Ken Says
The first time my father took me to the Forks
— the town, Ausable Forks —
those fifteen miles took all day by wagon.
On Blueberry Hill you had to stop and chock
the wheels so the team could rest.
Later I'd ride our old mare
and later still — this would be, oh, 1929 —
me and some boys shared a Ford Model A.
A mounted patrol stopped us.
Our driver was fourteen, no license of course.
The trooper consulted his gelding, I swear,
turned his back to us and muttered,
adjusted the saddle for five minutes
while we stewed, scared.
Well, the man let us go
'cuz we needed a way to get to school.
That's how things was done.
It was horse sense.
Evenings after a glass of scotch, Ken would tell a story with a straight face so you never knew exactly when the truth was left behind, if ever. I heard this one several times.
Here's another:
'32 Ford, '80 Calendar, '64 Story
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