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April 2015, vol 11 no 1

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Peter Butler

Driving Through the Fence


Due to wartime restrictions Grandpa's car was moored on bricks, three under each wheel, I recall. This did not deter me. I used a key from my train set, turned on my engine voice, motored to the end of the garden, through (and sometimes over) the fence, across the field to the road, which was ever free of other traffic, to the railway station.

I then drove down the embankment, waited for a train to chase. Sometimes I drove directly at a train, turning the wheel sharply when I was close enough to terrify the driver.

Then, for teatime with Grandma, it was back through the field, which was even more fun in late summer when the corn was high and I could carve a path through it, terrifying the land army girls busy with the harvest.

After the war, Grandpa removed the bricks, turned the starting handle, sat me in the back and took me down assorted roads and lanes which all looked alike, pointing out what he called 'landmarks'.

old school reunion
still trying to look
younger


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