September 2016 . . . .

“The Driver”
     I don’t know if I’ve told you this one about my Grandpa: that he was a chauffeur for Woodrow Wilson for a while. For anyone history-challenged, that was a long time ago — about one hundred years. And yes, it occurs to me that it is strange to imagine that my own grandfather was but a young adult a century ago, barely older than my own daughter is now, but there you go. And the automobile industry was barely an industry in 1912, when Grandpa learned to drive. Machines were still being assembled in garages for public consumption. Motorcycles too. Airplanes! My grandfather got a job driving because at the time not so many people drove. Folks walked when they wanted to get somewhere. Or they rode a horse. Rode in a wagon pulled by a horse. Took a train, if where they were going was more distant (and the train went there.) And so not many people (ahem, men . . .) were drivers and officers in the armed forces at the same time.



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