Memories of the Sunday drive
Sunday afternoon drives were torture for my brothers and me. As desperate as we were to get away from the familiar routes of our daily lives—school bus paths, the road to church, trips to the grocery store—we still hated piling into the car for our family’s weekly outing.
Mom was always excited at the prospect of the Sunday drive. Without a driver’s license (a condition almost incomprehensible nowadays), she depended on Dad and friends for every trip she needed to make.
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Traveling new roads, even ones that led nowhere, was a treat for her.
Mom went to the driveway early and opened the door of the old black Buick to “let it air out”. The stench of Dad’s cigarettes was as familiar to us as his voice, but she always thought a little breeze could whoosh it away.
The seating arrangement starting off was always the same. Mom in front. Brothers on either side of the back seat, by the windows. Me in the middle. I was crushed between the sweaty, knobby, scabby knees of two brothers I could barely tolerate the rest of the week. This was as close as we were ever forced to sit, and it was agony for us all.
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Mom had such high hopes for each trip. She flashed a “won’t this be fun” grin toward the back seat, and then turned and scooched around in her seat to get comfortable.
But this was, as were most adventures of my childhood, a serious undertaking. No silliness. We would ride and look and like it.
Dad lit up a Kent and started the car. The brother on the driver’s side propped a protective forearm against the frame of his open window to deflect the inevitable ashes that would fly like glitter into the wind.
We left the driveway and turned toward the river. Or toward town. It didn’t matter. Dad knew lots of back roads we’d never noticed. In minutes we were rolling along a dusty road that tied houses and barns together in curvy loops and rutted hills.
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The miles floated past. One tree looked like all the others. Cows. Rusty, barbed wire fences. Occasionally, we’d pass a house and see a family sprawled across their front porch in swings or atop steps. Our mobility made them envy us, while we wished we were settled there on that porch.
Conversation was limited during our drives. Dad would mumble to Mom, but the words sailed outside and missed our ears. My brothers and I had nothing to say, except “Scoot over!” every few miles, or “Who stinks?” when we passed a field of cows.
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After hours of riding, the anonymous road we traveled brought us to a familiar crossroad. Like baptized believers rising from murky waters, one of us would shout for joy. We knew where we were! Maybe the bus took us that way…or maybe a friend lived on this turnoff.
We were back in the familiar back yard of our daily lives.
By the time we rolled to a stop at our house, everybody had to go to the bathroom. Sweaty legs were stuck to the vinyl seat covers; they peeled away with stinging squeals. My brothers and I elbowed for position up the front porch stairs, racing for relief and drinks of water.
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Mom was last to get out—she opened her door and sat inside the car for a minute, as if committing to memory the dusty world she’d just seen.
Dad waited until she lumbered from her seat before turning off the car. The exhausted engine ticked like a racing heartbeat. With one last, lung-popping drag of his Kent, he opened his door, stepped onto the driveway, and tossed the butt into the gravel.
He had done his duty. We had taken our Sunday drive.
Contact Robin at robingarrisonleach@gmail.com
This article originally appeared on Canton Daily Ledger: Memories of Sunday drives from Robin Leach
