home and memories

We get in the car, me in the passenger seat and mom behind the wheel.  It was only three margaritas. Tasted like juice. Really I’m fine, but she insists on driving anyway. “Geez your car smells” she says. “Really? Like what?” I don’t smell a thing. “Funky” is all she replies. I sniff the air and slide my hand under my seat. There’s the half eaten peanut butter and jelly, and my collection of dirty Tupperware from the past few weeks. “You’re crazy” I snuff, and we drive up the street. Past the buildings and memories, old familiar streets. I reminisce about friends, the ones I haven’t seen. I wish Patty still lived here. I miss her motherly care, and the worried look she gets when I say my next crazy thing. I miss the conversations that I don’t have with anyone else, and her girls who look at me with their big wonder filled eyes. “Guess who’s getting married...” I gossip as we drive by. Mom listens, though I’m sure I feel more interested than she cares.

We pass Sarah’s street and I realize how much I miss her too. I remember her beat up 1985 car of some type, it was flesh colored, and we nicknamed it “the penis."  If only you could have seen the stares we would get as we drove down highway 47 on the way to school. We are 16, its junior year, we drive windows down singing some country song on the radio, our hair blowing in the wind. We would rather have had different music and air conditioning, but this car didn’t provide us with much more than a ride. We felt the freedom. Yet, the car seemed terribly un-cool, as we pulled up to school and parked in the lot next to our friend’s new mustang. We hopped out of the car, sweat pants rolled up at the ankle and pony tails bobbing up and down, sprinting for the door with the sound of the bell. We didn’t try hard, but people liked us anyway. “See you at lunch” she yells, as the disheveled pile of clothing in her arms begins to fall. I already know I will be buying her lunch later; we will share cheesy bread sticks, and an ice cream sandwich. She heads for the gym, and weight training as I go to choir. We are different. I am in theatre and music and community service clubs. She plays every sport and is the best on each team. One year I think I saw every volleyball game. I am her biggest fan, and she is mine. In high school she becomes quickly popular, and I am controversial, but she brings me along anyway. The guys like her more, there is always someone wanting to meet, or waiting by her locker. She is tall and muscular and beautiful, and good at everything she does. I am short and late to develop and average at what I do. But she always has my back, “screw them,” she says when I tell her what they said. She makes me feel valuable despite the odds. I have her back to, I listen and encourage and together we dream about what's to come in life. She comes to all  my shows and tells me I was the best. It doesn’t matter if it’s true. She knows all my secrets, and can finish my thoughts. Most of our “firsts” come together, and we try not to get caught. After school and practice we go back to her house searching through the bare pantry for something to eat. “Your shoes better be off!” yells Al from the other room. They never have any good food. “Lets go to Chelse’s house” I suggest, “She always has food.” Its true, they always have the best snacks, so we head for the door.

It’s been six years since then, Sarah is long gone now, and that house belongs to someone else. Mom turns down 5^th street and we pass the house where Jed used to live, his old white pickup with the black stripe is still parked in the drive. It’s been eight years since I rode in that car, but I still remember the torn red material on the seats and the way I would sit in the middle, his arm around me as we drove down the street. He was a senior and I was a sophomore, we knew it wouldn’t last. He brought me a dozen yellow roses on my 16^th birthday, the first flowers I ever got. Years later they lie dried in a shoe box in the attic of my house, I might keep them forever. He is married now with children that look exactly like him.

   There’s a gas station on the corner I have never seen before. It’s new since the last time I was here. It stands where a mostly vacant parking lot once was. I remember nights there in high school, meeting friends to carpool to a party. Shuffling bags into the trunk, disguised as an overnight bag but containing a fifth of Jack Daniels and a 2-liter of Coke. I remember meeting that boy there one day in the middle of summer. Windows down, sweat pouring down my back, my feet propped up on the dash as we sat and listened to Nelly and discussed what that kiss meant last night. “I leave for college at the end of the month, its just not a good time” he states, and I pretend not to care. “Let’s just be friends” I get out of the car, and walk away. Used and confused. I drive the 1.5 miles to home where I pull on a sports bra and running shoes and head out the door; up and down our country hills my legs move beneath me as my heart pounds in my chest. Past the parking lot I run, the memory comes and I look away, focused on something in the distance I cannot yet see. Four miles later my mind clears as I end at Sarah’s driveway, too tired to run home. “You’re here!” she exclaims, “lets get ice cream”, and as we drive to dairy delight I recount my latest story to her detail by detail, line by line. “He’s an ass hole” she says to me with reasuurance. I smile, she’s right.

But tonight it’s just a gas station flooding the streets with neon light, people meandering in and out. The dark lot is no longer there, but the memories remain. I lay my head back against the seat as the car climbs the hill toward home. I can’t count the number of times I hiked this hill as a child.

The school bus only stopped at the bottom, not carrying us the remaining ¼ mile home; it wouldn’t have been so bad except for the steep incline. My little legs working their way up, counting my steps,”97, 98, 99” breaking every so often to holler at the horses or sit and pluck at the grass, squinting at the top of the hill wishing I would see dads truck round the bend, to pick me up. If only he would have a moment of pity on me, I would count him a hero. But I usually did anyway. I would finally reach home, dropping my bags in the grass as the dogs run to greet me. I scowl at mom as I walk in, “I’m tired now, thanks a lot.” "How was school?" she would ask. "fine" I huff. It's my usual canned answer providing no detail at all. I pour my self a lemonade, grab an Oreo from the big green jar on the counter, and march up the stairs up to my room where I collapse on my bed and stare at the ceiling fan whirling overhead.

Tonight, we pull in the driveway and I open the car door and step into the night air.  That old familiar feel of home pulls me in, the summer humidity thick in my lungs, the distinct smell of alfalfa, the cows grazing nearby, the cat stretched out across the steps, a new paint color on the front door. “Here, carry this” I say to my dad as I toss him my bag. I shut the door, and I’m home.