Cruising Route
66 with Dad
Nothing, not even Mom’s first St. Louis Chanukah gift to me and Ron, of a dog collar and leash attached to a real live puppy
dog, could have approached the level of excitement we felt Sunday morning when,
just as he had promised, Dad arrived
right on time. Besides, a toy French poodle puppy named C’est Si Bon isn’t much of a guy’s dog. A boxer named Max might
have been a better choice.
“Gonna have a coffee with Mom. Be back in a few minutes. Wait for me here,” Dad advised, pointing to the leather cushioned back seat of his Ford Thunderbird, dubbed the T-Bird by aficionados.
Contemporary jargon would probably characterize it as the hottest ride on the road, but back then it was indisputably the coolest. So what’s a few minutes in a T-Bird, right?
“Hey, how long does a coffee take anyway?”
“Hold on to your horses, will ya?” Ron advised. However, when a few became ten and ten became twenty, even Ron, who just minutes before had been the patron saint of patience, became fidgety and began drumming on Dad’s rear panel as if playing the bongo drums. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get going,” we whined in harmony.
Nearly asleep in the comfort of the T-Bird’s backseat after what must have been thirty minutes, a long time when you’re a kid, the creaky sound of the screen door about which Mom had complained three, maybe even four times to the management company, awoke us. It could only mean one thing.
Donning a beige cap set rakishly, a sky blue knit shirt and white linen slacks, Dad’s Florsheim wingtips elevated his gait into near flight as he approached. If for but a moment Dad seemed a man whom the Sirens beckoned.
“Hey guys, hold this for me,” he requested, flipping his cap into the back seat.
“Sure Dad.” We lunged for it. He turned the ignition key. The engine purred like a kitten.
“Watch this guys.” Dad spoke with glee. “First, I unlatch it like this. Guys, over here, please.” We nodded agreeably. “Then with a flip of this switch, uh, Ronald, put the cap down for a minute, Son.” Dad gave us one of his looks. “Okay, Dad, we’re listening,” Ron announced. “Okay, ready? One, two, three. Switch on!” It rose up like a black bat, fully extended its wingspan and folded itself neatly away behind the backseat.
Mom stood by the doorway in her housecoat, looking a bit weepy. “I think Ma is crying,” I remarked to Ron, who busied himself with looking for a way to adjust the size of Dad’s cap. “Yea okay,” he grumbled without even bothering to look up. “Don’t worry. Ma’s fine.”
“Don’t worry, Ma. We’ll be back,” I shouted encouragingly.
“Albert, you’ll have the boys back next Sunday around noon, right?”
“Sure will, Gerry. I’ll have them back on time.”
And so Dad, Ron and I set out to get “our kicks on Route 66”, words immortalized by crooner Nat King Cole. At a time of the Cold War, Sputnik and the Rosenbergs, it was good some things hadn’t changed. For example, Gay still meant happy, carefree so I have no reluctance in telling you how gay Dad, Ron and I felt on that Sunday morning, a lifetime ago in 1960.
The Struggle
“Gonna have a coffee with Mom. Be back in a few minutes. Wait for me here,” Dad advised, pointing to the leather cushioned back seat of his Ford Thunderbird, dubbed the T-Bird by aficionados.
Contemporary jargon would probably characterize it as the hottest ride on the road, but back then it was indisputably the coolest. So what’s a few minutes in a T-Bird, right?
“Hey, how long does a coffee take anyway?”
“Hold on to your horses, will ya?” Ron advised. However, when a few became ten and ten became twenty, even Ron, who just minutes before had been the patron saint of patience, became fidgety and began drumming on Dad’s rear panel as if playing the bongo drums. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get going,” we whined in harmony.
Nearly asleep in the comfort of the T-Bird’s backseat after what must have been thirty minutes, a long time when you’re a kid, the creaky sound of the screen door about which Mom had complained three, maybe even four times to the management company, awoke us. It could only mean one thing.
Donning a beige cap set rakishly, a sky blue knit shirt and white linen slacks, Dad’s Florsheim wingtips elevated his gait into near flight as he approached. If for but a moment Dad seemed a man whom the Sirens beckoned.
“Hey guys, hold this for me,” he requested, flipping his cap into the back seat.
“Sure Dad.” We lunged for it. He turned the ignition key. The engine purred like a kitten.
