Highway One
It was still dark out. It was 4:15 in the morning. We had to get across the border so we needed extra time before catching our flight. I put my hand on his shoulder, “It’s time to wake up son. We need to get to the airport.” “Ok, Papi.” he says at the same time as he opens his eyes so wide that it’s hard to imagine that he was sleeping just seconds before. Only his smile is bigger than his eyes.
I know that smile and yet for so many different reasons. I’ve worn it and felt that excitement. My journey was far less interesting, but similarly engaging. An escape from the hot, doldrums of a crowded house with little food. “Time to wake up now, son.” My mother would say, but I always felt her hand on my shoulder before I heard her words. I was already awake. I had been awake for hours, anticipating the moment when we’d leave and go on the journey. “Ok, mom. I’m up. It’s ok. When are we leaving?” “Now my favorite son.” I never quite knew how to take that line. Was it a compliment? I am her only son. Would I still be her favorite if she had another?
We’d meet in the Pinto - the blue one with the vinyl seats and the cracked dashboard from the heat of the sun. The push buttons of the radio and the eight track tape of Anne Murray signing Bluebird. I loved this time, this experience,this journey. Alone, finally with my mother. No sharing her with my sisters. She suddenly had time for me.
We’d ramble down Highway One with dim headlights meeting the rising sun. Not too much to see but old motels that fell into a state of collapse when the interstate system arrived ten years before. I found myself amazed at the diversity of the scene. There was Storybook Land with its fading characters looking sad and long-faced despite their fabled personas. Then, up the hill the Mount Vernon Inn compete with the steeple on the top of the main house and white painted tires buried halfway into the ground marking the walkway to the out buildings where so many had traveled for so long on their journey to Florida.
We were only going to Fredericksburg. A mere 30 minutes away, but we might as well been going across the country. In my head we were. I loved this trip. We made it so many times that I had memorized every plot of land, building, and junk yard on the fading stretch of Americana. Mostly I remembered the time with her - my mother. The woman that was crazy enough to raise seven kids alone. So tiny at only four foot ten, but so tough. Colored reddish hair depending on how the dying went, some smart dress, and usually a Viceroy in hand. The only sign of the pressure was the slight bald spot that resulted from her literally pulling her hair out. But then she usually wore a wiglet -- that strange piece of hair that clipped on top to cover her weakness. No visible sign really, but I could still hear the ring -- the one with seven stones, one birthstone for each of her children, hitting the closed driver’s window as she yanked a strand. We never talked about that sound. We both knew what it was. There wasn’t anything to say about it.
We’d finally stop in Triangle, just before the Marine base at Quantico. Seven- Eleven for breakfast. Black coffee for her and a donut and orange juice for me. Breakfast out of a bag, what’s not to like? It was sacred time. Only the two of us. In the dark. Heading to a destination that I knew was somehow my way out of poverty too -- Mary Washington College, where my second oldest sister had escaped thanks to Miss Duffy. Red brick buildings, flowing green lawns, and the beginning of my yearning for a college experience to transcend me from the darkness to the beginning of a new day.
I still love mornings. I drink coffee now. Probably started when I went to college. I drink lots of it in fact but never black. It’s too bitter for me. I wish I did like it black just for nostalgic reasons. Just like I wish I had an old car. Those things ground me in a way that keep me humble, keep me remembering what’s really important in life or what should be important to me -- being with someone you love, going on an adventure, anywhere, but together for a brief time feeling like you are really the favorite.
“How much longer until we get there?” He asks. “Probably thirty more minutes. We are almost to the border now. You can go back to sleep if you want. I will wake you up when we get there?” But I am somehow saddened when he does drift off, dreaming of the Caribbean and the five star resort that will be his paradise for the next week. “Doesn’t he know that this is the best part?” I think to myself. We’re together, driving in the dark. Its not important where we are going. The sun will be up soon and this is our bit of time. My bit of time to spend with my own favorite son.
I love the contrast between your relationship with your mother and now with your son; it's these layers and layers and how they edge up on each other that make life so rich. I too remember getting up before dawn for family drives. Do people still do that?
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I'm in the car with you, Frank, only with my own sons, driving south to Florida, me with a cup of coffee, the two of them already asleep in the car and a gorgeous peach sunrise just beginning--welcome to blog world!
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What a beautiful beginning, in so many ways. I can't wait for more! Congratulations on getting out there!
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Good for you! Getting your authentic self out is important - I'm glad Robin shared your Blog with her friends.
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Frank, I enjoyed your writings so much. You took me back in time. I love the way you write and express yourself. I can't wait til you publish your first book. "Get on the stick" I will be first in line!! Great Great Job!!
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Loved your story! Not sure how Mom would react about the "hair"problem. I was sweating it when I read about you liking an "old car" (Is there a story there perhaps?) I love you SO much, You're BEST! Keep writing.
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Dear Darling Brother of Christina,
I am typing this to show your sister how to verify her address so she can correspond with you........need I say more?
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Okay, so I tried to show Chris and the
computer just won't let me show her as I already was accepted by your blog.
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What a beautiful story; it moved me to tears! It is always so nice to remember such nostalgic times, isn't it. By the way, I too drink my coffee with cream, and never black =). Just by reading this post, I can tell you have the credentials for being a great father. Take care!
Jack
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Extremely handy, I am going to without a doubt possibly be coming back again since my spouse and i begin this following job.
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