Joy-Riding
Sept 22 2022
We never used “joy-ride”
to describe those Sunday drives
with my father at the wheel.
Even though, as a child, it seemed that way.
Sure, we'd cruise past some sights
and stop to eat somewhere,
but otherwise
it was as if we’d left home
for no other reason
than to take the long way back.
And I went along for the ride,
gazing out the window
crammed between my brothers
getting antsy and bored.
2 lane roads
with gravel shoulders,
farm animals
in grassy fields.
And further north
a glimpse of a lake
strobing through the trees,
brooding forests
closing in on either side.
Where I would have stopped and explored,
while my father
was all about the drive.
But there are no joy-rides today.
Too much traffic
greenhouses gases
the cost of fuel.
Not to mention the country
getting further and further away
if there's even any left.
Yet the romance of the open road
is tempting as ever,
the freedom
of going nowhere fast
feels the same.
My dad's left arm
with a farmer's tan
casually draped
out the open window,
a sharp line
where the short-sleeve ended.
The wind
messing with his hair,
or at least the few fine wisps
that were left on his head.
No air conditioned cars back then.
He loved to drive,
took pride in where he lived;
pointing out the sights
with a child's delight,
and going too fast
for a family man
who practised restraint
and believed in rules.
Really, that word would have been perfect.
The pure joy he took
after a week of work
keeping his business a going concern,
tooling down a country lane
behind the wheel
of a big Buick V-8;
no loans to repay
no payroll to make
no barely breaking even.
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