… a prequel to I Am Flying
Thanks Giving ~ My Gift to You
Because some flatlanders panic at the sight of a few snowflakes, our three-hour drive from The Village toward Boston has turned into five—a slow moving armada of the seasonal delusionary, optimistically believing that an early departure will somehow result in being ahead of the traffic. Mother, has the backseat to herself and is resting. Although my father insists it is not ladylike for me to sit with him in the front seat … I am. Oblivious to my frustration with our pace, he maneuvers his new Continental with ease, rotating the over-sized steering wheel with his left hand, while pressing buttons on the Philco with his right; until he hears Sinatra, sentimentally crooning with Dorsey’s band. Papa grips the wheel with both hands, and sinks comfortably back into the upholstered leather. An amateur musician with a passion for perfection, his mind has drifted into his own world. The glow from the dash, and the muffled crackling of radio static, caused by the inclement weather, add to the mood. The sun will rise soon. I close my eyes and push back against my seat as well. If I ever get a chance to hear Sinatra sing in person, I hope I never wake up.