“Watch this guys.” Dad spoke with glee. “First, I unlatch it like this. Guys, over here, please.” We nodded agreeably. “Then with a flip of this switch, uh, Ronald, put the cap down for a minute, Son.” Dad gave us one of his looks. “Okay, Dad, we’re listening,” Ron announced. “Okay, ready? One, two, three. Switch on!” It rose up like a black bat, fully extended its wingspan and folded itself neatly away behind the backseat.
Mom stood by the doorway in her housecoat, looking a bit weepy. “I think Ma is crying,” I remarked to Ron, who busied himself with looking for a way to adjust the size of Dad’s cap. “Yea okay,” he grumbled without even bothering to look up. “Don’t worry. Ma’s fine.”
“Don’t worry, Ma. We’ll be back,” I shouted encouragingly.
“Albert, you’ll have the boys back next Sunday around noon, right?”
“Sure will, Gerry. I’ll have them back on time.”
And so Dad, Ron and I set out to get “our kicks on Route 66”, words immortalized by crooner Nat King Cole. At a time of the Cold War, Sputnik and the Rosenbergs, it was good some things hadn’t changed. For example, Gay still meant happy, carefree so I have no reluctance in telling you how gay Dad, Ron and I felt on that Sunday morning, a lifetime ago in 1960.
The Struggle
We
were on the road no more than ten minutes about to cross the Missouri state
line into Illinois. “Hey boys, take a look. We’re crossing the Mississippi
River,” Dad excitedly announced. Ordinarily, that would have interested us, but
we were preoccupied.
“Give it here, “I demanded. “It’s my turn.” Dad entrusted his cap to both of us in theory, but Ron was only doing what I would have done had the tables been turned. Life was good but not always fair.
“Why dontcha come and get it?” Ron had thrown down the gauntlet. I had to respond. “Well?” His provocative grin emboldened me. I went for it. We scuffled.
There was no way he could have anticipated my boldness.
I bent back Ron’s three middle fingers, causing him such great pain, that he let go of the cap. The gusty winds sweeping across the Eads Bridge did the rest. I gasped, reaching out for Dad’s cap as if it were at all possible to reverse this debacle. Stunned by the speed with which it happened, Ron and I watched the cap float lazily away like a feather into the muddy waters of the Mississippi.
No, of course Dad could not hear us. Have you ever ridden in a convertible with its top down on the expressway? You can barely hear yourself think.
With his hand clamped tightly over my mouth, Ron wrestled me to the foot well of his seat, nearly bumping my head on the transmission hump. “Everything okay back there?”
“Just foolin’ around Dad,” Ron blurted out guiltily. Steering with his left hand while draping his right arm over the top of the front passenger seat, Dad was enjoying the day, quite impervious, or so it seemed, to the drama unfolding behind him. “You think he saw it? What are we gonna do?”
“What are you asking me for? I’m not the one who lost his cap,” Ron shot back.
“Me?”
“Yea, you.”
“Why did you dangle it in front of my face?”
“Why did you grab it?”
“You think we can go back and find it?” I asked pleadingly.
“Are you whacky? Some guy’s probably reeled it in thinking he had caught a fish..”
“You really think so?”
“Yup.”
Dad’s eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. “Boys will be boys,” he muttered approvingly. Had he seen it and now giving us a taste of our own medicine or was he simply enjoying our antics?
Litchfield, Illinois
One of countless tiny towns which dot the map between St. Louis and Chicago, Litchfield’s ubiquitous stop signs, cumbersome farm tractor traffic and deplorable road quality
slowed life to a crawl.
“Boys, will you hand me my cap, please,” Dad requested, pulling up to the two-way speaker as closely as he could.
“Welcome to Dog ‘N Suds. May I take your order please?”
“Oh, okay, sure,” Dad responded, turning back to the speaker.
“Hi, okay, thank you. Uh, one moment, Miss.” Dad seemed rattled.
“Hot dogs, fries and shakes, right guys?”
“Yea sure, Dad” we nodded eagerly.
“Hello sir, may I take your order please?” she repeated.
“Yes, sorry about that. We’ll have three dogs, three fries, two shakes and one large root beer.” Within five minutes, our car hostess, wearing a pleated mini-skirt, matching blouse and maid’s cap, roller skated to Dad’s car, deftly supporting our tray upon her fingertips. We were
hopeful Dad’s large root beer would cool him down enough that he’d forget about the cap.
