My father, Eaton K. Goldthwaite, was a story teller. One of my favorite stories was from 1927.

He was in a band while going to Columbia and they played at different speakeasies around New York City. One night they were playing at a lonely hearts club when the place was raided and the cops took everyone to the station in the paddy wagon. All but my father that is, because with all the people already in the wagon, his drum kit wouldn’t fit. So, on his honor he took the subway to the police station.

The subway was crowded so he placed his drum kit between the cars and jumped into the train. As the train was pulling out of the station, my father watched as a man with an umbrella chased the train down the platform trying to poke holes in the snare drum. Happily, no holes were poked. And yes my father turned himself in.