The note was an apology, to my mother, for whatever I did way back when. Somehow I managed to rise before she did, crawling my five year-old self out of the small twin bed with a mission at hand. The note was already composed, now it just needed a delivery spot. Placing it on her nightstand was out of the question - she's a light sleeper, and their bedroom was up a creaky stairwell with a door that craved oil on its hinges. So was the kitchen table - as a family, that's where we placed birthday cards for the lucky member to spot. Too confusing to put an apology letter there. I decided the best place was in her car, where she could spot it before she ventured to work in the morning. Most steering wheels on cars from the 1980's, by the way, are a perfect resting place for such correspondence. The horn often sat back a bit from the spoke, or whatever the technical term is for it, making for an ideal spot to balance something if need be. I strapped on some quick winter gear, ventured outside, opened her unlocked car door (she locks it nowadays, thankfully), and placed the note right on the steering column.
That was my first vivid experience being inside a car, if only for a brief moment back then. I thought about that time while recently sitting inside a car, with a dog, waiting for a friend to arrive so we could walk both our dogs together. It was late, so the routine of walking these dogs gets a little pathetic thanks to a neurotic hag that lives downstairs. In order to keep the dog from getting overly excited about a late night walk with another dog, I have to bring him into the car, away from downstairs lady's sensitive eardrums. So I sit there, in the driver's seat, with the car off, waiting for my friend to arrive. The dog sits in the backseat, gnawing on a bone I leave back there to keep him from not chewing yet another leash apart. We're currently on leash three.
The first long drive I endured on my own was a five-hour trip to Buffalo, New York in the mid 1990's. I took a break around the Syracuse area, a rest stop along the Thruway I would later frequent often in travels back and forth from college to home. This was before cellphones and even satellite radio, so aside from searching for stations in range along the dial, I had to entertain myself somehow along the ride. If anything, to keep myself from dozing off at the wheel.
So I started talking to myself. Out loud.
The topics often focused on a few trivial things - people in my life, things I wanted to do, things I messed up with, maybe regret in the past - typical topics one always ponders. The talks were very therapeutic, helping me better understand myself churning through this thing called life.
I continued talking to myself on long drives, well after college. Trips to Long Island in vain hopes of chasing a girl I met in college, who had since moved back to her hometown. I still remember the trip route for that - Taconic to Throggs Neck to the L.I.E. to Exit 45. My first few times driving through New York City, although technically not Manhattan. Each trip I kept the radio off and kept discussing things with myself, occasionally getting a phone call from the girl asking where I was by then.
After the girl and I parted ways, life took me on long car rides to Ohio, Missouri, Arizona then back again - all on my own, all with the radio mostly off and just my voice out in the open. Rationalizing poor decisions, lamenting things I couldn't understand, hopeful for a new turn of events once I returned to upstate New York.
While working in Missouri, I decided to see a therapist. Staff training at the school I worked at suggested we devote time to both our physical and mental health in order to successfully work with the students. So I took it to heart, and through the recommendation of a peer, was referred to the therapist and her office - a small room off the edge of her home, some twenty miles outside the city limits. We met a few times, but I soon ended it. She was coming at me with delicate bubble wrap, and I wasn't happy about tossing twenty-five bucks down the drain every week to achieve less than what I was able to work through thanks to my own car therapy sessions.
Even though it has been a good decade and a half plus since I've been, August always reminds me of having to go back to school. Granted, in grade school we didn't usually start until after Labor Day, but August represented that final month until the inevitable. Schools start back up, fall sports start back up, summer vacation winds down, and in some parts of the country, leaves begin to turn colors. It's a month of change. a month of transition. A birthday month for some. For others, mourning loss. With all those long car rides, all these moments waiting with the dog at night, I'm left to process what seems to be a continuous shift for this time of year. All the opportunities, the setbacks, building on what's working, letting go what might not be, and searching for those pockets of joy. Whether trips to Long Island, Missouri, or milling around here for now, August always seems to bring about that itch for more.
