Riding Shotgun

Some of my fondest memories from when I was little are riding shotgun with my Daddy.  We played this game until he would finally have enough and stop it–bless him, I’m sure it went on way longer than he could have possibly wanted it to:

Me:  What’d you say?
Him:  What’d you say I said?
Me:  What’d you say I said you said?
Him:  What’d you say I said you said I said?
Me:  What’d you say I said you said I said you said?

…..and so on until we’d get tongue-tied in fits of laughter or Daddy would kindly indicate that was enough.  Being a parent now, remembering how much he did play it with me, it endears him to me even more.  BLESS.  HIM.

We’d also sing crazy versions of “Yellow submarine.”  We all live in an orange jellybean, a blue tambourine, grass that’s really green…..

Or “You Can’t Roller Skate in a Buffalo Cage.”  Yeah, that was a good one.

I enjoyed our times together when he taught me to drive.  There were life lessons going on in that vehicle as well.  All kinds of wisdom imparted on those drives.

As I got older I enjoyed when Mama would let me join her on trips to see my Great Aunt.  Or to town.  Sometimes I’d drive, sometimes she would.  The fun times were great.  The hard ones were scary, like the time I drove her to the ER when she was running such a high fever.  Even then, she kept her sass I loved and her sense of humor I loved even more.  We were bonding across that dashboard.

This is a “thing” I am passing on to my crew too.  We have some light-hearted, joyful, funny, deep, and hard conversations as we travel down the road.  I remember it was on one road trip that the impending arrival of Cooter was announced to his sisters.

Yesterday my Cuz’n helped us move the big things up to my oldest’s dorm room.  He had helped us move her out back in May.  The rule around our house (or so I told him) is you bring it in, you’re responsible for getting it back out.  He’s a good sport.  Willing and able, two qualities not to be taken for granted.  He met us at the house to load up her mini-frigidaire, rug, and papasan chair.  I commented that it seemed like she had brought back way more at the end of her last school year.

He reminded me, “Don’t you remember, Tara? You keep taking things up all year long, get it just like you want it about April, and then move it all back in May.”

Yep. Sounds about right.

As the Fella loaded up in his vehicle with a few smaller things inside, I decided to ride with Cuz’n.  We don’t get to visit that often, and when we do, it’s always a happenin’, as my Mama would put it.  We packed up our mini-convoy and headed up the road to Macon.

What we talked about isn’t nearly as important as the laughter and the shared memories that allow for really, really good conversations between folks who are each other’s people.  Folks who get the quirks and hardly see them anymore. Or at least when they point them out, they still love you and will go off on anybody ELSE who points them out.

Yes. A good time riding shotgun.  It didn’t hurt that we were in his old truck taking the backroads as far up as we could.

It was Sunday, after all.

Sunday drives are the stuff some of our best stories are made of.  Yesterday, I added another chapter.

Tonight I’m thankful for the folks whom I get to call mine.  They really are the best.  I’m thankful for the willingness of good guys to spend their Sunday making sure my girl had her niceties to make this year and her room extra homey.  (The littles and I helped her move the necessities–clothes and bedding–up last Wednesday.)  I’m thankful that no one mentioned, not even once, that maybe next year she could ask to finally be on any floor other than the top one.  And that no one complained we didn’t get to use the elevator.  Good guys, I tell you.  They were smiling and laughing the whole time.  Most of all, I’m thankful for a good day of riding shotgun, laughing over old memories, and making new ones to laugh over in years to come.

Wishing you all someone fun to ride shotgun with–it’s always a good day for a Sunday drive.

Love to all.

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