Driving With Your Parents In The ‘70s

Photo: www.vintag.es

You stop throwing lawn darts at each other when your dad yells, “Who wants to go for a ride?”

You grab a drink from the hose, your face and shoulders pink from the sun, and climb into the station wagon. The first fight is over who has to sit on the hump. The second fight is over the radio and who gets to push in the buttons to change the station. Only three play music. The rest is static.

Dad smokes the entire time, but you like the smell when he first lights up. It smells like burning leaves.

He closes all the windows because the wind blows ash in his face and you ride in a fog of smoke and Old Spice aftershave. Your dad’s left arm is browner than his right. When he’s done smoking, he hangs his arm out the window.

One time you stick your finger in the cigarette lighter that pops out of the dash. You only do that once.

There’s a CB radio hanging from a metal bracket under the dash. Sometimes you talk to strangers. The song Convoy is a huge hit and you know every word. You want to be a truck driver when you grow up.

Your little brother drives the entire way on your dad’s lap, squeezed between his stomach and the steering wheel. Your sister has already vaulted over the back seat and…