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In most cases, M.Y.F. stands for Methodist Youth Fellowship. But this past month, one of my childhood playmates, Walter Delbert Ammons, better known as "Bert", passed away.

Now, Bert was an adventurous soul who was always ready to attack a challenge; Boy Scout leader, licensed marine captain, licensed multi-engine airplane pilot, successful Bahamian entrepreneur. You name it; he would give it a try.

Bert's passing gently prodded my cobwebs into recollecting one of our early misadventures. One evening back when we were about fourteen years old, our MYF group scheduled a sundown hay ride sing-along with hot dogs and toasted marshmallows. A local feed & seed store gave us a couple hay bales but the guy with the truck never showed up at the church.

Bert's dad had a roofing business so Bert and I volunteered to go get a big old roofing truck. Back then people left keys in ignitions and the chain-link fence gate was no obstacle for a pair of fourteen year-olds.

In spite of threatening clouds the group hopped into the truck bed and we headed for Siesta Beach. Tar mops, wheel barrows, shovels and brooms not withstanding to the contrary the kids in the back seemed to be having a good time. That is until it started to rain. That was also when the truck engine cut off, came back on, cut off and came back on. So, Bert made a U-turn and we asked the Man upstairs for a couple of favors. Arriving safely back at the church we made a fire in the parsonage fireplace and had "the best tasting dawgs and mallows ever you seen in the whole wide world ".

The next day Bert's dad told us that truck had a rusty gas tank and hadn't been driven in several months, it wouldn't even run. But first he made sure that Bert would be eating his meals off their fireplace mantel for a couple days.  Life was/is good