Was it trauma?
Or just experiences on the edge? I grew up around people who fixed their own cars and trucks in the side yard or the curb. Mostly to save money, but there was much pride in the "I got this shit" attitudes from the tool wielders. So it doesn't sound so strange that when I was seven or eight, we went to the midget car races at Danbury. Little cars with one seat and big engines. I remember spectacular snack food: overcooked egg rolls, fountain Coke with a jolt of soft serve ice cream stirred in, and the predecessors of sliders: grilled burgers dripping grease, cheese, and Heinz. Better than the drive-in, but that's coming up. The racing itself was pretty boring. Round and round with no apparent winner. From where we sat in the bleachers, the cars looked like toys. Colors like kindergarten blocks with big numbers in circles on their side panels. The yellow and black striped #8 sticks out in memory. Maybe that was him, dead halfway up the light pole at the end of the tr...