The Road Not Taken

I don’t recall a lot from my earliest years (in Boise), mostly just warm summer days, riding my red tricycle down the sidewalk in front of our house on Harrison Blvd. I can remember a few traumas vividly . . . my lousy sister stepping on a nail in a neighboring lumber pile . . .  and the day before we moved when I was faced with the scariest sucker (literally) that I had ever met in my life, the carpet cleaning machine. I was terrified and buried my face and ears in a pillow.

But yesterday, when Mom (G-ma) was scanning some photos, she sent me this treasure . . . along with an accumulated wave of memories. Mostly I could feel the proximity of family and the freedom of being in the outdoors. . .  if you look in the back of that car, there are fishing poles and my dad’s axe is buried in a log back by the log-flanked firepit. Our family vacations were always in the mountains . . . not too far from whichever city we were living in then.

Mom and I were thinking that this was my grandfather’s convertible. Some of you older siblings will likely have more information you can share on that.

I have sat in a lot of red cars over the years, both as passenger and driver. Here’s a sample.

I spent countless hours happily snapping the dad-blasted metal ashtrays in the backseat of Big Red, our GMC Suburban (also in the background of the picture).

In Buhl, I got a memorable ride in our Polish neighbor’s son’s mid-70’s Corvette Stingray . . . the T-top off and my hair blowing in the wind. That was an impressive car, unlike any I had ever seen. Julie’s dad has restored a similar vehicle and that is the one I opt to ride in given the choice.

I once made record time from north Orem to south Provo in a fierce red 80s-era Trans Am the year I contemplated dropping out of college to earn money selling Pontiacs and Cadillacs. I don’t recall how high the speedometer recorded but I was using most of the numbers available on the right side of the dial. And I learned why true muscle cars feel so stiff when you drive them around town . . . they only become agile and smooth when they exceed 80 or so. While it (and the job) were a fun distraction, a wise old salesman later talked me into going back to school, insisting that a degree would allow me a wider range of career choices. I don’t remember his name but I will be forever grateful for his advice.

The wind also styled our hairdos along the Pacific Coast; this time Julie and I were in a Mercedes, being chauffeured and entertained by a strategic metals importer who wanted to recruit her to produce infomercials and other video pieces. The California lifestyle was tempting but we strategically opted to stay in Provo.

Most recently, I drove G-ma and the family to a church in Boise in Mom’s red Buick. The luxury car has aged since the days when Dad and I would drive it to Hobble Creek to go golfing but it still makes its way, gracefully, to pleasant destinations. I haven’t golfed since I golfed with Dad. He loved swinging a club and I loved spending time with him. For me, golfing and fishing just kind of lost their luster without him.

Now I live in a blue town. Our vehicles are black and blue and I usually dress the same . . . “like a bruise.” But back in the day, before a football rivalry spoiled all the fun of it, there was red. And I liked it.