I wore corduroy a lot. Not that I remember, I’ve just seen the pictures and I have an affinity for corduroy to this day… if style pundits would only allow. My first oldest memory, when I was about three years old, was sitting on a set of concrete steps. Easy with the Corduroy please, to play with my shiny little tin cars. There was a side of those steps (only three of them) that was about as wide as a highway for toy cars. I could drive my cars on pavement. Straight uphill or downhill. Same angle as Lombard Street in San Francisco except no twists just a straight shot up or down. It was hell in the winter because they didn’t sell tiny studded snow tires for my car.
That’s when I started liking cars…up close and personal. I have this black & white photo of me at about three years old helping my dad wash the 1952 Chevy. The tire came up to my shoulder. I was holding a little sponge and posing for the camera while my dad, with his back to us, was wiping off the back fender. I was wearing corduroys, a jacket, and, of course, the signature 1950’s ball cap with a short brim. Washing the family car was when I spent one-on-one time with my dad.
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