Adventure
When we were young we didn’t travel much as a family. Our idea of a trip was the occasional excursion to Landmark or Arnaud or to Brandon to sell pigs. Those were good times. I fondly remember begging Dad to drive through The City so that we could see the Christmas lights. Or, stopping for the chocolate covered donut on the way home (trust me, I wanted it on the way there) from Brandon. For the most part I was super-jealous of my siblings who went to school when I stayed home. But, not when it was time to ship pigs. That I got to jump into that red truck for a few hours every so often while they trotted off to school was a delight. Sometimes we even went to WINNIPEG which then entailed a whole other begging: "Dad, can we pleeeease drive by the golden boy."
But, I digress.
I think my love of adventure can be tracked back to something even smaller. Something nearly forgettable. Miniscule and insignificant. It happened mainly on Sundays. It was usually when Dad was in a good mood but there were also times it happened when Dad was concerned about something. I can elicit the feelings involved to this day. The unexpected. The unknown. The Adventure. We would be driving home from church and be getting close to our driveway. Mom’s chicken, potatoes and corn nearly palpable. Languid moments laying in the living room sun before "girls, it’s time to set the table". Comfortable, familiar. But then, out of nowhere Dad, with a smirk on his face, would miss the turn for the driveway and we knew. It was time for a little joyride. It could be just to drive to the pasture and check on a calving cow. Or, it could be down Raspberry Lane to see how the crops fared from the rain the night before. Some days it was farther away, some days it was less than a mile. No matter what, only Dad knew and we waited in anticipation.
It was an adventure.
I remember taking a walk with my nieces and nephews once and asking one of them if he wanted to go back to the campsite. "No," was his reply, "I want to see what’s down that next path." I smiled. I understood.
But, I digress.
I think my love of adventure can be tracked back to something even smaller. Something nearly forgettable. Miniscule and insignificant. It happened mainly on Sundays. It was usually when Dad was in a good mood but there were also times it happened when Dad was concerned about something. I can elicit the feelings involved to this day. The unexpected. The unknown. The Adventure. We would be driving home from church and be getting close to our driveway. Mom’s chicken, potatoes and corn nearly palpable. Languid moments laying in the living room sun before "girls, it’s time to set the table". Comfortable, familiar. But then, out of nowhere Dad, with a smirk on his face, would miss the turn for the driveway and we knew. It was time for a little joyride. It could be just to drive to the pasture and check on a calving cow. Or, it could be down Raspberry Lane to see how the crops fared from the rain the night before. Some days it was farther away, some days it was less than a mile. No matter what, only Dad knew and we waited in anticipation.
It was an adventure.
I remember taking a walk with my nieces and nephews once and asking one of them if he wanted to go back to the campsite. "No," was his reply, "I want to see what’s down that next path." I smiled. I understood.
posted by ccap at 8:38 AM
4 Comments:
That sounds like fun! Sometimes it is such small things that impact us in such big ways.
Thanks for evoking a powerful memory. Those moments have stuck with me too - I can remember that feeling :-)
Off topic ...
I received the nicest surprise in the mail today. Thank you! "Two of Us" is one of my favorites, but I haven't heard most of the rest of the songs.
My dad used to get a similar twinkle in his eye. Usually it was followed by turning into a Dairy Queen for ice cream. He used to say he had lost control of the steering wheel. I love your dad's version. What a great memory of adventure!
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