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My Father's 40 years in Sarasota were filled with public service and civic pride. In 1945 the city voters changed from a city council with an elected mayor to a city commission with a paid city manager form of government. Being popular and well thought of, my Dad was elected to our first city commission.

I came home after school one afternoon and found him on the bathroom floor on his hands and knees where the toilet and water tank should have been. I said, "Daddy what are you doing?" He replied "The toilet backed up and I'm trying to unclog the drain pipe."  "Why didn't you call a plumber?" I asked. "Son", he said, only slightly agitated, "I called several plumbers, but none of them would come, not even one of my fellow Rotarians."

He went on to tell me that he also could not get any local carpenter or electrician to do any jobs for us. In early 1946 the Federal Government was constructing houses and apartments at Florasota Gardens on Wood Street, to alleviate the post-war housing shortage.

Low bidder was a Tampa based contractor who brought Tampa based tradesmen with him on chartered busses. The locals insisted that the City Commissioners fight the U.S. Government or suffer the consequences.

Moral of the story?  Illegitimi non carborundum.  Life was/is good.

In the late 1990s a customer of ours came into our shop with an old Bobby Jones Golf Club score card.  At the time Pete was out on a lock-job so Mr. M. explained to me that he figured if anyone in this town could date this card he was sure Pete could.  He also told me to tell Pete not to bother with the library because he's already exhausted all of their resources.

Within 15 minutes of his return to the shop, Pete called Mr. M. with the year of the card, 1952.  The score card had an advertisement from Williams Stationery stating that they had served Sarasota for 28 years.  Pete then looked in some old Sarasota High School Sailor's Logs for the advertisements in the back of the books and came upon an ad for Williams Stationery in the 1952 annual stating it had served Sarasota for 28 years.  Mystery solved.  Life is good.

In 1947, to reward ourselves for restoration of Charlie Parker's 1931 Model A Ford, we decided on a motoring excursion to Silver Springs up near Ocala.

We performed a pre-flight check as though we were going in a Piper Super Cub, not a restored deluxe land cruiser (well, deluxe for 1931).

All of a sudden, along about Zephyrhills, spit, spit, sputter, sputter, the engine died.  Gadzooks! We can't be out of gas, the gauge says "full". The gas tank on a Model A is right in front of the windshield and the gauge displays through a small glass covered opening in the dashboard. The indicator is on one end of a stiff wire, on a pivot, with a floating cork on the other end.

One of the last things we had done, two days before our trip, was to give the cork a good coat of shellac to enhance its buoyancy. Then we filled the gas tank which caused the float cork to stick to the top of the tank. Indeed, the gas tank was empty. Fortunately, in 1947, it was okay for good Samaritans to give stranded motorists a tow in to town. Life was/is good.

On a January night in 1975 we were on a friend's ranch out east of I-75 when our son, Ken, and our friend's son went riding their horses around the ranch and came upon two men illegally hunting on their property.  The owner's son asked them to leave and when they refused the two 14 year olds turned their horses around to head back to report to us.  At that point one of the men shot at the boys, and since Ken was last he and his horse got the bird-shot.  They raced back to where we were setting up a picnic, hollering that Ken had been shot.  It's amazing what you can do when the adrenaline is pumping.  Somehow Pete managed to get Ken over the fence and into a car.  I realized that his injuries were not life threatening but our friend's wife drove Ken and me to Sarasota Memorial Hospital while the two Dads went looking for the perpetrators.  Fortunately they had done their dirty deed and left.  I don't know what Pete would have done if he'd found them.

At the hospital, our family physician was called and he ordered x-rays.   Fortunately Ken's boots caught several bird-shot but he sustained several shots in his left leg and his rump. His horse got several in her rump also.  While we waited for the x-rays to be developed, Ken asked me what I thought the doctor was going to do.  I told him I figured the doctor would order Neosporin and Band-Aids on each site.

When the doctor arrived and read the x-rays he came into the examining room followed by some students or interns.  He reported to all of us the findings that the bird-shot was fairly deeply embedded in muscle tissue and he then posed a question to the group: "What do you think we should do about this situation?"  The students/interns remained mute but Ken, laying on the gurney raised his hand and when the doctor acknowledged him, his response was: "How about putting Neosporin and Band-Aids on all of them?"  The students all started  snickering but the doctor quickly silenced them when he agreed with Ken stating that in order to extract them, it would tear up too much muscle and that his system would either cover them or reject them.  Ken was very relieved and gave me a "thumbs up".

A couple of years later when Ken was showering he rubbed a sore spot on his chest and one of the pellets popped out.  I guess the rest still remain embedded.  We used to tease him that, when going through airport security he might set off the alarm.  Life is challenging but good.

Marching across the stage to receive your high school graduation diploma was always a high point in a teenager's life. To receive an automobile as a reward really put the icing on the cake. The next best thing was to be best friend to such a guy. Back in 1947 Charlie Parker was such a guy and I was the "B.F."

We worked many hours restoring that 1931 Model A Ford. But, one thing we never got around to installing was a key ignition switch. Not to worry. The rotor (about the size of a plastic bottle screw-on cap) inside the distributor was easily removed and put in your pants pocket. Without the rotor in the distributor the juice in the battery can't get to the spark plugs.

One night, after we caught the last show at the Florida Theater, Charlie took the rotor out of his pocket and it was broken in half. We looked around the parking lot to see if "Midnight Auto Supply" was open and sure enough there was another '31 Model A, four parking spaces away.

Fortunately, before our mettle could be tested the owner of that Model A (Karl Landkrom) arrived and upon learning of our plight, volunteered to drive to his house to get a spare rotor and bring it back to us. With that, he reached in HIS pocket, pulled out HIS rotor, put it in HIS distributor and said "C'mon, hop in, I'll bring you right back".  Life was/is good.