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No matter where Dad was stationed during his 20 years in the Army, we would always visit my grandparents every summer.
In order for him to use the maximum amount of annual leave, Dad would visit headquarters at midnight to sign out.
My four brothers and I would be rustled from sleep for a ride to the office so ‘Sergeant Mathis’ could leave his signature – and then we would begin miles of night driving.
On the old maps of America, the main highways were marked in red and the backroads in blue. Daddy loved traveling on ‘Blue Highways’ – and I do too.
Camden, Arkansas, might be 84 miles from Texarkana (just a little ways from Louisiana.) We would sing along the way. If we were living in Killeen or San Antonio, we would have hours of night driving.
Daddy knew the rules of the road. He would blink his head-lights, letting the big truckers know it was safe to pull back in. Daddy would flash his tail-lights to say, “Thank You,” to a farmer who pulled onto the shoulder to let us pass.
The miles would fly by—the air rich with the aroma of coffee from a Thermos. The ember of Dad’s Lucky Strike cigarette would glow as brightly as the lights on the dashboard—as luminescent as the dim lights of a distant city.
We kids would doze and dream. And when we awoke, our dreams would become true—as Grandmother and Granddaddy would welcome us with kisses and hugs.
Thank you, Dad, for the safe journey.
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Photo: GettyImages
Don, I want more. This took me to a place of happiness. I could smell the coffee and the cigarette. And those arms reaching out for you and your brothers.