The Cushman Scooter
We lived on Grand Avenue, and right next to our house was an empty corner lot. That’s where Dad made a track for his brand-new Cushman scooter. He was proud of that thing. He showed us everything: the trunk behind the seat for his tools, the shifter on the side, and the clutch and gas on the floorboard like a tiny car.
After a few careful lessons, he let us ride it only around the track. No street riding, period. But that side street next to the lot led past the turkey ranch and around the block, and it was just too tempting. Every chance I got, when I thought no one was looking, I’d go for the full loop.
One day, I pushed my luck and got pulled over. I came home with a ticket. I braced myself—but there was no punishment. Dad gave me a lecture, sure, but he called it “boys being boys.” That was his way.
Not long after, he started letting me drive the car, with him riding shotgun, talking me through it. Meanwhile, Bruce, Dennis, and I took turns tearing around the dirt oval on the Cushman. Dad still used it for errands and sometimes even to get to work.
Then came that phone call. Mom picked up, and we heard: Dad was in the hospital with a broken jaw. He’d hit a patch of sand going around a corner, and the scooter dumped him. His jaw had to be wired shut, and every meal came out of a blender.
After that, the Cushman was no longer cool. Dad never rode it again. And suddenly, it was “too dangerous for us,” too.
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