sludgo’s Mile Markers

It was a couple weeks ago. Two in the morning and my brain wouldn’t shut off so I couldn’t get to sleep. I laid restlessly in bed for a while, listening to the alarm clock on my nightstand tick. And tock. And tick. And tock. Reminded me of how I used to tell my clients if they found themselves wide awake in bed in the middle of the night, rather than tossing and turning and fretting and burning about not being able to sleep they’d be better off to follow their body’s lead and get up and do something—anything really—as long as it was healthy and relaxing. So, I clucked my tongue and shook my head then rolled out of bed. Walked into the living room and clicked on a light. Thought about reading but had read every book in the house at least twice. Thought about turning on the tube but knew there’d be nothing on at that hour that would interest me. Thought about having a snack but wasn’t really hungry and was still doing pretty well on my New Years’ diet. Then an idea of what I could do struck me. Something that would be both healthy and relaxing. I could go for a drive.

Funny how genetics work. The Oldsmobile Man loved going for drives whenever he had the chance. Long drives, short drives, all kinds of drives. He couldn’t wait to slide behind the wheel of the Delta ’88’ to run errands, any errands big or small, always taking the long way from the house to the grocery store or the lumberyard or the greenhouse or the off-sale or the car wash. But I think some of his favorite drives happened on bright April Sunday mornings when the spring thaw had taken hold and the roads were clear and dry and we’d be going home from church in the Olds and he’d take a left on Maple instead of a right. We’d all collectively grin and settle in for a treat: The Sunday Drive.

He’d always take the same route. Would roll us leisurely around the lake, past the country club and the golf course and the shooting range and then through Stanley’s Hill State Park to maybe see some buffalo or deer or elk up close. After that he’d head us back toward town and take a cruise through Glenberry Estates so we could ooh and aah at all the big houses standing regally at attention on streets named after presidents. Jefferson, Lincoln, Garfield, and so on.

Then came the part I think Pop liked most, when we’d come to McGinty’s stables and he’d pull onto the shoulder and bring us to a stop then turn off the car. I can still smell the place—not a particularly pleasant scent to me but to Pop it seemed heavenly. He’d crank down his window and take a deep whiff of that pungent mixture of hay and straw and feed and manure and horse and smile broadly to himself. Then he’d get out of the car and walk over to the fence and all the horses would rumble up to him like old friends, lovingly snorting and whistling and whinnying at him while he patted their necks and scratched their noses. This would go on for a few and then for a few more before he’d make some kissy noises with his lips then turn away and get back into the car and we’d drive off casually, as though something magical hadn’t just happened before our very eyes. And when we’d pull back into our driveway after the drive was over we’d all be in a better mood. Especially Pop.

Years later the Beehive told me that he often went for drives back in the day, more than me or Big Sis ever knew. By himself. And that they were longer drives, all the way eastward to McVille or westward to Rugby. Way up north to Langdon and south down Carrington-way. That it was usually when he was in a bad space for one reason or another and needed an attitude adjustment and a drive always helped him get back to where he needed to be to keep being a good husband and father to us all. She chuckled when she told me he’d said once it was the best therapy he could ever get. Cheaper too.

Well, I’m told I got his smile. And I know I got his temper. Ahem. And I also know I got his passion for driving, something I’ve loved to do ever since I was a little boy and steered my brand-new birthday pedal car down our long smooth driveway and onto the front walk. There’s just something about it—the experience of driving—that I enjoy immensely and apparently I’m not alone in that enjoyment. Countless songs have been written about it over the years for Pete’s sake. Books and movies too.

It’s kind of hard to explain, but if you know, you know. You know the giddy rush I felt when I was five or six and Crazy Grandpa Joe had me sit on his lap and steer his big old black and beaten Oldsmobile home from the liquor store. How fortunate I felt when I was ten and my Fun Uncle Ted let me tear around his sprawling farmstead in his blue and white and battered GMC half-ton before graduating me to driving one of his grain trucks during harvest that fall, a big ol’ orange and white International Harvester. How the sensation of being in command of that kind of power—that kind of heft—was absolutely intoxicating to me. That’s when I learned to drive stick too, a grand accomplishment for me. Was so proud of myself. Got good enough at it that I could shift gears just matching revs and not using the clutch at all. Fun Uncle Ted was duly impressed.

Those who know will also understand that around then I was chomping at the bit to get my driver’s license and got it as soon as I could—fourteen years old in NoDak in ‘75. I used Pop’s brand-new Delta for practice and taking my test but our acquaintance didn’t last long. The Olds was The Good Car, so I was unceremoniously re-assigned to Mom’s ’74 Gremlin ‘X’ and that was ‘my car’ until I was nineteen and bought my MGB. But through the years I drove it, the Gremmy and I grew to be identified as inseparable partners in crime, just like Burt and his Trans Am and Sean and his DB5 and Steve and his ‘Stang. And snicker if you will, but my little half-a-Hornet was seen as a pretty cool ride, at least around sludgoville. Cinnamon-brown metallic with a white hockey stick stripe, it had rally wheels and twin bucket seats in front and a bench in back that folded flat and, most importantly, my girlfriend Anne thought I looked cute in it. I racked up mile after mile after mile with that goofy little car doing nothing but aimlessly driving it around. And around. And around. Just for the heck of it most of the time, and exactly like the Oldsmobile Man, I discovered along the way that driving was the best kind of therapy I could get. Cheaper too.

So I strolled back into the bedroom. Hopped out of my jammies and into my jeans and a t-shirt and a hoodie and sneakers. Chugged out to the garage and lifted the door and took in a cool crisp breath of night air. Then I climbed into the ‘B and fired it up and went for a drive. A nice long one. And guess what?

It worked. Just like always.