A Memory That Goes Way Back

A few nights ago I was driving home from a friends house. It wasn't really very late, but it was already quite dark. There was a crisp fall chill in the air when I first left the bright warmth of her doorstep and by the time I got to my vehicle the goosebumps were already raising on my arms. I backed out of the driveway and pulled off into the night, quickly adjusting my radio station to a song I recognized. Before I even hit the end of her street I got an idea. I rolled down my windows and turned up the floor heat all the way then smashed the buttons on the radio to find a country station. The music was up, the cool night air was hitting me in the face while the floor heater kept me from being too chilled. In that moment I remembered times from my childhood - exactly the same and vastly different.

My dad's commute to work was a long one and it wasn't rare for him to bring along one of us girls to work with him or to drop off at Mammaw's for the day. I was a daddy's girl through and through so often I was the one he made the trip with. He left early in the morning, well before the sun, when the air was still cold even in the springtime. Many times we made the trip in a mid-level warmth that allowed me to sleep wrapped tightly in his jean jacket, face pressed against the window while he wore his t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and the collar cut out - the tie dye was his favorite. Those were good mornings, but they weren't the magical mornings. The magical mornings came when we rolled down both windows in the little green truck and turned on the floor heat. I still nestled into the jean jacket, but there was no chance I was going to miss one of these mornings to an uncomfortable window pillow. Dad turned up the radio, usually playing classic rock and occasionally country and we sang. He made up words where he'd forgotten and beat the rhythm out on the steering wheel, dashboard, and seats. These were the mornings when we made magic as we sped through towns with the windows open.

I'm no longer a child and my dad has a new job - he has to wear a shirt and tie. The little green truck was sold and I live far from home now. That enormous jean jacket wouldn't seem so big anymore if it even had the chance of making it this many years. Those magical sunless mornings are no more. But sometimes, and only sometimes, when I roll down the window, turn up the heat, and blast the music, I remember those times and think how proud my dad would be.