A LIKELY STORY: THE MAN WHO TRIED TO STOP A CAR WITH A ROPE

March 23, 1942.

On this day, the Japanese renewed their air attack by bombing a New Guinea harbor, Port Moresby. On the same day in America, Gen. Douglas McArthur promised a final victory for the Allies soon, little realizing that there were still three years left of World War II.

Locally, it was announced on this day that the military airport in Cape Girardeau, Harris Field, would be enlarged to train even more young pilots. At the Arena Building, 45 head of choice Shorthorn cattle were on hand for the statewide Shorthorn show and sale.

It was also the day my dad was born.

Several days later, the Southeast Missourian ran this announcement under his name: "A son, born to Mr.and Mrs. Charles Moyers, 2 N. Boulevard at 9:45 p.m. Wednesday night at St. Francis Hospital, is the second of the family, but is the first son. He weighed 7 pounds, 3 ounces. Mrs. Moyers formerly was Miss Dorothy Atchley. Mr. Moyers is employed at the Clark Motor Co., 2 S. Sprigg St."

Just like his father, my dad's birth name was "Charles." But my dad didn't go by that name for long. As children, he and his older sister, Elaine, were given nicknames after a popular country and western musical duo, Scotty and Lulabell.

Perhaps in an attempt to establish an identity apart from his father's, my dad let his nickname stick. Fortunately, Elaine got rid of hers as soon as she could. (Aunt Lulabell?)

Thirty years after my dad's birth, he would give the name Scotty to me, all legal and proper. I promptly shortened the name to Scott, not so much from a need to separate my identity from his as it was to give people an alternative to "Little Scotty."

Anyway, by all accounts my father was a fairly normal child. But he has shared (and shared again) several stories about his youth. Two stick out as my personal favorites.

Both of these stories involve my dad's little brother, Buford. Both stories revolve around hare-brained ideas that my dad had that ended up bruising more than their egos. Excuse the self-indulgent retelling of them here.

One time when my dad and Uncle Buford were children, my dad thought it would be a good idea and a lot of fun to bury Buford in the dirt up to his neck. He meticulously dug a hole big enough for Buford to get in, which Buford did. As a big brother myself, I know little brothers tend to obey older brothers, even if it defies logic.

After he was buried up to his head, Buford found he couldn't move an inch. My dad must have really packed that dirt down pretty tight.

And, of course, that's when it started to hail.

The large frozen balls of ice rained down causing Buford to yell for help. My dad ran to get his mother and she ran out to try and pull Buford out of the dirt.

When she found she couldn't move him an inch, she ran into the house and got a bucket, which she placed squarely over Buford's head. Being no fools themselves, Dad and Grandma went inside to get out of the hail.

Another time, my dad thought it would be fun to try and stop a car. So he and Buford tied ropes firmly around their waists, stretched it across the street. They let some slack out allowing the rope to drop to the ground and found hiding places on either side of the street. (You see where this is going, don't you?)

When a car zoomed by, they pulled the rope taut. Despite my father's plans, the car did not stop and they proceeded to be pulled a block down the concrete paved street before the driver could stop.

Bruised egos and bruised behinds, I suppose, were the results of that experiment. I doubt the car was badly damaged at all.

I love these stories and can almost see them in my mind's eye. When my dad finishes telling them, he's always laughing. That's one of the things I like about my dad. He can laugh at himself and he's usually the butt of his own jokes.

My father is not a man of letters. He didn't graduate from a university or even attend one. He prefers country to classical and spaghetti westerns to theater. He likes the lottery and says exactly what's on his mind.

But that doesn't mean he is without sage advice. He's the one who taught me so many things that I wish I practiced more. Like not arguing with ignorance. And not letting the little things upset you. You have to work hard if you want to get anywhere. Be firm, but fair, and it's not unmanly to be kind to people.

And how important family is.

After two decades of dozens of teachers and college professors, he is still the best teacher I ever had.

Happy birthday, Dad.

Scott Moyers is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.