In 1968, on a warm summer day, my mother looked out her kitchen window facing Minnesota Highway 75 and was horrified to see my little brother, only 3 years old, hanging onto the back of one of my dad’s electrical service trucks, which was just pulling out onto the highway heading south.
Screaming at the top of her lungs, my mother ran out the front door and onto the busy highway, arms flailing and screaming at the top of her voice as she flagged down the first car that was traveling north and coming toward her at a very high speed. The driver slammed on his brakes as she grabbed the car door and jumped in while ordering him to turn around and save her son.