As for that Long Island gal, we had good moments during our off again, on again thing over the course of a decade. I'm not terribly big into live music, but the last concert I attended was with her, sometime in the early to mid 2000's. A dual-headliner, John Mayer for her, Counting Crows for me. A cool August evening in upstate New York, laughing and swaying hips in tune to all the guitars and corny teenage emo lyrics down on stage. And while it didn't work out with her, it was one of those pockets of joy - small moments you take with you, with no phone cameras needed to capture it.
That was my first vivid experience being inside a car, if only for a brief moment back then. I thought about that time while recently sitting inside a car, with a dog, waiting for a friend to arrive so we could walk both our dogs together. It was late, so the routine of walking these dogs gets a little pathetic thanks to a neurotic hag that lives downstairs. In order to keep the dog from getting overly excited about a late night walk with another dog, I have to bring him into the car, away from downstairs lady's sensitive eardrums. So I sit there, in the driver's seat, with the car off, waiting for my friend to arrive. The dog sits in the backseat, gnawing on a bone I leave back there to keep him from not chewing yet another leash apart. We're currently on leash three.
The first long drive I endured on my own was a five-hour trip to Buffalo, New York in the mid 1990's. I took a break around the Syracuse area, a rest stop along the Thruway I would later frequent often in travels back and forth from college to home. This was before cellphones and even satellite radio, so aside from searching for stations in range along the dial, I had to entertain myself somehow along the ride. If anything, to keep myself from dozing off at the wheel.
So I started talking to myself. Out loud.
The topics often focused on a few trivial things - people in my life, things I wanted to do, things I messed up with, maybe regret in the past - typical topics one always ponders. The talks were very therapeutic, helping me better understand myself churning through this thing called life.
I continued talking to myself on long drives, well after college. Trips to Long Island in vain hopes of chasing a girl I met in college, who had since moved back to her hometown. I still remember the trip route for that - Taconic to Throggs Neck to the L.I.E. to Exit 45. My first few times driving through New York City, although technically not Manhattan. Each trip I kept the radio off and kept discussing things with myself, occasionally getting a phone call from the girl asking where I was by then.
After the girl and I parted ways, life took me on long car rides to Ohio, Missouri, Arizona then back again - all on my own, all with the radio mostly off and just my voice out in the open. Rationalizing poor decisions, lamenting things I couldn't understand, hopeful for a new turn of events once I returned to upstate New York.
While working in Missouri, I decided to see a therapist. Staff training at the school I worked at suggested we devote time to both our physical and mental health in order to successfully work with the students. So I took it to heart, and through the recommendation of a peer, was referred to the therapist and her office - a small room off the edge of her home, some twenty miles outside the city limits. We met a few times, but I soon ended it. She was coming at me with delicate bubble wrap, and I wasn't happy about tossing twenty-five bucks down the drain every week to achieve less than what I was able to work through thanks to my own car therapy sessions.
Even though it has been a good decade and a half plus since I've been, August always reminds me of having to go back to school. Granted, in grade school we didn't usually start until after Labor Day, but August represented that final month until the inevitable. Schools start back up, fall sports start back up, summer vacation winds down, and in some parts of the country, leaves begin to turn colors. It's a month of change. a month of transition. A birthday month for some. For others, mourning loss. With all those long car rides, all these moments waiting with the dog at night, I'm left to process what seems to be a continuous shift for this time of year. All the opportunities, the setbacks, building on what's working, letting go what might not be, and searching for those pockets of joy. Whether trips to Long Island, Missouri, or milling around here for now, August always seems to bring about that itch for more.
As for that Long Island gal, we had good moments during our off again, on again thing over the course of a decade. I'm not terribly big into live music, but the last concert I attended was with her, sometime in the early to mid 2000's. A dual-headliner, John Mayer for her, Counting Crows for me. A cool August evening in upstate New York, laughing and swaying hips in tune to all the guitars and corny teenage emo lyrics down on stage. And while it didn't work out with her, it was one of those pockets of joy - small moments you take with you, with no phone cameras needed to capture it.
I took the cannonball down to the ocean
Watched the diesel disappear beneath the tumbling waves
Love is a ghost train howling on the radio
"Remember everything." she said, "when only memory remains."
Watched the diesel disappear beneath the tumbling waves
Love is a ghost train howling on the radio
"Remember everything." she said, "when only memory remains."