"This isn't so great, Dad. Your motorcycle ONLY goes to (road)480 and back. That's not SUCH a big deal."
~me, age 4 to my dad about his Harley
I've been in a driving mood lately. When I have something on my mind and I don't want to talk or write about it, I'll hop in Rexy, crank up the radio and just drive. Tonight was one of those kinds of nights.
The good thing about being close to the area where you were born is that you can go back anytime. The bad thing about being close to the area where you were born is that you can go back anytime. It's a double-edged sword and it's not something that I think about a whole lot because of it.
I was born in a town that's ten minutes from Marquette and I lived there until the divorce was finalized when I was 6. For some random reason, I felt the urge tonight to go back to the house where I did a lot of growing up.
As I drove down the suburban streets, memories that I'd long forgotten about started rushing back to me. The patched up part of Highway 480 reminded me of summer walks to the ice arena with my mom and sister. I'd pick up rocks and try to aim them at my sister. I'd also whine and drag along. Both of these favorite activities ended up in time-outs and warnings that were forgotten the second we reached our destination.
The curvy road that lead to my old house almost made me feel the wind in my hair like I did when I was four. I always felt like a big girl riding on my Dad's motorcycle. I felt a surge of pride and excitement as we passed waving neighbors and he gunned the engine just so he could hear me giggle. I could smell his breath; I gripped his leather jacket as we sped along the curves of the road. The wind roaming through my hair is still one of my favorite sensations.
The railroad tracks by my old house--and any tracks that I see at any time--remind me of scraped knees. I had to cross the tracks to get to the bus stop and about 65% of the time I'd slip on the iron pebbles that coated the tracks. My tights would tear; my knees would get bloody and scraped; my face was usually tear-soaked as I boared the bus due to those damn tracks. I couldn't even count how many pairs of tights I went through because of the tracks. But Mom would always grip my hands, hug me tightly and kiss my cheeks before I went away to school to remind me that I could endure the pain and thrive--even with a scraped knee.
These memories crowded my mind as I squinted at the scenery through the inky dark and raindrop soaked windshield. I don't know what I was looking for when I went out for a drive, but now I have nostalgia to comfort me if I need to call upon something while I'm overanalyzing every little thing.
Ciao, dahling!
~*Krissy*~