It was a 1955 Mercury convertible with turquoise and white almost leather upholstery. The fact that it was eight years old and had played host to over 120,000 miles didn't alter my immense appreciation for this beautiful machine. The fact that it was my brother's car and not mine was something of a disappointment, however.

I did manage to drive it on occasion, rare occasions. So I am sure you understand why when I did sit behind the wheel I might have allowed my enthusiasm to get the better of me. I might have traveled a little more than the designated speed limit and I might have had the radio on a little too loud for the neighbors and I might even have had a dear friend of the female persuasion sit a tiny bit too close for safe steering but I vehemently deny that I was the menace to society Mrs. Wasserstadt claimed I was to no less than my father on a beautiful L.A. day in May.

Grounded. For the entire month. My senior year. It was pitiful.

I seethed over the intrusion to my freedom from that meddling neighborhood matriarch but I suspect my father was grateful. After all, being informed of my infractions by Mrs. Wasserstadt was a whole lot better than getting a phone call from the police.

I recalled that little, but painful, scenario from my past while traveling along a mountain road a few days ago. I had just been passed by two boys of high school age. Laughing and gesturing, they seemed to be having a grand old time as they sped by. Eighty miles an hour would be a conservative guess as to their speed. Beyond me, they passed a van with out-of-state plates on the right, obviously frightening the driver and winning another convert to the idea that all teenage boys should be incarcerated for fifteen or so years.

I watched them zoom up the mountain while the rest of us appeared to be standing still. They went by too fast and my reactions were too slow to get their license number. But what if I had? I wondered if the boys' parents would appreciate some meddling old minister giving them a call about their child's driving habits. Oddly and totally against my own adolescent experience, I realized I would be doing both the kids and the parents a favor if I reported them. Who knows, I might have even saved their lives and the lives of a few others.

Once, while sight-seeing on the African island of Zanzibar, our driver-guide suddenly slammed on the brakes and leapt from our van. We watched in stunned silence as he chased a young boy into the jungle only to return moments later with the crying boy in tow. Though none of us could understand Swahili, it was abundantly clear that this kid was getting the tongue lashing of his life. When the driver returned, we queried as to the reason for this little episode. We were even more astonished when the driver told us that he hadn't the faintest idea who the boy's parents were and what's more it didn't matter. The driver had seen the boy engaged in a dangerous activity...he was playing too close to the highway...and gave him a piece of his mind. Indeed, he gave the boy a piece of society's mind and he made no apologies for it.

"It takes a village to raise a child," is an African saying that tells the truth, but I needn't have traveled all the way to Zanzibar to learn it. Mrs. Wasserstadt taught me that a long time ago. Now it is time to pass it on.