A significant event in my life was in 1946 when I was 8 years old - my younger brother and I were walking in our lane from school. It was the first day of hunting season. As we neared the house, we could hear crying from the house. I thought someone got shot while hunting. It was even worse than I thought. My older brother Earl had been killed on a Road Roller that he was operating. He would crank it to get it started and jump on. His pant leg got caught and threw him in front of the Roller. My uncle had employed him when he came home from service to help build Route 8. Part of the Road had just opened that day.
Earl was, like many, very patriotic at the time and was eager to serve in the war. He wasn't allowed to drop out of high school. So he came up to my mom one day and said that he could have them sign off for his diploma early because he and his buddies finished all of their coursework ahead of time. He served for two years. Earl had been home from World War II about one month and was nineteen years-old.