In 1968, on a warm summer day, my mother looked out her kitchen window facing Minnesota Highway 75 and was horrified to see my little brother, only 3 years old, hanging onto the back of one of my dad’s electrical service trucks, which was just pulling out onto the highway heading south.
Last fall, a generous plumbing contractor in Las Vegas allowed me to park a trailer-load of four-wheelers in his backyard. It was an incredible backyard. I’ll be happy to tell you his name, but I’m about to tell you about his son.
