Early in my marriage, my new wife caught me looking at a pretty woman walking past us. I was a bit embarrassed, but Judy said, "Don't worry about it. You're married, not dead."

I found out pretty fast that the love of my life really was not into jealousy, despite the fact that my job often put me close to bevies of beautiful and sexy women.

It was not uncommon for me to phone home after a nice evening in which I had dined with a group of racing people, often including lovely, young public relations women.

At some point, I asked Judy if it bothered her that I was around these women all the time. Her reply, "I have no problem with you going out with them, just don't tell me what you ate."

We've been married almost 53 years now and her trust in me and mine in her remains solidly intact.

But I still like to look.

Over the years, I've had the opportunity to spend a little time with some of the most beautiful women in the world. Three in particular come to mind.

I was in Montreal early in my racing career for the Canadian Grand Prix when I was introduced to an aspiring young driver named Olivier Chandon. He was set to race in one of the preliminaries, but was considered a possible future Formula One driver.

He was also an heir to the French Moët et Chandon champagne fortune.

I started to ask him questions, but his pr person interrupted and said Olivier had to get ready for a practice session. The youngster suggested we continue the interview the next morning at breakfast, since we were staying at the same downtown hotel.

I was already sitting at the table when Olivier walked in with one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.

He introduced me to his girlfriend, super model Christie Brinkley, and sat down. It was one of the most difficult interviews I had ever done, since I had trouble concentrating on my questions while trying not to stare at the lovely Christie, who seemed unaffected by the whole thing.

Olivier, who had been educated in both France and the U.S., was a lively, fun interview. And he tried to keep Christie involved by asking her to tell me what it was like to be with a race driver.

Her answer: "It's scary as hell, but he's cute."

I was still hoping to run into Olivier at other events in the future. But, very sadly, the young man was killed in a crash the next year while testing his car at a Florida track.

My next meeting with one of the world's great beauties was a complete coincidence.

I was flying from Newark to Daytona Beach for a NASCAR race early one morning. The trip included a change of planes in Atlanta.

In those days, I was flying so much that it was not uncommon, thanks to the frequent flyer programs, for me to get an upgrade to first class.

On that particular trip, I was given an aisle bulkhead seat at the front of the plane. It was early and I was still sleepy as I tried to concentrate on a crossword puzzle in the Newark Star-Ledger to keep me awake until we got off the ground.

Moments before the door was closed, a slim young women in jeans and a drab sweatshirt, wearing a baseball cap with her pony tail hanging out the back, slipped into the plane, excused herself and sat down in the window seat next to me.

I wasn't paying much attention until the flight attendant came by the ask if we wanted a drink after takeoff.

"I need coffee, badly," I said to the young lady.

My seatmate said, "Oh, me too."

That was when I looked over and saw the lovely face of Kim Bassinger looking back at me with a smile.

This was shortly after she had been in the news for buying the town of Braselton, GA, which she planned to turn into a theme park and movie studio. That plan never worked out and she wound up declaring bankruptcy. But, since the Road Atlanta track was just outside Braselton, it gave me an opening to begin a conversation.

She was happy to chat and, after we got our coffee, the talk turned to what it was like to be a sports writer covering auto racing.

"Isn't it just too noisy?" she asked. "I told her that I tried to stay away from the garages and the track when the cars were running, spending most of that time in the press box or infield media center.

She also asked the usual question: "Isn't it boring just watching the cars go round and round?"

When I explained some of the strategy involved in racing, some of things that made the sport most interesting and fun, she actually seemed to take interest.

As we gathered up our bags after landing in Atlanta, she said, "Maybe I'll get to a race one of these days. It was fun talking to you."

I gave her my card and told her I'd be glad to show her around. Unfortunately, I never heard from her again.

Another beauty I got to spend a bit of time with was Emily Procter, one of the stars of the long-running CSI Miami television show.

Emily was entered in the annual Toyota Pro/Celebrity event at the Long Beach Grand Prix., pitting professional drivers against celebrities in a 10-lap race.

Each year, I would approach the Toyota pr people to set up an interview with one of their celebrity drivers during the race weekend. Over the years I got to sit down with Sir Patrick Stewart, Jay Leno, George Lucas, Gene Hackman, Donny Osmond, Ricky Schroeder and many others.

But, unquestionably the most memorable was my sit-down with Ms. Procter.

She was funny and engaging, with a soft southern accent, and quickly established that her knowledge of racing was mostly from watching NASCAR during her upbringing in North Carolina.

She also revealed that most of the time, CSI Miami was actually filmed in the Los Angeles area and that she often drove past the Long Beach Arena, where we were doing the interview, on her way to work.

