Now, some reading this may wonder how it was that a Boy Scout flashlight was so noticeable. Well, Mike explained. You see, Mike well remembers that Army green flashlight. It had a 90 degree bend lens design and had been setting on the desk in the constable’s office during a November several years earlier. The light just sat there as a stoic witness when in answer to some parental maneuvering, that very same constable urged us all into the military. The sentence was the punishment given to us for Halloween mischief that we’d done.

 Mike snickers now, though that constable, his deputy and Harvey have all passed on into death. Mike fondly remembers that event with me in nostalgic humor. In my mind’s eye I enjoyed my hearing of the familiar story. I am reminded of it every time I see an Army green, angle-headed flashlight.

 However, pitch black was also the theme for that particular night. There was no moon shining said Mike, and the small town had very few street lights. The upturned headlight beam of that faded black Plymouth eventually guided the car erratically to a dim firehouse parking lot. There, waiting for them… was the warmth of a grand reunion.

 On that night, Harvey got out of the Plymouth wearing Mike’s old black leather motorcycle jacket. Mike had given the weighty treasure to him when he went into

the service. It had zippers on the pockets, zippers on the sleeves, and several zippers inside. I find it a bit odd that during that era, though we had many pockets in black leather coats, our cigarette packs were kept nestled in upturned, white T-shirt sleeves. But that was the way of things. These were dictated as required just to be part of the group. It was the same look that Elvis Presley had when he toured. The only problem for Harvey was that he had red hair. Even when slicked down and adorned with sideburns, his hair color spoiled any “bad boy” effect.

 Black was the appropriate color. You see, of the five cars that had already parked in the lot… almost all of them were black. Quite different from Harvey’s raggedy Plymouth, all were shiny, undented and lowered. All had custom wheels. Wilson had hustled to the meeting in a black ’47 Plymouth coupe complete with spinner hubcaps. It ran a trick multi-carbed six-cylinder engine that barked loudly through home-made headers. That car blew off many small-block V-8s.

 Phillips drove up in a black ’49 Oldsmobile two-door coupe. The Olds harbored an overhead valve-equipped V-8 that could smoke the car’s

Sifting, cont’d...

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