The headlights slowed as they approached, and I took a last drag before flicking the butt into the night.
I stepped onto the cab's ladder to reach the door handle and swung my knapsack onto the floor. “Howdy, and thanks—” I said as I shut the door.
The first surprise was her voice. “Evenin’, stranger,” she said as she steered the 18-wheeler back onto the highway.
Immediately I sat up straighter. “Thanks for stopping, ma’am.”
That got me a guffaw. “Don’t call me ma’am—I work for a living!”
“You navy?” I tried.
“Marines!” she said. “Made sergeant but two tours was enough.”
“Thanks for the lift, Sarge,” I said.
“Where you headed?”
“Anywhere but here. Did some stupid things here. Lost my company, family, house. All I got left is my bones.”
“You got a passport?” Sarge glanced at me doubtfully.
“Turns out I do,“ I said. “Needed it for business travel. Not any more, though.”
“Well, sailor,” she said. “This load’s headed for Manitoba. Can you navigate? On land I mean.”
“Sure, Sarge. I was an ensign
I ran out of time there. Here's the next one, addressed to my late father.
It was just the other day I felt the rail scraping the top of my head. I might have let out a yelp. It amused you that I had grown too tall to walk carelessly under that old kitchen table.
Where were we living then, Dad? Was it the year JFK was elected? Were we in Manoa then? I remember the curved tubular steel legs and the leaf in the middle— I don't think I ever saw the table without it.
But I don't recall which way it faced, or whether the girls were born yet.
Nothing profound, just a snapshot—discovering that my head reached the rail, seeing your smile and hearing your chuckle just the other day, not quite 60 years ago.