“You guys ready?”
“Yes Dad, thank youuuuu,” Ron and I harmonized our yawns. He dozed off. I worried. Who had fooled whom? Dad had always been good to us, generous and forthcoming.
What had begun as Ron’s playful tease ended up floating in the Mississippi River. I considered confession but stopped short. Ron was still asleep. Any decision to tell Dad would have to be shared. He might give us that look upon learning the truth, but Ron? He’d kill me. Storm clouds gathered as we approached
Lincoln, Illinois, blotting out the sun and giving way to an awful darkness that was the same color as the gloom I felt.
Rain buckets fell from the sky, a welcome respite from the intense heat. Dad pulled over under a viaduct and put the top up. “Everything all right back there? Hey guys, my cap?” Ron, who had just woken up, looked at me. I looked at him. The jig was up! “Oh everything’s great Dad. Are we almost there?” Ron and I responded simultaneously, as if we had rehearsed it. “No. we’ve got a ways yet.”
“Dad, is there another Dog N Suds coming up?” Ron asked.
“Yea! Hey Dad, I’m really thirsty,” I chimed in. “Thirsty? You haven’t finished off my root beer yet.”
Uh, oh, do you think …?
You may find this incredible, but when nothing less than an act of God might have prevented the revelation of the awful truth …
“My god! What the hell was that?” The overpass shook, with us under it.
“Hey, watch out, will ya? Oh my god! Dad!”
“What? What happened? Dad turned around.
“Dad, it was an accident. I swear. Ron, really! It was.”
Well, I guess you could say that is precisely what it was. The thunderous collision of storm clouds, which must have been felt as far away as Litchfield, had caused me to spill the remainder of Dad’s root beer on Ron’s shirt. “Okay, fellas, no harm done, right?”
“Yea, except to my shirt Dad,” Ron muttered. Had I lost Ron as my partner in crime?
The second downpour, according to the local weather report, came and went after five minutes, leaving behind an incredible three inches of rain and causing the temperature to drop by fifteen degrees. A rainbow appeared. Who knows? It may well have been, like folks often say, an act of God. Dad put the top back down and pulled off his shirt. Driving the rest of the way while sunbathing, Dad looked more carefree than even the glamorous people on the highway billboards whose windswept hair would have been no match for Dad’s had he still had the red wavy locks of his youth.
My father never mentioned the cap again. Had he seen it happen or simply put two and two together? It doesn’t really matter but of one thing I am certain: Dad chose not to pay for
the price of the cap at the cost of our vacation. Better a man should lose his cap than his temper, a remarkable lesson Dad taught me about restraint in life and wisdom in parenting.
And so we headed into Chicago, the windy city, known for its blusterous politicians and blustery winds about which any seasoned Chicagoan can testify that unless your hand is atop your head you just may lose your cap.
“Give it here, “I demanded. “It’s my turn.” Dad entrusted his cap to both of us in theory, but Ron was only doing what I would have done had the tables been turned. Life was good but not always fair.
“Why dontcha come and get it?” Ron had thrown down the gauntlet. I had to respond. “Well?” His provocative grin emboldened me. I went for it. We scuffled.
There was no way he could have anticipated my boldness.
I bent back Ron’s three middle fingers, causing him such great pain, that he let go of the cap. The gusty winds sweeping across the Eads Bridge did the rest. I gasped, reaching out for Dad’s cap as if it were at all possible to reverse this debacle. Stunned by the speed with which it happened, Ron and I watched the cap float lazily away like a feather into the muddy waters of the Mississippi.
No, of course Dad could not hear us. Have you ever ridden in a convertible with its top down on the expressway? You can barely hear yourself think.
With his hand clamped tightly over my mouth, Ron wrestled me to the foot well of his seat, nearly bumping my head on the transmission hump. “Everything okay back there?”
“Just foolin’ around Dad,” Ron blurted out guiltily. Steering with his left hand while draping his right arm over the top of the front passenger seat, Dad was enjoying the day, quite impervious, or so it seemed, to the drama unfolding behind him. “You think he saw it? What are we gonna do?”
“What are you asking me for? I’m not the one who lost his cap,” Ron shot back.
“Me?”
