Why would somebody nobody ever heard of write a memoir? An understandable question. I've written this for a number of reasons, some reflective, others responsive to myself and others. Also to vent, express regrets, ask lingering questions. My father and mother are gone, as are my stepmother and stepfather. I'm next in the line of generational extinction.

My father and stepfather both served in the military during wars, father in World War II and stepdad in the Korean War. I know almost nothing about their service. Most of the details and anecdotes that made up their early lives and the lives of my mother and stepmother died with them. Everyone has stories to tell, good and bad, uplifting and depressing, joyous and mournful. Far too many of those stories vanish along with the lessons to be learned from them and the histories of our families.

My son wants to remember some of the stories I've shared at family gatherings and around the dinner or game table: Swamping my canoe in a flooded creek with darkness approaching, terrorizing a drive-in theater, earning a combat action ribbon while absent without leave, looking a ghost in the eye at Gettysburg, hiking the magnificent Grand Canyon.

One more reason for writing a memoir: It's entertaining to remember, mostly. These stories about things that occurred during my life are for my children and their children and grandchildren. I hope they enjoy reading them, and that they learn some things to not do. Perhaps others will enjoy these stories. Maybe someone else nobody ever heard of will be inspired to write their stories for their families.

You might enjoy reading this book if:

-You have a brother who was born a Marine.

-You had a free-wheeling childhood in a small town.

-You remember your first car or your first job.

-You've ever raided a drive-in theater (you can compare techniques).

-You served in the Navy, especially if you missed movement.

-You've ever had an adventure under the stars or on the trail.

-You've ever seen a ghost.

-You're tired of reading about abuse, addiction, discrimination, violence and vampires.

Snippets.

-I put a .22 rifle bullet on the sidewalk in front of our house and smacked it with a hammer.

-With enough speed, I thought, that ramp will launch me down the road a few feet.

-The 1953 scratch-and-dent, flathead Ford Fairlane I bought had bald tires all around, rust cavities in the floorboard and vapor-lock in its constitution.

-Drive-ins provided a secure make-out alternative to isolated gravel roads. That impression of security suffered a blow this night.

-I told the Navy recruiter that I'd join up if I could work on airplanes on a carrier. He said something like, "That can be arranged."

-The forlorn little newspaper contained a few club and church items, feature stories about local history, and virtually no photographs or advertising.

-I gazed upon a shape, entirely black, in what appeared to be a long overcoat and a flat wide-brimmed hat. The shape looked at me darkly, without eyes or any other facial features.

-For Sharon's sake, I had to maintain a measure of seriousness so she wouldn't think I was taking our challenge too lightly, but I felt like giggling. We had descended into wonderland.

Kent Ford lives in Columbia, Missouri, with his wife, Sharon. Both are retired, he from Missouri Press Association in 2014, she from Boone Hospital Center a year later. Mr. Ford grew up in Central Iowa. He attended the Missouri School of Journalism after serving in the Navy during the Vietnam War. He received a Bachelor of Journalism degree in 1974, then worked at daily newspapers in Poplar Bluff, Missouri, and Council Bluffs, Iowa. He and his wife bought a small weekly newspaper in Northwest Missouri that they published for six years. Mr. Ford joined Missouri Press Association, the state's newspaper trade organization in Columbia, in 1989. The Fords have two children and six grandchildren.