Back in the day, dads did not ride shotgun. That’s not necessarily because father drove best. Now, we’d say it was a feature of an oppressive gender hierarchy or hegemonic masculinity. In those days, we didn’t know what those words meant. That’s just the way it was. So, except for those couple of years we drove an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser, the one with the awesome rear-facing third row seat, a substantial amount of my interaction with my dad was reflected in the rear-view mirror.
When you think about it, a car is not a bad place for a father and his child to spend some time together. I have a friend who, when his children were growing up, would occasionally say, “Let’s take a drive.” Once he got them in the vehicle, he had a captive audience. They had to listen to his fatherly lectures while that long black ribbon rolled beneath the tires. Or, as was often the case, they had his ear for hours of uninterrupted time with the most influential man in their lives.
I have some fond memories of windshield time with my dad. One summer morning, I rode with him to his furniture store, thirty minutes from our home. Like typical males, we sat in silence for much of the drive. Halfway there, in the town of Suwanee, GA, as we passed the elementary school, he said, “Right along about here is where I usually say my prayers.”
You will note that I remember exactly where we were on the road. I remember because that was an important moment in the development of my faith. I learned that my dad was a praying man. I learned that having a set time and/or place to pray was a thing. That maybe I needed a time or place to pray. Not all of my father’s on-the-road experiences with his children, however, were so spiritually successful.
Mom and dad were always good about inviting people to church services. Once, when our church was having a Gospel Meeting (remember those?), they asked a neighbor lady to go. She agreed. On the way home, our guest sat in the back seat in between my brother and me. The adults were talking about the sermon and the singing and the possibility of her returning for a second visit. As we passed what we called back then a “beer joint,” (again in the town of Suwanee), my brother said, “Right there’s where me and my daddy buy our beer.”
That actually was not where he and dad purchased their adult beverages. Dad was and remains a teetotaler. I don’t recall what happened in the moments after my brother’s outburst. I can tell you that he survived and has gone on to become a very good man and a great father.
Time is the only traveler that never pulls into a rest stop for a break. As it relentlessly rolls forward, the opportunities for fathers and their children to ride together become more and more infrequent. Too soon, the children ride off in their own cars – or the one’s we purchased for them. And before you know it, they are sharing the road with children of their own.
A few years after I had sons myself, however, my dad and I took a long road trip to Brunswick, GA, for a family wedding. Just him and me. I drove. He rode shotgun. By then, I had lived long enough to learn that being a man is a lot harder than it looks. That being a father is harder still. A lot of his decisions, which I had questioned when I enjoyed the luxury of not having to make big decisions, began to make more sense. His imperfections, which seemed so irredeemable when I was confident of my own moral gallantry, were a lot more familiar to me than I wanted to admit.
On that trip, there were long, silent stretches where dozens of green mile markers whisked by our windows. Driving through the night, though, dad and I spoke of deep things – of ancient regrets and present fears and hopeful tomorrows. It was a good ride.
I hope you spent some memorable moments on the road with your dad — that you and he had some good rides. It might be time to give him a call and tell him you remember and that you’re grateful. It may even be a good day to knock on his door and say, “Hi dad. Let’s take a drive.”