“Yea, you.”
“Why did you dangle it in front of my face?”
“Why did you grab it?”
“You think we can go back and find it?” I asked pleadingly.
“Are you whacky? Some guy’s probably reeled it in thinking he had caught a fish..”
“You really think so?”
“Yup.”
Dad’s eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. “Boys will be boys,” he muttered approvingly. Had he seen it and now giving us a taste of our own medicine or was he simply enjoying our antics?
Litchfield, Illinois
One of countless tiny towns which dot the map between St. Louis and Chicago, Litchfield’s ubiquitous stop signs, cumbersome farm tractor traffic and deplorable road quality
slowed life to a crawl.
“Boys, will you hand me my cap, please,” Dad requested, pulling up to the two-way speaker as closely as he could.
“Welcome to Dog ‘N Suds. May I take your order please?”
“Oh, okay, sure,” Dad responded, turning back to the speaker.
“Hi, okay, thank you. Uh, one moment, Miss.” Dad seemed rattled.
“Hot dogs, fries and shakes, right guys?”
“Yea sure, Dad” we nodded eagerly.
“Hello sir, may I take your order please?” she repeated.
“Yes, sorry about that. We’ll have three dogs, three fries, two shakes and one large root beer.” Within five minutes, our car hostess, wearing a pleated mini-skirt, matching blouse and maid’s cap, roller skated to Dad’s car, deftly supporting our tray upon her fingertips. We were
hopeful Dad’s large root beer would cool him down enough that he’d forget about the cap.
“You guys ready?”
“Yes Dad, thank youuuuu,” Ron and I harmonized our yawns. He dozed off. I worried. Who had fooled whom? Dad had always been good to us, generous and forthcoming.
What had begun as Ron’s playful tease ended up floating in the Mississippi River. I considered confession but stopped short. Ron was still asleep. Any decision to tell Dad would have to be shared. He might give us that look upon learning the truth, but Ron? He’d kill me. Storm clouds gathered as we approached
Lincoln, Illinois, blotting out the sun and giving way to an awful darkness that was the same color as the gloom I felt.
Rain buckets fell from the sky, a welcome respite from the intense heat. Dad pulled over under a viaduct and put the top up. “Everything all right back there? Hey guys, my cap?” Ron, who had just woken up, looked at me. I looked at him. The jig was up! “Oh everything’s great Dad. Are we almost there?” Ron and I responded simultaneously, as if we had rehearsed it. “No. we’ve got a ways yet.”
“Dad, is there another Dog N Suds coming up?” Ron asked.
“Yea! Hey Dad, I’m really thirsty,” I chimed in. “Thirsty? You haven’t finished off my root beer yet.”
Uh, oh, do you think …?
You may find this incredible, but when nothing less than an act of God might have prevented the revelation of the awful truth …
“My god! What the hell was that?” The overpass shook, with us under it.
“Hey, watch out, will ya? Oh my god! Dad!”
“What? What happened? Dad turned around.
“Dad, it was an accident. I swear. Ron, really! It was.”
Well, I guess you could say that is precisely what it was. The thunderous collision of storm clouds, which must have been felt as far away as Litchfield, had caused me to spill the remainder of Dad’s root beer on Ron’s shirt. “Okay, fellas, no harm done, right?”
“Yea, except to my shirt Dad,” Ron muttered. Had I lost Ron as my partner in crime?
The second downpour, according to the local weather report, came and went after five minutes, leaving behind an incredible three inches of rain and causing the temperature to drop by fifteen degrees. A rainbow appeared. Who knows? It may well have been, like folks often say, an act of God. Dad put the top back down and pulled off his shirt. Driving the rest of the way while sunbathing, Dad looked more carefree than even the glamorous people on the highway billboards whose windswept hair would have been no match for Dad’s had he still had the red wavy locks of his youth.
My father never mentioned the cap again. Had he seen it happen or simply put two and two together? It doesn’t really matter but of one thing I am certain: Dad chose not to pay for
the price of the cap at the cost of our vacation. Better a man should lose his cap than his temper, a remarkable lesson Dad taught me about restraint in life and wisdom in parenting.
And so we headed into Chicago, the windy city, known for its blusterous politicians and blustery winds about which any seasoned Chicagoan can testify that unless your hand is atop your head you just may lose your cap.
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