Once she found out I was living in Raleigh, NC, her hometown, the talk turned away from racing to more about favorite restaurants and other places in Raleigh.

Most memorable for me, though, was the end of the interview. As we said goodbye, this lovely lady gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, the only time in my more than 40 years in journalism that an interviewee had kissed me goodbye.

After each of these meetings with gorgeous women, I told Judy, who is the least star struck person I know, about them in great detail. In each case, she smiled and said, "I'm happy for you."

Trust is a wonderful thing.

My last blog about an incident on a family trip triggered a few more memories of adventures from my youth.

My parents were raised in Cleveland, Ohio and, besides having lots of family _ grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins _ there, dad worked for more than 40 years for Campus Sportswear, a mens and boys clothing manufacturer based in Cleveland.

Twice a year, dad would head for Cleveland to attend a series of meetings that introduced the new clothing lines and to pick up the samples he would use to take orders throughout his territory in Wisconsin and Illinois.

We moved to Madison, WI after dad was given that territory in 1950. In fact, we made the move from Cleveland to Madison on my seventh birthday, June 16, 1950.

My brother, Rich, two years younger, and I had quite a few friends in the neighborhood in Cleveland and we decided, without consulting mom and dad, to invite all of them to a birthday party at our house the day before the move. Of course, the parents came along to say goodbye.

It was quite a surprise to our harried and exhausted parents when people began arriving, presents in hand.

Dad quickly dashed out to get cake and ice cream and mom grabbed a table back off the rented U-Haul truck to put things on.

I thought I was in real trouble, but it turned out to be such a nice sendoff that all was forgiven _ although with the warning never to do that again.

Once we lived in Madison, there were one or two and sometimes three trips to Cleveland a year. That included going with dad, quite often, for his sales meetings and also lots of family occasions - bar mitzvahs, weddings and, sadly, funerals.

The Interstate system was still under construction and the 500-mile driving trips from Madison to Cleveland began with a long stretch on two-lane U.S. 12, which wound through numerous small Wisconsin and Illinois towns.

On one trip when I was around 14, meaning Bob, the youngest of my four siblings, was 4, we were stopped at a speed trap in Dodgeville, WI. Dad was clocked doing 35 in a 25 mph zone that began suddenly, just yards from the 65 mph highway speed.

The car that pulled us over was unmarked but had a bulbous light on top and a big spotlight on the driver's side. I remember it being covered with mud and dirt.

There were two men in the car, wearing drab brown uniforms and no hats. As they stepped out of the car, both unbuckled their side arms and began to walk slowly to both sides of the car, as if the mom and dad and five young children in the car were about to attack.

Dad had a very quick temper and both mom and I tried to keep him calm. But he flared as one of the cops came to his window, saying, "What the hell do you think you're doing drawing guns on us? Do you think my kids are criminals?"

The cop didn't blink, telling dad he had to pay the fine (I think it was $20) in cash or follow them to the courthouse. He grumbled, but paid, much to our relief. The rest of the trip was uneventful and I think, after getting through Chicago, we were able to use the Indiana Toll Road, which had just opened. The Ohio Turnpike was one of the first to open and we had driven it several times by then.

A couple of years later, we drove to Miami during spring break. As usual, dad drove straight through.

We always stayed at a very nice family-style hotel in Miami Beach. The best thing about it was the pool area, which Rich and I particularly loved. One time, there was a cold snap while we were there - highs in the 50s - and Rich and I were the only ones crazy enough to go in the pool. Of course, the water was warmer than the air, but most everybody thought we were nuts.

This time, the weather was beautiful, with temperatures in the 80s and the sun shining brightly. Everyone was happy and looking forward to a great week. But dad had not gotten notice of when the spring sales meetings were to start, so he called to find out.

He had expected the meetings to begin about two weeks after our vacation. Unfortunately, Campus had moved the meetings up to the middle of the week we arrived in Miami. The letter with the dates had probably arrived in Madison the day we left.

Dad suggested we just stay in Florida and he would fly up to Cleveland for the meeting and fly back after. But Mom didn't drive and she was worried about staying alone with five kids for a week in a hotel.

So, just one day after arriving, we packed up, jumped back in the car _ a Pontiac station wagon _ and headed for Cleveland. It was disappointing, but we all loved going to Cleveland, so that softened the blow.

Everything was fine until we hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike, a windy, dangerous road even today. It began to snow and pretty soon it was coming down hard. Than the windshield wipers stopped working.

Dad was a great driver who loved to be behind the wheel. But driving on the Turnpike in a snowstorm with no wipers was more than he bargained for. He pulled to the side of the road, saying, "We'll wait here until it lets up."

