It was just before World War II. We were the only family in our New York town that didn't own a car. I was a typical teenager, and to me 'no car', when most others had one, was disgraceful.
Our daily shopping trips were made in a small two - wheeled basket cart drawn by an ancient pony that my mother had named Barkis after the character in David Copper field. Bony Barkis was a comic eyesore. Every clop of his hooves showed our poverty.
We were poor. My father's salary as clerk would have been enough had he not given half of it to support his ill and poor relatives. Even our house was mortgaged. Mother consoled the family by saying, 'If you have character, you have the better part of wealth.'
My bitter reply was,' you can't buy a car with it.' Yet she succeeded in making poverty tolerable in all other respects. Our home had charm. Mother knew the secret of using a few yards of the right chintz and a little paint in the right places. But the garage still stabled Barkis and not a car.
Suddenly there arrived a moment which was to convert my shame into a blaze of glory.
For weeks a new Buick Roadmaster had stood in the window of the biggest store on Main Street. Now, on the final celebration night of the country fair, it was to be raffled off. After watching the fireworks I stayed in the shadows at the edge of the throng till the end when the winning number was to be drawn out. Decorated in bunting on a special platform, the Buick glittered under a dozen spotlights. The crowd held its breath as the mayor reached into the glass bowl for the lucky ticket.