The
Old Coot rides down memory lane.
By
Merlin Lessler
I
was on a 12 lane, 70 MPH highway the other day, 6 lanes going north, six lanes
south. The way cars wove in and out was amazing. It was like being in the
Daytona Five Hundred. I did OK, for an old guy. Did some weaving myself, though
I felt like I should do what an 81 year-old is supposed to do; go to the center
lane and stay there going, 45 miles per hour with my left signal blinking. Just
to add a little drama to the symphony between the lanes.
It's
an ugly mess, compared to the road trips my sister and I took in the back seat
of the family sedan, a 1950 Hudson Hornet, gazing out the window counting cows.
Cows on her side versus my side. And, reading billboards, twenty feet in the
air and Burma Shave signs at street level. There were only two lane roads where
we lived in those days. Even the major route through town, Route 17. The speed
limit was 50 MPH, but you could rarely go that fast for very long. Not when you
got stuck behind a truck inching up a hill or a family in a Buick sedan taking
a Sunday Drive.
We
were never bored; when the cows were gone, we played the Alphabet Game – be the
first one to spot a letter on a sign, working through the alphabet in sequence.
Alice’s Diner would start us off with an “A.” No matter how far ahead we got,
the “Q” would slow us down. The first eagle-eye to spot an antique shop usually
won, but a “Z” could be a show stopper too.
Time
went by quickly, between the alphabet game, watching and counting farm animals
and the odd sites along the way, like a mailbox 15 feet in the air with
“Airmail” stenciled on the front. Our dog spent the whole trip with his head
out the window, his ears flapping in the breeze. Dad’s arm hung out his window.
Mom made sure ours were inside the car. No seat belts, no air bags, no air
conditioning. But we were lucky; we had an AM radio, tuned to a station that
played the Lone Ranger and Suspense. The adventure in those days was getting
there. I miss it.
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