Saturday, October 12th, 2024
Driving Through the Past
For our date-night Thursday, Joanne and I did a few local errands, and then went for a long and languid drive to enjoy autumnal colours. As we came to intersections, we'd often decide together: left or right? We chose roads we hadn't travelled in some time, looking for fresh landscapes to enjoy.
While we drove, we listened to some beautiful music. The playlist was a combination of older, favourite tunes like "Dust in the Wind," or "The Living Years," as well as newer songs that also pull the heart-strings.
In that perfect setting, I found myself reviewing my past. If you've followed me for any amount of time, you've likely figured out that I'm a bit melancholic. I'm sentimental. I enjoy remembering, and I struggle a bit with the progression of time: our grandparents have passed away, our parents are aging, and our babies have grown up and don't need us. Why does this bother me? Maybe because every year that passes is one year closer to my own end.
As the evening progressed, each road we chose was less paved, less travelled. Trees grew closer to the shoulder, and dust rose up behind us.
As the roadways became more and more rusticated, I imagined how they would have looked 50 years ago. Many of these lanes are the same ones my ancestors used. I found myself wondering what grandpa would think if he could travel this same path today. Where once a field, now a forest. A rail fence has decayed almost into the earth. I pictured him, with his thick white hair. His smiling face kept appearing in my mind. He always wore a hat. People loved him. He liked to sing. He'd sway a bit, front-to-back, while reaching for those high notes. He loved babies. His light blue eyes would tear up easily. He'd quickly shake his head side to side if he couldn't quite hear. I can see him in his seventies-style, orange chair, looking through the bottom of his glasses at some new book, manual, or Princess Auto catalogue.
I miss you, bop. I'm 25 years from 80, the year you passed into eternity.
I thought of the drives we have taken together. Typically there would be some accompanying story. I'm afraid many of those stories will die with me. Have I passed these family accounts on to my own children? Unfortunately, not. That's a loss I struggle with. My children will have their own special memories.
We stopped the car at the end of Kingsford lake, at the Devil Lake creek dam. I wandered around, looking at the old mechanism to lift the dam. As the warmth of the evening sun started to set, I sat on the shoreline, and took a book-and-pipe slowdown.
Life is good. God is good. Whatever happens is good.
I let it all go.