How We Do Friday Night

 A recent Friday night, 7:00 P.M.

We're in for the night here. Yep, we are calling it a day this early even if the weekend has just started. Now while I have never been much of weekend warrior, previous Friday nights played out differently than tonight.

In high school years, a Friday night might have meant a football game or driving through our hometown for hours on end. In college, it might have meant hanging out with the gang or an occasional date. At other times in my life, a Friday night meant work.

Friday nights now are about our family. Usually it means a collective sigh of relief that we have made it through another week of school and work. It might mean leftovers from the refrigerator or pizza delivered to our door. Sometimes it might mean a movie or family game night.

This particular Friday, Jennifer had to work late. This meant Hannah and I were on our own most of the evening. I picked up Hannah from school with plans already thought out. Since the little girl likes pizza and is usually famished at the end of a school day, I planned an early supper at a local pizza joint. Hannah was all for it.

We pulled into the pizza parlor parking lot while the sun was still a brilliant yellow in the sky. I had already envisioned several things about this venture. I knew how we had to order. I knew how we had to get our drinks. I knew we then had to locate a table or booth. Soon enough, all that went as planned.

I ordered a salad. I knew before ordering how my guest would most likely help me pick through it. I knew the good stuff, the cheese and the cucumbers were very likely to find their way into her grasp. Tonight, she also absconded with the mushrooms. Then, disaster struck.

She picked up her soft drink, which was in a paper cup with a plastic lid. The lid separated from the cup. Coca-Cola and ice splashed onto the table and into my lap. Some of the dark liquid made it's way into a small cup of ranch dressing. I imagine it took three dozen napkins to clear the mess. I had not planned for this yet I determined I would not allow such a mishap to ruin the time ahead.

Soon enough, our pizza arrived. I ordered Hannah two slices of cheese pizza. I ordered a large pizza for me, knowing much of it would be carried home so Jennifer could have a late Friday night dinner or we could all have a big lunch of leftovers Saturday. It was all delicious.

During our time eating, Hannah looked at me once and told me to ask her if she was having a good time. I asked her at that moment and received a thumbs up. After eating some on one of her slices, I asked Hannah if she wanted a slice of the big pizza. She did and she ate about half a slice. About that time, she reminded me to ask her again about whether she was having a good time or not. Another thumbs up.

It wasn't long before we were boxing up the leftover pizza and on our way home. We got here as the sun began sliding behind the mountains to the west. The rest of the evening was pretty basic, a Disney movie and a Hannah FaceTime call with one of her friends from school.

Meantime, I sat soaking in another Friday night. I flipped through past years thinking how this night of each week was magical in some way that at that moment meant so much. Now though looking back over this day I think about hearing Hannah tell me about her day. I think about the time at dinner when we laughed and ate. I think about how these days are so special, more special than I deserve and much more special than I ever imagined they could be. Thumbs up in every way.

Not Always Easy

A part of life that never changes is how life is always changing. Since much of this type of change is gradual, most of us live with some understanding that we live in the time between we realize such changes. Some change takes place, we realize the change and react.

When I think about my life, I seem to end up measuring the way life is now with how it was when I first can recall. This takes me back to my childhood. At this time, I began putting the puzzle pieces together of who I was, and who was in my family. God blessed me with a wonderful immediate family. Beyond that He also blessed me with amazing aunts, uncles, and cousins.

As life moved on, changes came about. Family members moved away. Some drifted away. Some died.

I was one of those who moved away. Granted, it is just a few hours away but still the distance and time is great enough to make it difficult to get there easily at times.

Still, there are days when I wish I could go back to the way it was when I first understood how those pieces of the puzzle fit together so that all the family I have ever known would still be together. Of course, such wishing can never make such a thing happen. This leads to another part of life, when change happens we react in some way. Hopefully, we all adapt, you know, change, in some way and move forward.

Recently, a couple of those extended family members died. Under normal circumstances, juggling work and family schedules here would determine how I could pay my respects. After all, being part of such a close and large family taught me to honor and respect those of us who pass away when that time comes. With the added weight of global pandemic, that decision became harder.

As I waited to hear details of visitation and service, the inclusion of the virus added to the equation of attending. When the details became available, it became clear I would not be able to attend. Work and family matters here would not bend enough to allow me to be present.

Living away from most of my family means this happens at times. Each time I grapple with this, I end up feeling guilty. I feel as if I am not properly remembering and honoring what these family members have meant, still mean and will forever mean to me.

To some who read this, what I say here may not mean much. To some family does not matter very much for various reasons. To some stopping to reflect when someone dies is a waste of time, after all, life goes on for the living. For me, I cannot understand that type of thinking. I was raised differently I suppose.

