The first car I remember was a ‘54 Chevy. Dad moved us to Michigan in that car and I remember the fabric of the back seat, like a buzz hair cut chaffing my bare legs. Dad loved to drive. We took our vacations every year to Pennsylvania to see his family, stopping in Ohio to see my mom’s relatives, too.
The turnpike forever changed our trips, before that we always took the blue highways across the states, stopping at farmhouses with rooms for rent or musty motels. Dad would drive, smoke a cigar now and then, and fall asleep from time to time, while mom said the Rosary on our behalf. Mom was always awake on these trips. Dad’s head would nod and mom was right there with a ‘Frank, you’re falling asleep!’ and a nudge to the ribs. Mom didn’t learn how to drive until she was 55. Dad was king of the road until then.
I remember one road trip, before the turnpike was built, dad just had to keep going another 10 miles, another 30 minutes, until suddenly it was so late and we were so far off the beaten path, there were no motels in sight. I was asleep across the back seat when I was suddenly thrown to the floor. As I raised myself up in a daze I saw mom and dad, eyes and mouths agape, while a deer stared into the car from atop the hood. I remember thinking how sweet it looked, staring at the three of us interlopers.
Dad got out of the car to survey the damage while mom sped through some Hail Mary’s. One headlight was broken, it was too dark to see any dents, and of course the deer was dead. Well, now it was definitely time to find a place to sleep. Dad pulled the deer off to the side of the road and slid back behind the wheel. He drove along, slowly for some time before our one headlight found a sign in the dark night claiming, ‘Rooms to Let’. We pulled into a circle drive and up to the door of a large, old farmhouse. I was still thinking of the deer’s stare when I stepped from the car into the black night. Fireflies dancing over the lawn made this place seem like a fairyland.
The house was warm and welcoming. Mom was at ease immediately and released her grip on my hand. We tiptoed up the stairs to our room, following behind the wide hips of a woman who smelled like fresh bread and wore a red-flowered apron. She showed us our room and the bathroom down the hall we would apparently share with other unseen travelers. She filled a big pitcher with hot water and placed it in a large bowl on the dresser so we could wash up. I don’t remember much after getting tucked in, but in the morning when I woke, I could hear voices coming from downstairs and smells that reminded me of my grandma’s kitchen. We dressed and went down for breakfast. The table was long and full of food. Men in suits were seated around the table, all talking at once. My dad immediately joined the conversation, finding himself at home among his own kind, salesmen. The deer and our damaged car soon became the hot topic.
Once we were on the road again, mom would fall back into the rhythm of her rosary. Dad would have me rub his neck, stiff from the drive, until my small hands ached from the assignment.
I remember these trips sometimes when I am driving here or there. I can even conjure up the smell of dad’s cigar, the color of mom’s rosary beads (blue glass), and the rash on the backs of my legs.
~ Val Kelly is a 30-year Truckee resident. Val has been a Medical office manager for 25 years and is a member of the Corner Booth Diner Divas, a group of local women writers who meet regularly to work on short stories, poems and even novels. She has two sons, two daughters, three grandchildren and a cat. She lives with her family in downtown Truckee and they have been working on their 125 year old home forever.
