I spent my summers in the thick, heavy air, surrounded by the hum of machines, the scent of paint and sweat, the grind of work that soaked into my skin.
Each day, hours stretched long like the paint on the walls, endless and still. But somewhere beneath the weight of labor, I carried a fire, a dream that pulsed with every drop of sweat.
The 1968 Plymouth Valiant— it wasn’t just a car, it was freedom, the promise of the open road, the sound of the engine roaring to life, the rush pulsing through my veins.
I saved for it, pennies and dimes stacking up, small victories in every paycheck, the world beyond the warehouse slowly coming closer.
And when the day arrived— the Valiant, gleaming under the sun, its chrome shining like a future waiting to be claimed— I slid into the driver’s seat, felt the wheel in my hands, and for the first time, it was mine.
But it wasn’t just mine, not in the way I’d imagined. The Valiant had room— room for more than just me. The bench seat stretched wide, perfect for two.
So I later at college I drove, with her next to me, the warmth of her close against my side, her laughter mixing with the hum of that slant six. We drove on highways lit by the glow of the setting sun, hands brushing, hearts beating in time with the road.
The Valiant didn’t just carry us from one place to another, its front seat was a place for us to hold tight, to the road, to the moment, to each other.
Each summer, the map spread wide across the kitchen table— my father tracing routes with a finger, his eyes squinting, as though looking for the path where adventure hid, waiting along the inked highways.
Chicago—always the start, the city we’d leave behind, its skyline fading in the rear view, and the rumble of the wheels interspersed with the chatter of my sister’s endless questions and the rustle of my mother’s stoic optimism.
Rand McNally in hand, a sacred guide, each page crinkled with age and heavy with anticipation, labeling towns and sites we never heard of and others we’d never forget.
We’d drive through the heart of America, through cornfields and small towns where the diner was always open and the waitress knew your order before you spoke.
There was something sacred about those maps— not just roads or cities, but a way of binding us to each other, in the back of our old Chrysler with the windows cracked and the sun hot, sticky fingers passing snacks, the scent of gas and sunburns mixing.
Dad always knew the best route— not the fastest, but the one that wound by rivers and hills, through little-known landmarks and endless sky, places where time slowed down and the roads stretched out, offering us the freedom to get lost but always know where we were.
The hum of the tires on endless roadways, the blur of passing landscapes, the roadside tourist shops, the quirky attractions, a kaleidoscope of Americana unfolding before our eyes.
Mount Rushmore’s stoic gaze, Yellowstone’s geysers erupting, the Grand Canyon’s breathtaking vastness, New Orleans, New York City, and Washington, DC— each a postcard memory, a testament to the beauty and diversity of this land.
And when we’d return to hometown Chicago once more I’d look at the worn-out map, the highways’ now familiar tracks, and think of how every curve, every turn, had shaped us— the long shared journey of family marked in asphalt and memory.
