March 1989, I’m driving south through Chicago. In the car with me is Garrett, and three cats, we are moving to Florida. Behind me is a trailer filled with all the crap we should have left behind, but decided we just couldn’t part with. Hundreds of pounds of crap behind a car that can barely move itself much less a trailer full of the things we decided to bring with us. I could feel the car straining as we made our way up, and over the Skyway Bridge. The whining and coughing of the engine would be enough to make most people stop, but I just turned up the radio. We were going to Florida and nothing was going to stop us now.
Five hundred miles of trouble free driving, the loud radio doing its job, drowning out the cries of the Ford until we were almost through Tennessee. I’m from Chicago, where a rise of ten feet is considered a hill, and a hundred foot high pile of garbage with snow on it is called a ski resort. Now we found ourselves chugging thousands of feet up the side of a mountain. It wasn’t long before it became obvious that the radio wasn’t going to cover up the distressing sounds coming from the engine. Even with the accelerator to the floor, gigantic trucks were blowing past us. Elderly people driving Buicks and Oldsmobile’s were yelling at us to get the hell out of the way, and flipping us the bird with their wrinkled little hands. Finally after an excruciating amount of effort, we were at the crest. Now the car was effortlessly speeding down the other side, almost careening you might say, with the heavy trailer pushing us from behind. In just a few terror filled minutes we were at the bottom. We chugged on until just after entering Georgia where the car started spewing steam and slowing down. A smoking beat up Ford Tempo towing a trailer, with three cats in cages in the back seat, and the two migrants up front. How very Grapes of Wrath I thought.
We pulled into a small town off of the interstate. I don’t remember the name of the town. We’ll call it Mayberry, only it was a bit more rough around the edges than Mayberry, and the mechanic at the garage, while resembling Gomer Pyle, had more of a sinister feel. Every time I talked to him I put my hand on my wallet just to be sure it was still there. The car was dead, and our only option was to leave it in the hands of Gomer until he could get it running. For three days we were stuck while parts were fetched from Atlanta, and Chattanooga. Three days in a cheap motel, with three cats, Garrett, and a television. But damn, I knew it would be okay. After all, we were on our way to Florida!
what are those sinister looking things wrapped in duck tape on your bed? Is that you in the background, outside? lol...
ReplyDeletejackie
I have no idea what those things on the bed were. My memory of things is usually very sketchy, and I had to call Garrett just to double check on some of this. Turns out he's getting old too, and forgot much of it. (BTW, for those who don't know, Garrett was the man in my life back then.) Finally, no, that is not me in the background. Apparently a lot of cars are killed going over the mountains and end up in this small town.
ReplyDeleteThose packages kind of remind me of Dexter.
ReplyDeleteI noticed those duct-taped objects too in the picture. and with the black bag next to them I look like like some kind of smuggler...hehe.
ReplyDeleteI believe those were two plaster statues that I took with.
Prepositions, Garrett, prepositions.
ReplyDeleteCorrect: Am I getting graded on my comment writing now? ...geesh! This is the internet. Grammar doesn't count matter here.
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