I was sixteen, driving my ’47 Ford pick-up, pulling a 1977 Homecoming Float on Dad’s small wooden flatbed trailer. We’d hung an opposing team member in effigy (something we’d never do now and shouldn’t have done then). Just as we left the north end of the high school to cross the Weber River bridge, things went wild.

Look carefully. You’ll see a gallon can of rubber cement in the hand of a person on the trailer. Soon the figure hanging from the gallows was drenched in rubber cement. Then someone lit a match. By the time we crossed the bridge, the float was engulfed in flames and my co-conspirators had vanished.

The firetruck leading the parade made a U-turn, the siren blaring, and drenched the conflagration on my trailer in front of the Morgan bowling alley. I sheepishly pulled the still-smoldering float along the rest of the parade route. I don’t know why I didn’t just turn around and go back to the school, but I didn’t. I endured all the pointing and jeers.

We all had a good laugh, got home safe, and never told my father why his trailer had charred spots on the edges. It’s a good thing the firetruck was there. Too bad nobody got a picture of the fire for the yearbook.