Martha Thurston
A childhood friend of mine posted Friday that her father had passed away. I remember this man vividly from my childhood. He was a tall, tan man with jet-black hair. A good friend of my father’s. At times, he and Leon were the only ones who could settle my dad down if he got upset. But I’ve seen him upset, too.
I grew up around the racetrack. My father and his friends had a racing team. We were always at a dirt track every Friday and Saturday night, and they were always working on the race car during their free time.
There were many stories going to and coming from the racetrack. One night, the racecar trailer jackknifed on the way to Anderson Motor Speedway, and he ended up taking out a section of a man’s fence. They went out there and repaired that fence. As we drove by it, my father would point out, “Look! There’s John T’s fence.” At one time you could tell it from the other because it was unpainted, but after that, you’d just have to know where it was.
Then there was the night that he left my mother in the graveyard. We were riding in his van and mom had to go to the bathroom. There was a graveyard near the racetrack and pulled in and told her to go behind one of the tombstones. (Should I mention she was scared of the graveyard?) He took off and looped around. She was mad, but we all laughed about it later.
I will always remember him with a cigarette in one hand and a Pabst Blue Ribbon in the other.
I’m sure there was a great celebration in heaven when he got there: My dad, Leon, and John T. They are probably sitting around talking about racing and laughing about the good ol’ days.
