By Jerry Robinson

Publisher Emeritus, Robinson Newspapers 1920~2014

While working at Boeing in 1943, I bought a 1933 Plymouth for $50.  It was really beat up, rusting out and in need of motor work.  But it steered more easily than my old Model A Ford.  I drove it till the day my wife Lee and I decided to have a picnic at Martha Lake, north of Seattle.

We had first born son Michael in the front seat with us.  Some friends were riding in the rumble seat.

Somewhat frustrated after getting lost trying to find the place, we were heading down a steep hill to the lake going about 35, when we hit a chuckhole.  We suddenly found ourselves veering off the road, watching both front tires roll down the road in front of us.  As we headed helplessly for the ditch, we were absolutely out of control.

The car narrowly missed a phone pole and crashed head on into a giant pile of brush workmen had cut and left for later disposal.  Nobody had a scratch.  Mike didn’t even cry.  We were in momentary shock from our miraculous escape, but then got out to assess our problem.  The wooden spokes had broken out of the wheels (the rims and tires were what we had seen rolling down the hill) and the headlight glass was broken.  Luckily a Good Samaritan gave us all a 40 mile lift back to our place on Star Lake in Federal Way.  The next day I found a couple of used wheels and drove it home.  My guardian angel never rests.