The culture for most teenage boys living in small farming towns across the country was and might still be all the same involving driving pickup trucks, hunting and fishing during their free time. The small northern California town of Willows, where I was raised was no exception. Hunting pheasants and geese was common in the fall and winter. Fishing and swimming in the creeks and the Sacramento River were the favorite past time in the summer. To get to all these places required a pick up truck, since we were beyond the age of riding our bikes. With a learners permit at the age of 15 and half I learned to drive our 1951 Ford Pickup with a three speed stick shift. My mother supervised and would let me drive it to the dump whenever our garbage cans were full, usually every two weeks. After I got my driver license at the age of 16, I was on my own with driving, whenever the pickup truck was available. On one occasion my friend Alan and I drove out in the hills with our .22 rifles in the truck. We were driving up the Clark Valley Road and stopped to shot at something from the truck. All of sudden a California Highway Patrol car pulled up along the side of the pickup and the officers told us not to shot from the truck and drove off ahead of us. We were so stunned and relieved that we were not issued a citation. We continued our drive and never touched the guns again until we got home.
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