Ice

Two to three weeks of my summers as a child were spent going between two sets of Grandparents, one in a little town in Utah called Nephi and the other in a little town in Montana called St. Ignatius.  The drive from Klamath Falls Oregon to either one of these places was long and tedious, especially to a child.  To help the drive go faster, my parents would load up the old Rambler station wagon with luggage on top and sleeping children in the back.  Those were the days when no seatbelts were required.  We'd be lifted out of our beds with sleepy eyes and carried into the back of the Rambler where a bed had been made up for us.

Driving during the middle of the night was no easy task for my Dad who had often put in a full days work.  To stay awake, he would pull into a gas station and buy a bag of ice.  Chewing ice while he drove, helped him stay awake.  Sometimes, I would wake up and crawl over the seats into the front of the car and sit next to my dad. The two of us would sit together in the glow of the dashboard chewing ice and talking.  

It made me feel special to be with him like this, watching the yellow lines of the highway go by, eating ice and looking for deer on the road.  He would tell me stories and we would share secrets as we talked quietly in the night while the rest of the family slumbered. It made me feel important.  Try as I might though, the yellow lines would begin blur and my head would nod and my eyes would close.  But I'd go to sleep happy and loved sitting next to the man who was my father.