My first electronics job of any significance was in 1968 working for Motorola, Inc. in one of their two-way radio repair shops. The building, located on the west side of Dallas in Oak Cliff, appeared to have been a residential dwelling later modified for two-way radio work.

A typical business day consists of the installation and repair of two-way radios in business cars, cabs, and trucks. To complete each sale, Motorola charges a fee to handle the communications on their radio common carrier network. Radio common carrier is similar to a modern cellular system but with an operator.

My part in the business is the mail order repair of pagers and small portable two-way radios from all across the country. I am the factory.

The room in which I work is at the rear of the building in what must have been the back porch. It is enclosed except for a window on each side and a small diamond shaped glass in the door. There is a chain link fence enclosing the back yard with older residential homes to the west and south. An open field stretches a few hundred feet to the north surrounding an old abandoned gas station and garage. A lone blinking red light identifies an intersection for any unsuspecting motorist that might come speeding down the hill toward our shop.

On one particular day, I had not been at work long when I heard a sound quite unlike the 'beep beep' or rushing sounds normally heard around the work bench. It is more like a scraping sound coming from the back yard. I peer through the small glass in the door but am unable to see through the glare of the bright morning sun. I open the door, ever so slowly, and gaze at the scene playing out before my eyes

An old man wearing a straw hat and rumpled clothing is brushing the leaves and twigs off the hood of an old model Chevrolet car. He seems unaware of where he is or that he is being observed. I look to the left and to the right, trying to understand what is obviously an unusual occurrence this August morning in 1968.

I glance about, expecting to see the fence torn down with tracks leading into the back yard. There are none. It is a scene from out of The Twilight Zone.

Almost by accident, I look to the north and see a gaping hole in the back side of the abandoned gas station. Perhaps the old man has suffered a stroke and careened off the road, ripping through the decaying building and into our back yard. But how did he do it, fly? There didn't appear to be a point of entry or damage to the fence.

By now, there are several employees in the back yard. Each of them are milling around, trying to determine what happened. The old man seems to be in a trance. He didn't remember anything and it seems pretty much a guess.

Then one of the men from the shop cries out. Everyone rushes over to an area behind the car. There he has noticed the ties broken along the fence.

Apparently the auto had traveled under the top rail raising the galvanized fabric as it passed. The undamaged links then fell back to the ground as if nothing had happened in the first place.

Later another motorist said that he had seen the old man speeding through the intersection at the top of the hill with one hand on his neck and then crash through the gas station, continuing on down the hill toward our shop. As I suspected, he suffered a stroke and was lucky to be alive.

Oh well, there is plenty of work to do and I had better get back to it. Motorola will not appreciate my unproductive activity even though it is an unforgettable experience, not unlike The Twilight Zone.