Rebel with a cause. That's me.

Rebel without a cause was James Dean...and he died in a car crash. That's not me either.
I knew where that car was in St Augustine, and the story about how it got there and how it's not there any more.
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I can claim to be a Rebel since I was from North Carolina and we fought on the side of the South during "the great conflict" as it has been called. So what is my cause? I don't know. Life is a series of random happenings, and if your life story is written down before you were born, (as some people say) you will never know for sure what is on the next page.
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I have never owned a hat that says: American by birth. Southern by the grace of God.....but I do understand., In this day, where the liberals want you to be ashamed of yourself and everything else American, and who want to destroy our history, every time I see a Rebel flag on a pickup truck, I go up and tell him: "Don't ever let them make you take it down"
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Everything bad that ever happened to me always led to something good, and I sincerely thank God for looking out for me, for keeping me out of crashes and keeping me invisible to the cops. If you think that everything you have and are is a result of devil worship, I don't care what you think. I know where everything in my life comes from and when I got saved at a little church in North Carolina as a teenager, my life took a turn for the better and I don't care what you think about that either.
I'm no religious freak,and don't even go to church, but God sent me a lot of victories on race courses, for which I am sincerely greatful.
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An early recollection......My dad would pick up me and my brother after school on Fridays in his 1950 ford and we would drive over to Bowman Gray Stadium for the stock car races. I don't remember a back seat being in that car.....but I'm sure my dad did not haul alcohol that was made with ingredients that came as a gift from God, and that the darn govt wanted to charge a "tax" for.

Those racers were a bunch of rebels too. They cussed and smoked cigars and cigarettes and if it weren't for those early pioneers driving jalopies in t-shirts and leather helmets with a dog collar holding the doors shut, the racers today would not make millions every year by risking their neck.

Remember this: There is no progress ever made except for "rebels".
If Ben Franklin had never flown that kite during a thunderstorm we wouldn't have anything electrical.
I imagine somebody told him he couldn't do that.

Smokers are rebels. Racers are rebels. And the next time someone says: "You can't do that",
my reply is: "How big is the bet?" The thought of cash in your pocket is the greatest motivation
there is. "Equality" and being as broke as the next S.O.B. is not a motivator except to
steal your vote. Nobody wants equality.
Everybody wants to kick some butt and out do the other guy.......including the other guy.
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The smell of whatever they used for gas in the 50's is the exact smell over every small stock car track I have ever been to........even now. We would get french fries and sprinkle vinegar over them and in the winter we would drink hot Dr Pepper.
At the end of the night we would have a fine glitter all over us that had been scrubbed off whatever they paved the track with.

Once I was sent to gopher the fries but was ignored by the concession people. My dad told me to hold the money up in the air above the counter where they could see it and you would be noticed. A variation of "show 'em the money" is how you get better service at things today.

After the race we would drive to Old Winston Salem before it became a tourist attraction, and right across the street from Krispy Kreme was the giant tea pot that another "rebel" had hidden in from the red coats during the revolutionary war. As a kid there is nothing like a hot Krispy Kreme doughnut and that holds true today.
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Back then they did not allow ladies (or even women) into the pits but one racer had a monkey and dad took me and my brother into the pits one night to see it. I glanced at the monkey briefly and then got lost looking at the race cars and how they were built.....until dad found me and dragged me back to the stands.

We returned home on the same back roads of old 92 before they built the interstate.
I know how to get to where old 92 is and every time I'm up there I take a nostalgia drive
down it. I remember riding shotgun one night as a teenager and......I'll tell you that one later.....

I was probably asleep by the time we got home from the stock car races.
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