But, within minutes, a caravan of semis came slowly past. Dad joined the rear of the long caravan and we drove on in the wake of that last semi, traveling at maybe 20 mph. We could barely see the rear lights of the truck, but dad kept a steady pace for about half an hour until we came to one of the Turnpike gas stations.

Luckily, they had a mechanic on duty. The fix for the failed wipers was surprisingly easy. The wipers ran on a vacuum system and the mechanic pointed out a small hole that was letting air in. Dad filled the hole with a paper clip and the wipers worked again.

We were able to continue our trip without any more trouble. And, since we all loved being in Cleveland and seeing family, we didn't really miss being in Florida.

Another sales meetings story happened when I was in college, probably 19 years old.

The meetings coincided with my spring break from the UW and I joined the rest of the family for the trip to Cleveland. By this time, there was Interstate nearly all the way, so the ride was shorter and easier.

But, when we got to Cleveland, dad found out many of the new samples had not arrived and the meetings were postponed for at least a week. On the spur of the moment, dad decided, instead of spending the week in Cleveland, we would do a road trip to Toronto, a city we had never visited.

It was a pretty short ride from Cleveland, mostly along the shores of Lake Erie. And we stopped at Niagara Falls, the first time any of us kids had seen it. Very impressive.

We then continued on to Toronto. And it was then that we started to see billboards promoting the Canadian National Exposition.

It turns out the Expo, which is a real big deal in Canada _ kind of like a mini World's Fair _  was starting the day after our arrival in Toronto - where we had no hotel reservation.

Upon arriving in Toronto, dad saw a fancy looking hotel up on a hill overlooking Lake Ontario and within an easy drive of the downtown area.

It was about 10 p.m. when we arrived and Rich and I accompanied dad into the hotel. He walked up to the front desk and the man behind the counter smiled and said, "Hello. Can I help you."

Dad said, "Hi. I'm here with my wife and five kids. What can you do for us?"

The man looked startled and said, "Nothing, if you don't have a reservation. This is Expo week and every hotel within 200 kilometers of Toronto is fully booked."

Dad was undaunted.

"You must have something," he said. "I know you'd find a way to put up a VIP if he suddenly showed up. So consider me a VIP."

The guy started to shake his head and say something. Then he paused and looked down at a big book on the counter. This was before computers.

"Well, we do have a room that was used today for a board meeting. It's not a standard hotel room, but it has two pullout couches and we could bring in a couple of rollaways for the kids. But we would have to get it cleaned before we let you use it. That would take about a half hour."

Dad smiled and said, "That sounds fine."

But, never one to NOT look a gift horse in the mouth, he said, "How much?"

The man shrugged and said, "We usually get $120 a night for these meeting rooms."

This was in 1962. That was a fortune.

Dad said, "Look, it's 10 o'clock  at night and you're not going to find anybody to rent that room now. You can certainly do better than that."

After some serious negotiating, they agreed upon a two-night stay at $50 per night and everybody went away happy.

The room turned out to be very nice, with a big bathroom and a big screen TV. And the sleeping arrangements worked out just fine.

Laurie Harris (l) and Judy Harris with friend

The next day, we attended the Expo and I remember my sisters winning a huge Teddy Bear that took up an entire seat in the already-crowded car on the way back to Cleveland, and then on to Madison.

We had a great time, as usual, and another fun memory.

  

I suppose every family has its unproven stories, tales told from generation to generation, possibly embellished along the way.

But I enjoy believing that the following saga really did take place.

My dad’s parents, Lipman Knitzer and Pearl Harris (nee Nussbaum), were born in Russia and Poland, respectively, sometime in the late 1800's.

The family legend is that my grandfather and his brother, Harris Knitzer, were drafted into the Russian army in their early 20's, sometime in the early 1900's. They were a handsome pair, as proven by a family photo of the two of them in their uniforms. But they were Jews and, therefore, not treated well in the army.

They chose to desert instead of becoming canon fodder and took their families and began a 1,400-mile, months-long trek from Eastern Russia to France, passing through Poland, Germany and Belgium along the way. They survived by stopping at small villages and getting help from fellow Jews, trading work for food and a roof over their heads.

My grandfather and his first wife had a small child, my aunt Miriam (Mamie). The first wife, whose name I never knew, died along the way. They wound up in Le Havre, France, where my grandfather and his brother found work and earned enough for passage on a ship to the U.S., where they had cousins who would sponsor their entry.

