Day 5

Some of my most favorite and earliest actual memories (and I know they're my own because there are no pictures) are of riding in the pickup truck with my daddy.  On the way to kindergarten on school day mornings, we would play the guessing game for when (or about where in our route) the cold engine temperature light would go off.  He would let me win most times, although now I know he always had a pretty good idea of when it would happen.

But the very best times were when I would go with him to feed the cows at the pasture on Bayou Avenue.  Because on the way home, he would let me DRIVE!

I would sit in his lap.  The gear shift was on the steering column, so he would do that, the accelerator, and the brake.  But I would get to steer!  From just across the railroad tracks by what I affectionately called the “stinky bridge,” by the old Minden cemetery, and all the way up to Pine Street, I would proudly place my little hands at 10-and-2 o’clock.  Focusing with all my might, I would carefully guide that light yellow 1967 Chevrolet between the middle and the right side of the pavement.  Then I would crawl back onto the bench seat and stand beside him with my arm around his neck, for the rest of the ride home to dinner.

It was only later that I realized his hand was holding onto the bottom of the steering wheel.  Even when I thought I was in control - or even out of control -  I was in good hands.