My first experience with a four-wheeled vehicle wasn’t a very rusty clapped- out 12-year-old 1939 Cadillac — although it was my first real car.

No. It was my blue Firestone wagon that Dad brought home for my fourth birthday. It was kind of an Art-Deco design with a streamlined prow, and side rails stepped like a motor yacht — although I wasn’t able to describe it as such as a 4-year old. It had real balloon tires with real tire valves.

I soon learned to make it go by placing my right knee inside and sitting on that foot. I then could place my left leg outboard to motivate that wagon scooter fashion down the sidewalks of York Avenue here in good old Warren.

One way I had of braking my wagon was most likely unique among the kiddie set. I would pick up my high-topped shoe-covered left foot and jam it between the left rear tire and the wagon’s body. It was very effective, although my left foot would get quite hot.

Mom couldn’t figure out how my left shoe was all worn out before the right one was — nor could Sam Herman at Nobil Shoes in downtown Warren. Sam always made sure Mom would get a new pair of Red Goose shoes, although both he and Mom were completely puzzled as to how just my left shoe wore so much faster.

I pretended to have absolutely no knowledge of how such things happened.

That wagon was quite a bit heftier than most kids’ wagons of the time. I could take my tricycle up the four steps to the roofed-over front porch quite easily to get it out of the weather, but I simply couldn’t manage the same with the wagon.

As a result, the wagon always sat out and had a pool of water in it after a rain. Soon, the bottom rusted out quite badly.

Dad took it to the bus garage where he worked and had his body man cut out and insert a brand new 16 gauge piece of sheet metal over the old bottom. Dad then had him paint it in bus company red, and brought it home in all its refurbished glory.

World War II came when I was 6. That red wagon was no longer a plaything. My buddy Tommy and I would use it to haul all sorts of items needed for our scrap drives. It carried mountains of bundled newspapers, scrap metal, old tin cans and scrap rubber tires.

As we fervently hoped, that poor old wagon did yeoman duty in helping with the war effort. Tommy and I both received awards for our efforts.

That wagon had certainly earned its stripes. Cousin Neal would come over periodically to patch the inner tubes that had much trouble holding air — you couldn’t get new inner tubes. Dad took it to the bus garage from time to time to get new metal patches riveted in.

One day the war was over.

If there ever was an inanimate object that had a personality, it was that wagon.

Soon, I was away at college and the wagon served Mom well for her to cart around new plants for her garden.

While I was away, my family moved to a new home. Dad wanted to remove as much clutter as possible for the move. Since I wasn’t there to make sure that wagon didn’t get the heave ho, it disappeared with the rest of the thrown out stuff.

I’ll bet you might have something in your life like that wagon. If I had been home during that move, I would have saved that wagon. It would be sitting right now next to my prized and loved bicycle which I have owned and cherished since 1941.

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