Someone I admire recently gave me the nudge I needed to follow through with this plan, which had been in my head for the last couple of months, to start capturing family stories.

Thanks, Stephanie H.

I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with my almost 90 year-old father-in-law, Jim, since last month, asking him to tell me his stories. Anyone who knows this man knows that he loves to tell stories (and talk political conspiracies) about his life growing up in Mexico.

Mexico, Missouri that is.

Here’s a little tale Jim told me recently.

Jim and his friend, Jimmy, purchased an old Model A together back around 1950. My MIL, Alice, commented, as he was telling this story, “you know there was going to be trouble when you had two ‘Jimmys'”. They’d drive it to school (they were about 16 at the time), then Jimmy would drive it to his after school job and our Jim would walk to the body shop where he worked after school. Then, when his work was done, Jimmy’s sister would pick Jim up in that Model A and drive him home.

Jim said that one night, he took the Model A out for a drive on his own. It was dark inside the vehicle (no inside lights in cars at that time), so Jim didn’t see that the gas tank was leaking. Fuel pumps had yet to be invented, so the gas tank was actually inside the vehicle, on the dashboard. It had to be higher up than the engine under the hood, so that gravity could allow the gas to get into the engine.

Jim drove it a ways down the road, and when he shifted it into a higher gear, it backfired and flames erupted inside. He said he “bailed out”, thankful that he had just installed a handle inside the door, and then watched, while he was on fire himself, the Model A careen down the road, fully ablaze. He thought to himself “now I’m going to have to leave town” because he was certain that the car was going to drive itself into town and set the whole place on fire. Fortunately, the Model A crashed into a ditch before that could happen.

As Jim was flailing about after bailing out of the Model A, there was what he called a “tramp or a hobo” walking along who quickly threw off his coat and covered Jim with it to extinguish the flames.

This could be known as the story where we all thank that unhoused person for saving Jim’s life. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have met Alice or fathered 3 kids. I wouldn’t have met Mr. NOA and we wouldn’t have our kids together. Our grandson wouldn’t exist.

So, thanks “Mr. Hobo”, and Merry Christmas to you, wherever you are.