I do some of my best thinking when I’m driving. My wife thinks that’s not a good thing. She seems to feel I should spend more of my attention on the road rather than wandering down memory lane. Perhaps she’s right. Although they’ve never had reason to tell me, OHP probably would agree with her. Still, time behind the wheel for me is most served with music from my playlist, figuring out the next place to go with a story, or sorting through memories.
In a post from a few months back, I spoke about the men I grew up listening to and watching. I spoke about the way they interacted with each other even when they often disagreed. I think of them often. Many are gone, including my own father, and I find myself missing their voices, their humor, their values, and even their faces.
Some of those men, their wives, and families became my customers when I took over a paper route delivering the Daily Oklahoman. As a paperboy I learned early the value of making my customers happy. It was easy to see why it was in my best interest to do what I could to make them happy, when I received a little extra income thrown my way in the form of tips. Yeah, the money talked even to a seventh grader, but after a while it was less about the money and more about the pride I got from knowing I was doing a good job. Still, they didn’t slip that extra five bucks in there for nothing. I had to earn it – making sure the paper was on the porch instead of in the roses, getting it there before they had to leave for work, and making sure it wasn’t soaked from rain.
I remember one customer in particular. His name was Harley. Some folks will know who I’m talking about. He made an impact on me when he watched me deliver his paper in the snow wearing tennis shoes. The next day he left a a worn pair of lace up leather boots on the doorstep for me. They fit just fine. I loved those old boots, not just because they were warmer than my tennis shoes, but because of the sentiment behind them.
I think of these old men like Harley, the ones who have passed from my present into my past, and I remember them for who they were and how they treated me. The ones who didn’t talk down to a kid, or who took the time to show me how something worked. I’m sure a lot of them didn’t even realize that kids were looking up to them. They just did what they always did– they went about life. Others were in constant teaching mode, and were well aware of the young eyes upon them.
As I drive down the road going back and forth to work, I remember old pickup trucks, and the men driving them. Whether on a dusty county road, or an asphalt ribbon of highway, in my mind I can still see the hand lift from the steering wheel. They all had their own signature wave. There was the slight lift, where the hand raises off the wheel almost imperceptibly, and the raised index finger, which was sometimes topped by the two-fingered wave. Of course, there was the straightforward wave. There was the over-the-top-window-wiping arc wave which tended to come from the more obnoxious and jocular among the agricultural entrepreneurs. The cap-pulling-hat-flapping wave didn’t happen often, but when it did, you knew you scored big.
While some waved with passivity as if it were their civic duty, others took great pride in their wave, almost as if they were competing for the great neighbor award. Some came with smiles, while others were delivered with blank stares, their minds on the task at hand, waving at a passing vehicle just a natural reaction. Those faces, wrinkled, worn, humorous, thoughtful – I can still see them looking back at me through the field of memories.
I smile at those memories. I miss them — those old, cantankerous, obnoxious, stable, unfiltered, honest individuals of the past, staring out the dust coated glass of an roughed-up Ford, Chevy, or Dodge. They were the heart and soul of the country; stubborn to the core, but welcoming, just the same. I miss those old trucks too. They were beautiful in their bygone, simple way — two-tones and solids, chrome trim running down the sides, beds of steel that could take about anything you threw into them; every bit as tough as the men who drove them. Their brands were argued about in that old cafe I mentioned in the other article (I’ll Get It).
Yep, I miss those waves. And from time to time, I try to do my part to keep them alive. I’m not as proficient at it as they were. I still haven’t figured out my signature wave. I’ll never be of over-the-top-window-wiping-arc or cap-pulling-hat-flapping wave quality. I just don’t have the personality for it. I may catch four cars in a row and miss the next two, depending upon where my thoughts take me. The way my mind works, sometimes I forget; other times it’s just a reaction like those blank stares I remember. Most of the time it is a concerted effort to honor those men, their willingness to throw a hand up to everyone they happened to come across, and to add to the sense of community of which we are all a part.
So, if I miss you, I’m sorry. If I catch you, I’m not crazy. And if I look like I have a blank stare on my face, I’m just remembering. Either way, I’ll keep trying to pass on The Wave.
Oh, and you might be interested in this from Iowa:
