Driving with Daddy

When I was a kid I spent a lot of time in the car with my father.

    Until I became a preteen, if he needed to visit a relative, I rode along.

    Until I got out of high school, if he needed to pick up and return relatives after holiday dinners, I rode along.

    Until I got out of college, I worked summers at his company. If he was going home when I was, I rode along.

Hours and hours of conversation and I remember none of it. 

I do, however, remember the singing. I think we preferred to sing after dark. (What? Did we think no one could hear us after sundown?) But, daylight could not stop us. Nothing could stop us. Our repertoire included American classics from the 19th century that everyone back then seemed to know (think Steven Foster), classic numbers from the American Song Book (Cole Porter was a favorite), and tunes from current Broadway shows (the "Lida Rose/Dream of Love" duet from The Music Man played a key role in our repertoire).

For people who could not actually sing, we were pretty good singers. In a world where one could earn points for enthusiasm, we would have been stars. I don't recall any practice sessions. I have no idea how he taught me to sing harmony. I guess he just led by example.

We also prided ourselves on our ability to sing off-key. Our "Long, Long Trail Awinding" was painful. Even we couldn't stand to move beyond a few bars.  

I wish I remembered more details and not just about the singing. I can only picture isolated moments from those drives even from the trips that occurred regularly.

On many Sunday afternoons, I rode with him to see his half-sister who, because of schizophrenia, was hospitalized for most of her adult life at the Norristown State Hospital outside of Philadelphia. Most of my memories are negative. My aunt, looking dazed, left bright red lipstick stains on cigarettes even though she never appeared to inhale. (I only figured that out as an adult.) The hospital was big and old with a marble entrance hallway that was often cold and frequently populated by patients with similarly vacant stares. It could have been a Hollywood set. A horror-movie Hollywood set. Looking back, this might not have been the best kid activity, but I never minded.

I imagine I went along at all times of year but what I can envision most are summer days when we took my tricycle along. There was a lone tree sitting on top of a mound that I am sure looked like a mountain to me.  Looking back it may have soared to heights of three, even four, feet. My father would lift my tricycle to the top, position it and I would ride down. I can’t imagine how many times he had to repeat this process, but he never complained. I think he was happy for the company. Or, maybe he liked seeing something joyous (childhood) in the midst of so much sadness.

I would make trips with him to see his mother's family. She had died when he was around seven leaving behind just one son, an only child. However, she had a huge number of siblings. I'd have to check the census to see how many. I never met all of them but my father was a dutiful nephew to all of them. And, they were doting aunts and uncles to him. Several of them still lived in the house where their parents had raised them, referred to as Third Street. Where on Third Street? I don't think I ever noticed or asked. The house was a three-story row home that looked the way most people envision row homes, lined up along a narrow street with white marble steps and not a spec of vegetation in front (although there was a lovely private fenced-in garden in the rear).  I imagine that even in a six-bedroom house, the family was crammed in although another thing I am not sure about is if they ever all lived at home at the same time. I wish I knew more about all of them but the main thing I recall is the ride to and from Third Street.

The journey, not the destination, mattered most.

    I remember a road that was like a roller-coaster when, in our pre-seatbelt car, I loved flying as we went over the bumps.

    I remember getting excited when we saw "the men," large metal electrical transmission towers that carried high-voltage electrical wires.

    I remember spending an entire trip trying without success to cross my legs the way my mother did when she rode in the front seat.

But most of all, I remember the singing. 

There was a long, long trail ahead and we were going to sing our way to the end. The end came way too soon for my father. He died at sixty-six. Forty-nine years ago as of this writing. I am still singing my way along. 

© 2023 Jane Kelly