On the Road…

Mom and a Dad…

I don’t remember my Mom not sitting next to my Dad in any of our vehicles. Gone are the days of a full front seat and snuggling next to your parent, sibling or sweetheart. Bucket seats and seatbelts have taken over. I understand the reasons, and I know it’s safer today, but I miss the seat and all it offered.

Keeping Dad awake…

Anyway, Mom sat by Dad because they liked it that way, but that wasn’t the only reason. Mom had a job to do when we were on the road. Everyone else could sleep, but it was her job to keep Dad awake as night wore on. He suffered from high blood pressure, among other things we weren’t aware of then, and would just go to sleep when he got still. (It’s a good thing he was the Christian man he was, because he slept like a baby thru most church sermons.) Mom would talk to him, asking questions so he had to talk, make him sing with her, elbow him, and just generally do whatever it took to keep him awake until he finally gave in and stopped for the night.

”I got this…”

I remember laying awake as long as possible, thinking that I needed to stay alert in case Mom didn’t. I didn’t realize it then, but I was already developing the “control” issue that would factor so strongly in my adult life. I had this idea that I was the only one who could save us should Mom finally give out and fall asleep. If five minutes went by without a sound from the front seat, I would immediately “remember” something I needed to tell them. “Hey, Dad, do you remember that time…” or simply, “Mom, you awake?”  I’ve asked my brothers about these times and ironically they all remember thinking the same way, except they all agree they never worried about it for too long, since they fully believed Mom and I had it covered.

Me time…

Sometimes I would abandon my back window (Yes, window…back when cars had space behind the back seat for little girls to lay in. Remember, this was pre seatbelt days.) and beg to ride up front with my parents. It was very special to me because the rest of the kids were asleep and this was time I didn’t have to share. I wanted to be a part of whatever they were doing, saying, singing or discussing, and I would fight the sandman for as long as possible. But eventually, I would begin to nod and sleep would win.

The very best part of these front seat specials was being awakened with a whisper and a nudge. “Come on, little girl, we’re gonna let Mom and the boys sleep and we’re gonna go have a little breakfast.” I would sit up, rub the sleep from my eyes and see that we were in some quiet little community, parked in front of a greasy spoon, early-morning cafe. It would be about five a.m., the horizon just that beautiful pink and blue of a new day dawning.

I can remember the tempting morning smell of bacon on the air and the soft click sound of the car door closing gently.  We would trot across the sidewalk and enter the magic of a small town diner. There was a tinkling bell on the door, a greeting from the middle-aged waitress, hair in a carefree bun, pad and pencil in her pocket and menu in hand. These places were always packed with old men in overalls and beat-up cowboy hats, talking politics between noisy slurps of thirty-five cent black coffee in thick, heavy, white mugs, and between bites of runny yellow eggs sopped with big, fluffy, homemade biscuits dipped in cream gravy. I loved it!  Even now, so many years later, I can remember the wholesome, comfortable, hometown feel of the place…the ambience.

The waitress always had a ready smile and at least one customer would greet us on the way to our seat. “Hey, little lady, kinda early for you, ain’t it?” And Dad would proudly announce, “Got my helper with me this morning, puttin’ her to work later, so I’ve got to feed her a hearty breakfast.”

Then, since he never met a stranger, he would visit with folks while I agonized over the best thing on the menu. I have always loved breakfast food, and even then had a terrible time trying to choose, but nearly always ended up going with whatever Dad had, which consistently meant eggs, bacon, hash browns, bisquits and gravy! (No wonder he had a heart problem.)  I could have had cardboard with mud on it, it still would have been wonderful. It was all about the undivided time with Dad and being made to feel so special.  It’s a great memory.