When I die, I want to go peacefully like my Grandfather did, in his sleep -- not screaming, like the passengers in his car.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010


I remember, as a child, the excitement of taking a trip in my dad's 1957 Bel-Air.  It was pink with the gray wings, at least I thought they were wings.  They seemed like wings when we went flying down the highway.  Weren't things so much simpler then?  I remember lying in the back window of the car, looking out at the cars behind me as we flew.  I would have thought my mom, being the worrier and over-protector that she was, would have had a fit about the danger associated with that posture because nowadays, what happens if you see a kid in the window of a car or on the back of a pickup truck?  "OH, MY GOD!  WHAT HORRIBLE PARENTS!"  

We would make the trip to my grandparents' house in that car every Sunday for dinner.  My grandmother was, and I still believe this after several years of living and eating, the best cook in the world.  One of my finest memories was having a belly full of chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh corn on the cob, and fresh-picked green beans, embracing that dull sleepiness that would follow, and curling up in the sun-warmed back window of the car.  I would give up any responsibilities for my safety to my most cherished adults riding shotgun, and sleep all the way home...that kind of sleep that only sated children can accomplish.

What is your traveling memory?  

Let Tuesday roll! 

1 comment:

  1. I remember once when I would have been somewhere between three and four, we lived at Scott AFB about 90 miles from the town where my grandparents lived. It was already dark and my Pop decided to go visit his Mom in Fairfield. Somehow it was decided I would get to go. I'm sure a little begging was involved. So Mom put some clothes for me in my little blue suitcase with the mirror glued to the top and Pop and I headed out in the dark to visit grandma. It was a special time for just the two of us. It still brings a smile to my face remembering that trip.