Meanwhile, the women in the Jewish community of Le Havre thought it was terrible that my grandfather was raising a baby alone. Match-making was an honorable profession in those days and a new wife was found for my grandfather. She was a 16-year-old Polish girl named Pearl Nussbaum, who was also alone and wanted to go to the U.S.

My father was supposedly conceived during the ship’s passage to America.

Upon arriving at Ellis Island, the port of entry in New York City, my grandfather’s family got in one line and his brother in a second line. When it came time to answer the clerk’s questions, my grandfather said his name was Lipman Knitzer. They clerk said, ``Leon what?’’ Uncertain of what was being asked, my grandfather turned to the other line and asked, ``Harris, what’s he asking?’’ The clerk promptly said, ``Leon Harris, OK.’’ 

That’s how Lipman Knitzer became Leon Harris and how we became the Harris family.

Although we lost track of my grandfather's brother, who moved to Canada, we were told he also took the surname Harris at some point. So we do have Harris relatives in Canada and elsewhere.

Another family legend that I first heard when I was very young involved my mother's family.

My grandfather on that side was not exactly a family man. He was an over-the-road trucker who often showed up at home just long enough to make my grandmother, Nettie Krieger, pregnant again. After the sixth kid, he left and never came back, leaving Grandma Nettie to raise the family by herself.

But there was a story that, before he left for good, he would sometimes take the family on Sunday drives in one of those big old sedans from the 1920's or 30's.

He liked silence in the car and would flare up if one of the children started talking or made any noise, so the trips were usually done in peaceful silence, with everyone just taking in the eastern Ohio scenery.

One Sunday, the drive included the six kids, their mother and her mother, who sat in the back seat next to the passenger-side door. Great grandma fell asleep as they drove. My grandfather was apparently a careful driver and he took his turns very slowly.

As he made a turn at a quiet country intersection, great grandma's door popped open and she tumbled out onto the grassy berm without a sound.

One of my girls in the back, afraid to make a sound, reached out and quietly closed the door so as not to get Papa upset. But then she began quietly sobbing.

My grandma looked into the back seat to see what was wrong and the sobbing girl quietly said, "Bubbe fell out!"

Grandma screamed and grandpa hit the brakes. They went back and found great grandma unhurt and still sleeping soundly.

At least that was the story I heard.

In 1984, my mom was dying from colon cancer. She was on her deathbed in a hospital in Cincinnati, where she had lived for a number of years.

Judy and I drove in from Cleveland to be with her.

One afternoon, Judy and my Aunt Gail, mom's youngest sister, were sitting with her. Judy said, "Mom, Mike has told this story about you and your family over the years. I'm just wondering if it is true."

She then told mom and Aunt Gail the story. Mom said, "I have no idea what you're talking about." But Gail started to laugh.

It turns out that I had heard the story when I was a youngster, but it was about the family of one of Gail's friends.

That got all three of them laughing and Mom laughed so hard, tears began to stream down her face. So, here she was, three days before she died, having one of the best laughs of her life.

Another story that actually involved our family took place when I was a teenager.

Most years at spring break, dad would pack us all up in the car and head for Miami Beach or Biloxi, MS for some warmth and relaxation.

Like me, he loved to drive and never seemed to get tired. Often, he would drive through the night to get to our destination. I remember once driving through the Everglades on a moonless night, the two of us the only ones awake in the quiet car.

The trees were like a tall picket fence as we sped past, and it was so dark that little beyond the headlights was visible. It was eerie and cool at the same time. And dad and I kept each other entertained by talking sports. It is one of my favorite memories of my dad.

Another time, we took a different route than usual and drove through the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.

As we neared one of the highest points on our route, dad ran over a large rock sitting in the middle of the road. It ripped out the oil pan and damaged the transmission on his big Packard Patrician.

He pulled to the side of the road and looked around, saying, "We'll have to find some help."

There was no traffic at that point and nobody to flag down. So dad said, "I'll walk ahead and see if I can find a telephone somewhere."

It was somewhat scary as mom and me and my brothers and sisters waited in the car, peering out at the vistas far below as dad walked ahead and disappeared around a big bend in the road.

But he was only gone a short time before he reappeared around that same bend with a big smile and a jaunty pace.

"There's a gas station and a small motel just up ahead," dad explained. "We can walk up there and the guy will come tow the car and see what repairs we need."

The repairs were extensive and the mechanic had to order parts from Gatlinburg, the nearest city. He said the parts would arrive the next day, so we checked into the motel, a very rustic place with the only telephone and TV in the lobby.

The place was run by an older couple, who made us feel right at home. There was no restaurant, but they fed us dinner and breakfast before the car was ready the next afternoon.

That whole experience could certainly have been a lot worse and it did make a great tale.