Driving with My Dad

My dad died, unexpectedly, 35 years ago today. He was only 57. He died two days after my mother's birthday, October 10, and was buried on mine, October 14. It was traumatic, and still is, but that's not what I want to talk about today.

I think about my dad all the time--when I hear a song he liked or watch a program he would have enjoyed. In this time of political turmoil I wonder which side he would have chosen, and whether we would have discussed/argued or agreed. He was the kindest man in the world, but rather conservative, and we discussed/argued plenty in the turbulent 60's and 70's. I wonder if he would have mellowed, and if, as an adult, I would have been able to make my case without crying.

My dad, probably late 50's, 2717 W. 42nd St.

Lately, I realize that I've been thinking about him a lot while driving. Now that might sound funny, but not when you realize that Daddy was our family chauffeur. If you don't know me well, you might not know that our family was rather atypical. My mother died when I was 3 and my brother was 4 months old. Daddy moved us home with his parents and never remarried, so our family consisted of a grandmother and grandfather in their 60's, my dad, myself and my brother. My granddad died in 1970, but then I married and divorced in the 70's and added one more member to this multi-generational family in 1976--my son, Jason. About the only thing a family spanning 6 decades can do together is drive and eat, so that's what we did. 

Daddy, 1960's, 3319 W. 38th St.

I have written a post about some of our favorite places to eat, Lost Restaurants and Fond Memories. We often would all pile into the car on a Sunday after church and Daddy would drive us to a favorite restaurant in Claremore or Henryetta or Skiatook or Joplin, Missouri. The ride was part of the fun. I learned a lot from my grandmother and my dad on those trips--my grandmother pointing out what crops were growing in fields along the highway or my dad talking politics or philosophy. 

When my brother and I were young, and my maternal grandmother was still living in her house in Dustin, Oklahoma, we took the drive there at least once a month. Usually we stopped in Henryetta at Patty Ann's Restaurant for lunch. When we crossed from Okmulgee County into Hughes County, from a paved road to a gravel road, my brother and I always climbed into the back seat to change our rumpled clothes into something more presentable. We always visited my mom's grave before heading back to Tulsa. I know these trips had to be hard on my dad, and the visit with his in-laws not particularly enjoyable, but this was a trip he made out of respect and remembrance.

Fairview Cemetery, Dustin, Oklahoma

My grandmother quit driving when she had a wreck while I was in junior high, so my dad always took her to shop for clothes or buy groceries. He waited patiently in the car, listening to the radio or reading, until she had finished her errand. He took my brother and me to numerous games, school events, and friends' houses.  He was often the parent who dropped my friends and me off at the skating rink or the shopping center. (I have a feeling that was because he trusted himself more than a friend's parent to get us there safely.) The only thing that made him impatient was when he came to pick me up at somebody's house and had to wait because I wasn't looking for him when he drove up. I remember he got pretty exasperated with me!

Well, I remember one other thing that exasperated him. I had to laugh out loud the other day when I drove right through a pothole on the road near my house. I could just hear my dad saying, "You could not have done a better job of hitting that if you had been aiming at it!" I took driver's ed the summer before my senior year, but Daddy thought he could teach me to drive a stick shift. After I mowed down an iron post filled with concrete in the Park School parking lot, he decided I might do better with an automatic and a driving instructor.

Just last week I realized that I was repeating a habit of my dad's that we used to tease him about. Steering with his left hand left his right hand free to bop to the rhythm of whatever song was playing on the radio. For some reason that embarrassed my brother and me so much! I think it's because my dad was a dancer. He couldn't just sit still when a good song was playing. And now, of course, I do the same thing. 

On a drive in the country, 1980's

I mentioned that my dad was kind. He had a soft heart for abandoned dogs and wild creatures. I remember several times when he stopped to move a slow-moving tortoise to the side of the road. 

Some of the things that my brother and I remember most vividly about our childhood happened on car trips with my dad. We still love to drive. I know that this love of driving is what spurs us to take our historical/genealogical vacations. We are trying to re-create the safe and nourishing environment we felt with my dad at the wheel of our car.

My dad, Jack Smith (1928-1985)