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Give me the “Good Old Days.” Like when we rode a bike without holding onto the handlebars.

In junior high school, the boy next to me sounded like Franki Valli singing “Big Girls Don’t Cry” on one hand, and in a New York minute, he is singing like Barry White in a baritone voice as he he is going through puberty. And, he is wearing his thin licorice-stick tie. And now, his strategies would be having 6-pack abs, but honey, these 6-packs seemed to look like 5-gallon drums. Ha ha.

I remember Driver’s Ed, where I was told I could not drive until I had lessons. Then when it was my turn to drive, you put the manual transmission into first gear, failing to give it gas, and the car turned into a bucking bronco. My sister, Carol, sat in the back seat ready to throw up, so I had to open the windows to let in the fresh air. The instructor wondered if I had driven this car before.

My girlfriend, Teresa, owned a VW Bug, you know, the one with the engine in the trunk, but she did not have to mortgage her parents’ house to buy gas for it.

Dad always said it’s what is under the hood that counts, and cars are useless without working motors. It had that, and it did not matter if it had rust on the fenders and cracks in the windshield and that the heater only worked in the summertime. I confess it is the parts, not the paint job, that matters. Only I know we had fun.

Bring on those “Good Old Days.”

Gloria Birchell

Westerly

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