It was the last day of summer break; 1995 and the day before my sophomore year of high school.
I planned to spend the whole day locked in my bedroom writing horrible poetry, sulking in my pillow and reading smutty books.
Only good news--I HAD MY LEARNERS PERMIT! Good news for me. Bad news for the world.
My father had a conference in Duluth that day. He wanted me to go.
I growled, "Busy." If I didn’t sulk for a good 3 hours it’s like my day wasn’t complete and his stupid conference was not going to get in the way of that.
"We can get Chili Dogs," he coerced with a loopy grin on his face.
"Not hungry," I replied
His face went rigid. I froze. That is not a look I disobey. I've seen squirrels drop dead from that look.
"Whoosh!" That was me, out the door and buckled into the passenger seat. And there I waited with a crabby gaze plastered on my face.
Crack! I woke from my self-deprecating slump to see my father standing outside my window.
"You're driving."
Shocked I slid over to the driver’s seat.
I can't drive to Duluth! Last week I just made it to 55 mph without hyperventilating. The week before I freaked out during a Y turn and ended up in the ditch.
But I just shrugged. Cause I'm cool.
"You need to practice long distance driving," He states buckling his seat belt.
Once I was 4-Wheeling around a field and fell into a hole. Another time while mowing figure 8's into the lawn I lost control and drove into the ditch. Yes, long distance driving is exactly what I need to work on.
And so I did. With a two hour drive in silence. Not even a grunt. It was like a standoff except there was no draw and Clint Eastwood himself wouldn’t have incited a discussion between us.
I remember crossing the bridge to Duluth. AMAZING! Lake Superior— beautiful. Lift bridge— awesome. Boats— a dream of mine. Even if it’s a big, smelly oil rig, I don’t care, I want it…!
My father yanks the wheel suddenly. "Eyes on the road!" he barks. I tend to drive where I look. Hence so many ditches.
I attended the conference. I listened. I nodded politely. I have no idea what it was about.
Afterwards my father dragged me to get food. A Burger King set next to Lake Superior on Canal Street. He sat on a bench to eat while I hopped from rock to rock. Finally I stopped. Sat. Stared.
Gentle waves crashed into my rock. The lake and sky meeting so effortlessly that they melted into one. And for 20 minutes I didn't think. I didn't worry. Obsess. Pick. Scowl. Growl. Feel some sort of anger. Or even rage. I just ate my fries and breathed.
It felt good. I felt good.
I drove us back. Calmly I might add. Dad pretended to fall asleep. I know it was pretend because I was totally looking at the fall leaves on the trees and drove into the ditch. He quickly yanked the wheel again and growled.
We made it back alive. And my father, with all his concern for my long distance driving skills, actually instilled a lifetime desire of road trips and a deep appreciation for the crashing waves of Lake Superior.
So, thanks.
I still drive where I look though. But I’m working on it. Swear.
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