Like most nine-year-old boys, I liked to pretend to drive my mother's car when it was parked. (For the record, it was a big old Plymouth Belvedere, which I liked because it had a second set of turn signals mounted on the front fenders, so you could see the signals blink from the driver's seat).
One day I "pretended" a little too well.
Moving the gear shift, as I'd seen my mother do many times, I accidentally put the car into neutral and it (and I) began rolling down the driveway. As I'd seen Fred Flintstone do on TV, I opened the car door and began dragging my left foot.
Well, a nine-year-old's dragging foot was not about to stop a 3,500 pound car, and the Plymouth and I rolled into the front year before stopping.
Hoping my mother wouldn't notice I ran into the house, and nervously waited until, finally, she needed to leave the house to go somewhere.
My hope was in vain. She noticed the car was in the middle of the front yard right away. (Guess she was smarter than I gave her credit for.)
I don't remember my punishment, but I'm sure it was pretty severe. I did learn a couple of things.
Don't move the gearshift lever.
Admit when you've done something wrong.
Introductory physics should be taught in third grade.
And the Parade magazine contest? I lost out to some sappy, maudlin story about how a car that broke down led to a chance meeting and marriage. It was sweet, it was lovey-dovey, it was nauseating.
I thought my combination of stupidity, humor, crime and punishment was a no-brainer.
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