Photo by Jay Castor on Unsplash
The Limo Memoir
by S.V. Farnsworth
At seventeen I graduated early from El Dorado Springs R-II High School in rural Missouri. DeVry Institute of Technology in Kansas City recruited me right away. The school was cutting edge back then. I enjoyed my Electrical Engineering Technology courses very much, though 486 computers were rip your hair out tedious to use, even when top of the line.
Spring of 1993 my parents drove me to KC, where I enrolled, moved in, and became acquainted with the Bishop at the local chapel. It was a bit too far to walk to church, so Bishop said, “I’ll arrange for Brother Moore to pick you up. Roger and his family are good people and their daughter is just a little older than you.”
We thanked the Bishop and as we left his office, my dad said, “Roger Moore is the name of an actor who played James Bond.”
Mom and Dad went home, and when Sunday rolled around I was ready and waiting right on time. My three new roommates lounged around the living room watching TV. One crisp ring of the bell came at last. I answered the door.
“Your car has arrived,” said a tall chauffeur in full dress uniform including the hat.
This got my roommates’ attention. They hopped up and raced behind me down the hallway to look out the window. The man turned and walked down the three flights of stairs as I followed him in wide-eyed silence.
When we rounded the corner, my jaw dropped. There shining in the sun was a stretch limousine. It was flawless and glossy black. The distinguished looking driver in his gray suit opened the door without a word. Mute with astonishment, I sat down in that vast, empty seat, and he drove us to the chapel.
That was Brother Moore and he was on call; hence he was dressed for the job and had the car. Each week repeated the same, though the limousines often changed colors. Sometimes they were new and sometimes they were old, but always shiny on the outside even if the upholstery occasionally sagged or had cigarette burns and frequently smelled of smoke.
I remember riding past the Piggly Wiggly. Without fail, more than one person stopped to stare, their grocery bag suspended in midair as they loaded up. People watched me go by like I was Madonna. I watched them with equal wonderment, thinking, “I’m still just me.”
At some point during those Sunday drives, I quit caring about making lots of money. I figured I’d rather earn respect than buy it. I’d rather be as clean on the inside as I was on the outside. I’d rather have God love me than the people of the world admire me. So, thank you, Bishop and Brother Moore, you changed my life.
Having matured a bit now, I look back and see that I haven’t made much money. I guess if you don’t focus on it, you don’t get it. I’m still alright with that.
Now I only ride in limos at funerals. It’s not quite the same experience. Rides like that tend to get you thinking about life, and I must conclude that I’ve accomplished many things that I treasure far more than riches.
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