Sunday, September 13, 2009



Incidentally, the child sitting on top of this revered classic is our daughter. Note the shadow person in the left corner, ready to dash to her instantaneous rescue if necessary.

This was the year of the model change for GM. We had purchased our first Buick Skylark in 1970, and a second Skylark only eighteen months later. When it caught fire one cold winter evening and was totaled by the insurance company, it was replaced with this new and neatly appointed Skylark with red interior and full power. I recall how much it appeared like a new toy to me.

Because I had been in the previous Skylark when it was totaled, looking at this photo makes me realize how fortunate I was that I did not burn with the auto. The steering wheel had melted, the mileage indicator was charred beyond accountability of the mileage, thus the "new" replacement. For some months thereafter, I had some serious lung problems. I also kept my vow not to leave the engine running when I felt like I needed to sleep in my vehicle for the night after a tad bit too much partying.

This was one of a number of miracles that happened, miracles I account as Divine. By all accounts, using that television program as a line, "I should have been dead by now." If but by the grace of God. There were five other seperate incidents that were equally, if not more, eerie, where my life had been in serious danger and I was whisked out of danger if by an Angel or the hand of the Divine.

Sometime I will write about those times, but then I had most likely leave them sealed in the vat of memory. Let me simply say that in all case but one, there had been alcohol involved. I have said it many times before, " If I had my life to lead over, I would never have taken my first drink of beer one summer evening back in the 1940s while my Aunt Marietta was visiting and sat her can of beer down behind her lawn chair where I was playing cars. That's right, I will blame it on her, typical alcoholic rationale. No, not really. It was a child's curiosity to taste what the adults were drinking in those so attractive and shiny cans that seemed to make them laugh and be so merry.

By R.L. Huffstutter

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My dad's dad, my grandfather, was nine years old when President Lincoln died from an assassin's bullet. Most people think I am speaking of my GREAT GRANDFATHER. NO, I am referring to my dad's father, my paternal Grandfather, Robert Levi Huffstutter, born in 1856. What does this information have to do with my profile? It might help the reader understand that I have a sense of being much older than I am in that only one generation seperates me from President Lincoln. This causes me to respond differently to society and many current events. In many respects, this is to my benefit, in other respects it dates my mindset. Perhaps this is the reason I value the moral standards and idealogies of older Americans, the men who were the soldiers and sailors I saw when I was a small boy,the men and women who fought a war for freedom without any doubts posted by a media with a questionable lack of national unity and purpose.