Curvy Wurvy

Dad used to drive a gold Mazda GL. If I look long enough during The Early Years slide show in that plays periodically in my head, I can still see it parked in the back of the red brick house. He taught my sister to drive up the private road to the cabin at age twelve (news which wasn't public knowledge, especially to my mother, until years later) and he'd let me shift the gears when it was my turn in the front seat. It was the car Dad drove to the office. The car my parents would take on dates. The car we'd watch for every day at six o'clock in the big picture window, excited when we'd see it turn east on 900 South, Dad's hands on the steering wheel.

Saturdays, Dad drove the little gold Mazda to Don's Service Station at the corner of 21st and 13th where he'd fill up the car for the week. Ever the quintessential neighborhood mechanic, Don knew everyone by name, and took each customer's hand in his grease-stained one upon arrival. He was the kind of mechanic who would check your tires, wash your windows, and, fill up your tank. Not only did Don and his crew in blue shirts provide full-service, they also provided free popcorn in 25 cent bags. So, while Don filled the car and checked the oil, I'd follow closely behind Dad. He'd fill up a bag of popcorn, brimming. Pay for the gas and we'd head out excited to share when we got in the front seat. The unconventional mingling of the smell of popcorn and gas fumes didn't seem to bother me, as it created an unexpected perfume of Saturday memories in my mind.

On weekends, Dad would drive the babysitter home in the gold car. If it wasn't past our bedtime, sister and I got to tag along. Back when seat belts weren't such a necessity (or before we knew better) sister, our favorite babysitter and I would ride toboggan-style, pulling down the seats in the back to lie belly-down. Our legs stuck deep into the the trunk. The headrests our only stability, we'd hold with all our childish might in preparation for what Dad called "Curvy-Wurvy." He'd let go of the steering wheel (which, in our five and six year-old minds was sinful yet heroic at the same time). He'd lift off on the gas and let the car coast towards the edge of the street, missing garbage cans and curb sides by mere inches. Fear and excitement would rise up within me; I'd tuck my head down into my arms and gear up for a crash. Just as I feared we'd begin our own percussion section of a symphony, trash lids strewn about the street like clamoring cymbals, he's grasp the steering wheel and route us back to the center, only to repeat this same pattern of curving and "wurving" through the neighborhood streets, at what we believed in our little minds was warp-speed.

Sometimes, on family road trips, Dad will get this twinkle in his eye. I'll notice it from the rearview mirror. In a "are-you-thinking-what-I'm-thinking?" moment, and, before Mom catches on, his hands come off the wheel, his foot off the pedals, and before we know it, we're headed straight for a green garbage can. We don't wind through the whole neighborhood anymore, but for just a moment, excitement rises up within me, I hold my breath, and cross my fingers we all end up in one piece, including the trash can.