On the Road (Without Cassidy, Kerouac & LuAnne Henderson)

ON THE ROAD (WITHOUT CASSADY,
KEROUAC & LUANNE HENDERSON)

I sit between my parents; I’m
seven, maybe eight years old.
The green glow of the dashboard
gauges in my father’s 1946 Nash
gaze back at me as I listen to him
speak of things that elicit further
visions in my fertile imagination.
His voice and his stories are magic,
giving me a sense of security I
cannot explain to myself, so I
ask more questions, compelling
him to talk on in our winter night
        travel toward home.

My mother is quiet, keeping her
thoughts to herself as she holds
my younger brother in her lap.
Because it is cold in the back seat
where the car’s heater cannot
penetrate, we are privileged to
sit up front in these pre-seatbelt
days when highway safety is a
matter of keeping the car
            on the road.

Sitting low in the seat I cannot see
our headlights reach out toward
the road ahead. Yet, cold blackness
outside our windows does not
frighten me as I keep my eyes on
the glow of those mystical gauges.
The sound of my father’s voice
and the comfort of the heater pull
me inside a gentle blanket of love
as we speed on toward the writing
            of this poem.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

My dad worked in various parks depts all his life, so he was very knowledgeable about all things outdoors, especially plants & trees. Being a huge family (9 kids) with dad's meager pay, of course we always camped on our vacations, always patronized parks, which dad touted enthusiastically. I love this poem becuz it brings back many aspects of life I'd completely forgotten about. I love how you subtly compare norms of yesteryear, such as no seatbelt laws! Heart warming reminiscing! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Chris Shaw]

Lovely piece of nostalgia here Tom. Saw it all in monochrome and it reminded me of the first time we all went out in a car on a Sunday afternoon. Loved the imagery. When you wrote about the dashboard, I was reminded of the mahogany dashboard on my Dad's old MG Magnet. We were in awe of it :) Love where you took me with this poem. All good wishes from across the pond.

Chris

[kentuck14]

thanks loads Chris for reviewing and the share. Amazing how so many have those images in their heads of family drives . . . a real togetherness.
T

[Chris Shaw]

Made me smile this evening Tom, where you took me. Saw all seven of us piling in that car, watched by our envious neighbours. Well over fifty years ago. All dressed in our Sunday best for a car ride!

[Robert Trakofler]

damn what a great memory share Kentuck! I remember driving with my dad on long trips I was constantly asking why or how my young mind was so inquisitive and he was always patient in responding bless his heart he would always explain things to me the sense of wonder and the comfort spell of his presence was so very well depicted in this writing!!!

[kentuck14]

Thanks Bunny . . . I guess these things stick in our brains because of the security we found in them.
Strange thing . . . one of the last things I did for my dad who died at 96 was take him for a drive in the country. What goes around comes around!
Thanks for stopping by . . . will stop in at your place soon.
T

[jacob erin-cilberto]

love the last line....a surprise but perfect...this memory of life writes itself.
the heater, the cold back seat, the '46 Nash...
the car we had when i was very little was a '50 Plymouth...
those cars were tanks...and i used to love to listen to my dad tell his stories about work and whatever as well...
no seat belts back then...like your poem says...safety was keeping the car on the road..or maybe keeping the poem on the road.
j.

[kentuck14]

J,
We later had one of those "bath tub" nashes . . . 51 I believe . . . built like a tank! Chipped my front tooth on the hood playing "Joe Palooka." thanks for commenting.
T

[R.E. Ray]

This poem reminds me of similar experiences, most in my dad's 1966 Ford F100 (three-speed on the column). We didn't have seat belts. Because dad drove, we had no reason to fear crashing or being injured. He'd never allow us to be hurt. And, we heard stories about his childhood and trips in 1930s cars to Washington County, Kentucky where his grandfather was born.

It's remarkable poems like this that keep me coming back to the Cafe. Art, talent, and damn good storytelling! Nice work.

[kentuck14]

R.E.
Thanks for sharing your own memories. The F100, back in the day when pickups weren't the monsters we see today. 3-speed on the column . . . to think how that was so common! Thanks for sharing.
T

[Rhayne]

This is beautiful and brought back beautiful memories. My fav is the one I cherish most. My Granny had a '63 Oldsmobile wagon she used to distribute 'Raleigh Products'; facial creams, lotions, soaps, etc. It always smelled so good in there. And the scents were even stronger on rainy cold days and she would use the heater. She always smelled good too. My Aunt Adeline would do all the driving because Granny had a lead foot. We always called her 'hotrod granny'. They would always get into these deep conversations and forget I was even there in the back seat. I would just stretch out and enjoy the ride, the sounds of their voices and sweet smells all around me. Gah, that was so long ago.

[kentuck14]

Rhyane,
Thanks for your own rides in the old family car.
T

[DAH]

The nostalgia here is heartfelt and warming. I like how you have brought
it all together in such a short poem, making memories sparkle in my mind.

Nicely played T!
DAH

[kentuck14]

DAH,
Thanks for the kind words.
T

[DAH]

My pleasure!

[Eilis]

I remember the magic of riding in the car as a child. Especially the night drives, or rainy rides. It was always easy to believe that the figures of my imagination could be real in that space where you were together with others in warmth and darkness.

This is such a gentle, contemplative poem, Tom. The child mind still lingers in the words of the storyteller which seems to be a hallmark of good storytelling. Being able to inhabit the past and breathe life into it, I mean.

The world of the poem paints so wonderfully that time before awareness when the presence of our parents and the cocoon of family holds such sway with us that darkness itself loses the power to frighten.

I love the tension between the adult and child mind as the story weaves back and forth between the silent mother, the warmth of the heater, the absence of what we now think of as paramount in safety, and the actual feelings of security felt by the child. Such a wonderful dynamic.

It’s a poem that makes me feel both nostalgic and philosophical. An excellent mix.

[kentuck14]

E,
My father loved to take Saturday afternoon drives in the country . . . and as a young child grew to love watching the woods and pastures fly by and imagine being in those places looking for adventure.
Much of my childhood is wrapped up in those family drives. I wonder if people still engage in this simple family ritual?
Thanks for the kind words and thoughts.
T

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Amazing how you have captured the vivid quality of this memory and boxed it in a lovely poem but one which also marks that march of time as memories so far back are a marker of the gulf of days. Very enjoyable piece.

[kentuck14]

John, glad you liked this poem. Thanks for the encouraging words.
T

[Dave Brown]

that is a wonderful memory.
It feels more like a dream
You have let us all into that safe cuddly warm environment (except for the back seat)
That car would be worth a few pesos these days
Obviously you arrived at your destination
nicely done

[kentuck14]

Dave,
thanks for reviewing and commenting. Yes . . . the memory has a dream like quality to it. My father bought everything from Nash (2x), Rambler to an AMC Pacer! Then turned away to Ford!
Yeah . . . we got there!!. Thanks.
T