Like most kids growing up in the late 50s and 60s, 70s I had confortations and fights. My Dad was good about discussing my problems with me. During my elementary school days he would counsel me on fights and offer tips.
Dad grew up in Ohio in a very racially diverse area. Not just Black and White, but many different races which stuck to their own neighborhoods/turfs. Because of this Dad said he had to fight his way to and from school almost daily. Needless to say, he had lots of war stories.
As a teenager I realized that I was smarter than dad and he was full of beans. I began to realize all of those fight stories were BS. Dad wasn’t around much coming from a time when husbands believed the wife should not work, but stay home. He wasn’t around to help me work on my car or hang out. He had a trucking business to run.
One day he came home and walked past me as I was raising the hood on my 68 SS396 Camaro. He looked over at the engine and said “where’s the air cleaner”. It had a nice big fancy chrome air cleaner which was quite noticeable when gone. I told him that I had the car at the Shell Station for some carburetor adjustments and that they stole it. Dad’s demeanor instantly changed like I’ve never seen. He said to get in his car.
We went over to the Shell station and Robert and Dub were in the garage. Robert wasn’t much older than me, Dub was probably close to Dad’s age. I never saw Dub without a cigarette hanging off of his lip. He had one of those hard leathery tans year round and had his Camels rolled up in his shirt sleeve. To a 16 year old kid, he came across as a tuff guy.
Dad was polite at first asking for the air cleaner that cost more than full Saturday and Sunday’s pay for me. Dub kept saying that I brought the car in without it. Then Dad got very firm and said he must really be a tough guy bullying a 16 year old kid and was going to kick Dub’s butt for calling me a liar.
That’s when it happened...... Dub raised his leg and put his foot on the tire of a car in the garage which tightened his pants leg and printed the 25 auto in his pants pocket. It didn’t phase Dad at all. Dad said “I see that 25 in your pocket. If that’s the way you want to play let me get my 38 out of my car and we can go in the alley and play games.” Word for word on that quote, I will always remember that.
Well Dub’s tanned face immediately changed colors. He didn’t say a word. He just lowered his foot and walked to the back of the shop, took a hard right into the parts room and came out with the air cleaner. He offered it to Dad, but Dad said “ don’t give it to me, it belongs to this boy that you pushed around”. Dub hated handing that over to me, especially with Robert standing there watching as well.
That’s when I realized ALL of Dad’s stories were true. And I sure was proud of him.
Dad always referred to his Llama 38 Super as “the 38”. It’s a 60s or earlier vintage and quite dependable unlike many later Llamas.
I’ll always keep this “38” to remember Dad by. He sure loved this gun, enough to bet his life on it!