When I was ten years old my cousin Brian and I bought a 1950 Chevy (for $40.00, I might add). We needed pillows to allow us to see over the dashboard and we taped blocks of wood on the clutch, brake, and gas pedal so we could reach the controls. There was a path that we drove down that led us to the farm that my grandfather once owned; it had been sold to a man that was using it as a sand and gravel pit, and he gave us permission to drive all the dirt roads on the property. That is where I learned how to drive, and yes, we were crazy. I often wonder how we survived this ordeal. Sometimes we would skid off the road and end up going into the pollywog pond and we’d have to get my uncle Kenny to pull us out with his tractor. Life was never boring; we always had something going on. I try to imagine a ten-year-old kid doing this in this day and age and I have a hard time visualizing that. By the way, what was once my grandfather’s farm is now a large housing development.
Just one of the many changes Cape Cod has seen.
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