Memory Bank (continued part 3)

The drive itself took nearly 14 hours depending on the weather and the whininess of yours truly and of course the dog. The dog, when we had one to take, became the biggest issue. While my dad showed little compassion for the humans in the car, if the dog needed water, a bathroom break or some fresh air we would stop on a dime. I had to hand it to my dad, he did have a heart as big as all outdoors, you just needed to wag your tail and have kibble for dinner in order to truly see it at all times. The car rides for me were pure torture. I was a nervous, no strike that I am a nervous person, or at least that is what some people call it. I have been called anxious, energetic, boisterous, hyper, and on a very diplomatic day enthusiastic. I am all of those things, so sitting for hours doing anything for me is a real chore. The writing is different because I don’t usually have to watch the clock. I sit down and start writing and before I know it the clock shows that hours have passed. Since getting older, I only truly notice the passage of time when I go to get up and proceed to fall flat on my face because my legs have fallen asleep. I am not writing this as comedic effect, it has happened, where I have been so engrossed in the work of writing, I haven’t seen the day turn into night, and my body has decided to sleep without me. When I work at the bar, getting off the bar stool gets really interesting. Either one can hear cracking, popping and groans or a devastating “kersplat!” Which means I am lying face down on the floor as the dogs, who originally came to investigate now see this an opportune time to lick my face and sit on my back. So, yeah, sitting for me is as painful now as when I was a kid/teen person, but for different reasons.
Back in the car, I fidgeted until I heard my dad threaten to leave me at the next available stop. I popped my gum, played little games by myself, read, drew and eventually asked one hundred thousand questions of my parents about everything under the sun. “Where did you go to elementary school? Did you have more than ten friends in school? Did you go to your Grandma’s house on weekends like we do? Did you always know you wanted kids? Do you like cats? What would you do if a million cats showed up at our house and they were all starving?” I asked a lot of questions. I asked enough questions of my travel weary parents that it made them want to change their answer about always wanting kids. I made my terrible situation everybody’s terrible situation. The only defense I have is I like to share. The only time I would calm down and relax for a minute was when we would pass the most spectacular scenery. I got to view mountains, tunnels that dove under the water and went on for miles, bridges that I could not see the end of in the beginning, pastures of green grasses and fields full of corn and other vegetables. I saw hundred year old barns, massive hotels, brand new construction, and small towns that were only notable by the one blinking yellow light in the center of town. Gas stations still had soda machines with real glass bottles, diners made every meal from scratch and candy counters had candy that cost under a quarter. The further south we went, it seemed the further we were from things that had progressed into pollutants. In the south there were still so much of a time gone by. For me it was the best part of the trip, seeing how different we all are, though we live in the same country where others view as one. Accents shifted from flat under-toned inflection to a more rolling lilt, a southern twang to a full on drawl. In mere hours we would be transcended from one culture into another, all while rolling along in our station wagon with the long trailer tied behind us. The people were the most interesting thing in the world to me, how they dressed, what they said, why they said it, where they lived, if they liked where they lived. I may not have had the nerve to ask them all those questions, but I certainly had them in my head, rolling around, just waiting to see if they were answered by actions or words without being asked. There have been times when I wondered what people saw in me? You know how someone will meet you for the first time and get the entire first impression of you wrong, just by a look or word? Did people think my direct gaze was judgmental or did they see the one hundred thousand questions in my eyes? I have always wanted to ask someone who remembered meeting me for the first time, someone not from my hometown, where my reputation as a complete dork hadn’t proceeded me. I was riveted by clothing that hung in stores. Different parts of the country wore different things. It’s not to say there weren’t places where we could generic things, but there were times when clothing was geographically specific. We don’t have that now, thanks in part to the superstores that are now everywhere and the internet. But once upon a time, we were different people living in one country who liked the fact that we were different. There was a time when everything wasn’t homogenized to death diluting cultures into watery puddles to be stepped through as we make our way into the future. I have gotten disheartened over the years as we become a single type of people, mostly because cultural stories are the most interesting, the most educational, the most emotional, and the most diverse. I am not one who believes that evolution is the same as dilution. Growing smarter yes, but I like the history that hangs around our necks as an adornment of who we are becoming.
It was how different the boy looked, the easy way he smiled, how comfortable he seemed in his own skin, that caught my eye at first meeting. When he spoke I was tuned in completely. His wicked smart sarcasm had me riveted. Then he laughed, out loud bearing his brilliant smile and I melted like a fudgesicle on a hot day.