Locked in the trunk
Even though I was only 4 years old, memories of June 1959 are etched in my mind. Alesa was curled up sleeping on a mat in the kitchen while Mama Betty washed clothes in the wringer washer and hung them on the clothes line outside. Lois, Horace and I were running around the yard looking for Junebugs. Horace just happened to have a key in his pocket. The next thing I knew, he was opening the trunk of the late model Pontiac, and I was crawling in. The lid closed. It was dark and hot, and before long I was soaked from my head to my toes. To this day, we don't know what happened to the key.
We lived so far out in the country and had no telephone and only one car. But Daddy had another key in his pocket. He was working at the sawmill with his brother Bill five miles up the highway. Mama knew I would suffocate if she didn't get help, so she went running up the road. A neighbor picked her up and took her to my uncle's.
When the trunk lid finally opened, there stood my daddy with his arms reaching in for me.