The Flower Shop

1947 Plymouth
As soon as I got my driver’s license, I bought a car. It was a 1947 Plymouth coupe. It had been a delivery vehicle for the Boulder City Flower Shop owned by Vera Greenwell. The back seat had been taken out for deliveries. She was a quite wonderful person. I worked at the shop, keeping the lawn and hedges looking good. I also worked inside, cleaning. She sold me the car for twenty-five dollars. She always made my corsages for the dances for me and didn’t charge me for them. She hired me to take care of her lawn at her home also. She lived down the road from where I did.

The car gave me a lot more range in which I could roam. I took it to the Stake dances in Henderson and one time to Moapa Valley to one of their school dances. I had met a young woman from Logandale at the Helldorado. Her name was Arlene Lyman, and she lived up the street from where Joy’s dad built his home in Logandale. This was years before he moved there. It was on the way home from this dance that I could smell something burning. It was oil. Apparently, there wasn’t enough of it in the engine. I made it home and left the car parked in front of our home.
My dad had become accustomed to using the car when he needed it. That was fine; it was how things were when I was young. At any rate, when Dad got a few blocks away, the engine froze up. He really felt bad about it. I felt bad too, but I also felt that it was just desserts, after all, I was the one who had ruined his car a year earlier, when without his permission, knowledge, or a license, I had ruined his car. I have written about that experience before, and you know that I finally came clean and told him what had happened to his car, even though I waited for about 30 years to tell him. Even after waiting, he was just as angry as he would have been the day it happened.
   

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