Good Old Days Magazine

Whitewall Willpower

It was a sweltering-hot 1951 summer day in Detroit—the kind of day ice-cold lemonade and sun tea were made for—when my dad, a Detroit police officer, came home early from work with news that made my day.

I was working in the backyard garden with my mom and little sister, Arlene, when my dad, a man of few but pointed words, walked into the yard and cleared his throat with a rumble. We all stopped what we were doing and looked up at him, but he was only looking at me. “I found a car for you,

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