as my beloved and somewhat imperfect parents quarreled quite a bit about that manual chock knob mom had pulled out. But we had hope. Dad’s brother ran a one pump grocery gas station at Victor, and he would try to get him to let us have a little gas but his brother said, “no stamps no gas.” That was when the sleet storm hit, so we headed home.

To make a long miserable Christmas story a little shorter we didn’t make it. Our old Ford sputtered to a halt right next to the big illuminated” sign that stated “Warning: Hitchikers may be escaping Nazi POWs.” Yes there in Stringtown. I could hear the furious sleet on our car and there was practically no traffic that dark windy Christmas night. Mana Sue, only four asked a few times if the prisoners would kill us or would we just freeze to death. Finally, after three hours a good guy (our own doctor out of Coalgate) stopped, hooked us up to a chain and pulled us all the way to Coalgate where that 24/7 gas station existed for so many years. Our good doctor, who had been out all-day Christmas treating sick flu victims let us fill up our Ford on his ration card.

We eventually got home thanking God we didn’t starve or freeze to death on that lonely road out by the big POW camp on Christmas night, 1943. I think Mana Sue was a little disappointed as she was always an optimistic pessimist.

I wish all of you a Merry Christmas and be sure and go to church Sunday. Unlike my late little sister Sue, I optimistically hope to hear from you, my readers. Merry Christmas.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com