-haircut.

Yeah, I agree. Mug shots!