My father, the crook and the British sports car

I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face when he learned about the crook who stole my British sports car.

It was the spring of 1988, and I was a senseless 26-year-old. I’d just quit a sales job I hated to resurrect a stone masonry business I ran during my college years.

When my father learned I gave up a salary to work hard labor, he had one question: “What the heck were you thinking?”