Part of life is also about making hard choices then living with the consequences of those decisions. When I moved here over twenty-five years ago, I knew then how losing family members to death would be something that would bother me. Knowing I could not always be on hand to share tears, laughs and memories of loved ones with those family members who will always be a part of who I am is something I knew I had to accept at some level. I am not sure I have been successful at finding that place. I am not sure I really want to ever find that place. I know now when it happens, it is never an easy thing to go through. That is one thing that does not seem to change.

Road Trip: The Yellow Rose

In this space, I have written about several road trips I have taken over the years. Once or twice I have taken a side trip in these stories. This is another side trip.

A few years after I learned to drive, my parents helped me buy a car. It was an early 1970s Road Runner. Sorry, I can’t recall the model year although I want to say it was 1973. The car had bucket seats and an eight-track player. My brother, who made a living using Bondo, sandpaper, water and paint to become an excellent paint and body man, used his talent to transform the car from Tootsie lollipop brown with a black stripe to black with a white stripe. Somewhere I have a photograph of the finished product.

I did not keep the car for long. You see there was a drinking problem. The car liked to drink oil and gas. When I went away to college, I did not drive it there so it sat for several months. In my first summer home, I sold the car and bought a late 1970s Datsun car. It was canary yellow with a black stripe. It was a much more sensible option for me. College was a seven-hour trip one way so the car with the better gas mileage seemed to be a no-brainer.

During my college years, that yellow car, sometimes referred to as the Yellow Rose, was my primary means of getting from Point A to Point B. While the car was reliable much of the time, it had its moments of frustrating unreliability. One trip back to college, it sputtered while leaving a rest area. The car ran okay as long as I kept my foot on the gas. When we stopped for lunch, I told a friend who was driving his Chevy Luv truck to not leave me since my car was sputtering at times. My friend did as I asked. Somehow, I made it safely through Nashville. A few hours later, I had to exit the interstate. At the end of the ramp, I would have to stop for traffic. I was not sure I could come to a complete stop without the car quitting. So, I closed one eye, did not stop, and made the left turn safely. I got in the car the next day and it ran like a top.

There were other such incidents. She sputtered and quit under a red light on a Saturday night in Jackson. That incident involved a tow truck and a ride back to campus in the back of a pick-up on a cold autumn night. Another time I parked in a restricted campus parking lot to pick up my friend, Roger. In my haste to not get a ticket, I backed directly into a concrete barrier centering the trunk. For years after this, every time Roger rode with me, he looked at me, grinned then held his neck.

Most of my friends had such cars during college. Ligon had a Studebaker. Gordo had a huge blue Dodge we called the Tank. I joked once that car was so big if you were in the backseat and needed to talk to someone in the front seat you had to place a long-distance phone call. Not to be outdone, Skip owned a huge beige car we referred to as the Banana Boat. Hester had the Im-puh-luh. Young had a Cadillac. Others had Monte Carlos, Pintos, Volvos, Suburus, K-Cars, and pick-up trucks. Most of these vehicles seemed to be held together with duct tape, spit, chewing gum, and a prayer. Still, they did what they had to do when we needed them.

I traveled many miles in that yellow car, most of them during my college years. Less than a year after my graduation, it stalled on the side of the road about an hour away from my parents' home. I called my Dad and he called a longtime family friend with a tow truck who hauled that old yellow car home. We worked on it and got it running again. I sold it. For a time I lived in my hometown, then later not too far away. It became commonplace for me to see that car around town.

One day I pulled into a gas station in my hometown. I looked at the pump in front of me, and there she was. I knew it was her. She still had an old college parking sticker attached to the back bumper. I could not resist. I walked over to the driver. I told him I once owned the car he was driving. I asked him how it was working for him. He replied he had never had a lick of trouble from the car. At that moment, I relived moments when I stood on the side of the road because the car quit. I had never wanted to kick that car more than I did at that moment. I wished him well and went on my way.

There were a lot of road trips in that old yellow car, Jackson, Nashville, home, jaunts around west Tennessee, and a few times down nearby backroads in an attempt to just clear my mind. There is a Thom Schulyer song popularized by Dan Seals called “My Old Yellow Car”. While every line in that song doesn’t fit my experience I must admit when I hear the song these lines somehow speak to me:
“There was no road too winding and nowhere too far
With two bucks of gas and my old yellow car.
Somewhere in a pile of rubber and steel
There’s a rusty old shell of an automobile
And if engines could run on desire alone
That old yellow car would be driving me home.”

Playlist for "Road Trip: The Yellow Rose"
Dan Seals "My Old Yellow Car"
Emmylou Harris "White Line"
The Cars "Drive"
Gary Numan "Cars"
Steve Earle "Copperhead Road"
Lone Justice "Ways To Be Wicked"
Creedence Clearwater Revival "Keep On Chooglin'"
Ronnie Milsap "She Loves My Car"
Jason and the Scorchers "Absolutely Sweet Marie"
Georgia Satellites "Keep Your Hands To Yourself"
Don Henley "The Boys of Summer"
John Hiatt "Riding With The King"