My family didn’t own one until I was nearly 20.
Most weekends we borrowed Uncle Joe’s ‘47 Plymouth
to be returned by early Monday morning.

Being car-less was not a major inconvenience.
From our south side home, street cars and buses
conveyed us anywhere in the city. We seldom
left Chicago, except on Sunday afternoons.

My father would pack my grandmother, aunt,
mother and me in the vehicle. He was
the only one who knew how to drive.

We motored to what was called the country,
most often a stretch of Ridge Road
near the Illinois-Indiana border.

This area teemed with seasonal farm stands
offering fresh fruits, vegetables, eggs,
honey and flowers. We rarely returned home
empty-handed except in the dead of winter.

I was not enthusiastic about these mandatory
excursions; stuffed in an uncomfortable car,
no radio or air conditioner, an inadequate heater,
surrounded by adult relatives.

I could not appreciate the sheer joy and the feeling
of freedom dad derived from just driving. Now as I
inch along on the Tri-State, I often picture my dad
behind the wheel on his Sunday afternoon drive.

Someone honking propels me back
from this much simpler, less congested time.

John J. Gordon