Note: This post has nothing to do with politics or even current events. It has everything to do with a small slice of summer enjoyed, and the memories a warm summer night on the road can inspire:
From Columbus, OH, around midday on Saturday, I managed to make a 7AM delivery Monday morning in Pensacola, FL. That little feat required rearranging my schedule so that I wound up doing a night drive for the final leg of the trip which took me down I-65 in Alabama. A fog hovered over the road rather than on it, and framed the moon with a fuzzy orange halo. The thick, warm, muggy air almost seemed like a comfortable embrace to me, as it nearly always does when I return south.
Fearing a reprisal of the lacerating opera that nearly cracked my windshield during my last night drive, I instead selected a New Orleans jazz collection on the smart phone. Soon, the dreamy haze of moonlight was accompanied by a lone, soulful clarinet. The familiar notes from the old standard, Summertime, seemed perfect to the drive.
It’s funny sometimes how a song will bring memories back in vivid form. My Dad used to sing that song, Summertime, while driving me home from kindergarten in Baton Rouge. The drive would take us right by the Governor’s mansion, which back then was home to politicians that were so crooked that they had to be screwed into the ground when they died.
I remember the kindergarten pretty vividly too. It was a Presbyterian operation, as I recall, …at least I think it was. They used to march us into a sanctuary where the lighting didn’t work. It seemed like a huge, cavernous place, though I’m sure it has shrunk considerably in the intervening years. It was imposing and full of shadows, except for the little light attached to the pulpit, where a gaunt man in a black robe spoke sternly to us. I never knew what he was saying, because by the time his voice made it to us it had bounced off the walls several times and the echoes were colliding against each other so that he ended up talking over himself, making the entire speech pointless. The light from the pulpit cast odd shadows on the man’s face, and he didn’t seem entirely happy with us. Which was just as well, because I wasn’t entirely happy with his kindergarten.
I was the terror of that place. Not understanding that my Mom had to go to work to help support the household, I blamed the staff there for taking me away from her. Not only that, but they kept giving me orders, which at age 3 or 4, I wasn’t very well inclined to take (I‘ve made small improvements since then, but not many). Not only that, but the little wooden chairs we sat in for story time had splits in the seats that pinched our derrieres. I remember one day when I got lucky and ended up on a chair that didn’t pinch. Naturally, the story that day was a short one, so my comfort was short-lived. The teacher told us to put our chairs away and I said no. She said she would take me to the Principal’s office if I refused, and I said she could take me there if she wished but I was taking the chair with me. So she yanked me up by my left arm (this would become the arm of choice for transporting me to the Principal’s office where I had reserved seating) and I dragged the chair behind me with my right arm. Soon the chair escaped my grasp, leaving my right hand free. With that right hand, I caught her with a round-house to the chops. Well sir, we practically flew to the Principal’s office after that. It was the first of several skirmishes I had with the pleasant people at that little place.
Driving down the highway, 45 years later, I recalled that when I first went to that kindergarten, the teachers were mostly young,attractive and cheerful ladies. By the time I left, three years later, the place was staffed by blue-haired, battle-hardened veterans who wielded those little green roofing sticks from Lincoln Logs with a speed and ferocity that would make Doc Holladay proud. As the highway hums along to the music, I wonder what ever became of those people from so long ago. Does my friend Sam still bear the scars from a rather memorable fight we got into? What ever became of that one very short kid named Itzy (as in itsee bitsee spider)? He insisted he had changed his name to Buck, and who could blame him? And how's the guy with the perpetual runny nose that he wouldn’t wipe doing these days?
From moving around as a minister’s son, to a career in the military, to being a long haul trucker, I’ve spent the vast majority of my life on the move. I’ve been rich in the number of friends made over the years. But I lost track of many of them. On this morning, in the misty hours before sunrise, as the music of my home and my childhood help pass the time on the highway, I count myself a blessed man. Blessed with friends, with a wonderful family, and with rich memories of a colorful life. But I still miss that chair…