Warmer weather has me thinking about rides with the top down on our 1965 Plymouth convertible. Lunch is always our destination–we’re familiar with restaurants within 100 miles in each direction.
While I was growing up, going for a Sunday drive was often our weekly recreation. Sometimes, Dad just turned this way and that at an intersection. He never got lost because eventually he’d come to a familiar highway.
Rural roads sometimes were gravel or one-lane blacktop. They didn’t have names except in Wisconsin where county roads were designated with a letter. We might come across two or three C’s if we traveled from one jurisdiction to another.
My folks viewed the crops along the way. Comments were made on the hay mowed and raked, the combining of oats or picking corn. If we went south, they were a little ahead of ours–those to the north, a little behind. They also commented on the farms such as those that appeared prosperous with a blue Harvestore silo.
Sitting alone in the back seat, I noted the animals in the pastures, mostly herds of black and white Holstein milk cows or a few bunches of beef cattle, which were black Angus or while-faced, red Herefords. Most farms had at least a team of horses grazing. Once in a while, I’d see a flock of sheep or goats.
When a friend moved to another neighborhood, we’d find their new home. Directions were vague such as go east from the village, turn left at the schoolhouse and it’s the third place on the right. Farmers all put their names on their mail boxes so that was our guide. We didn’t visit the people–just saw where they lived and compared the new place to the old.
Before returning home, we’d always top at a root beer stand or an ice cream parlor for a treat.
Whenever I happen across a detour today, the roads usually have a familiar look thanks to the rides we took while I was growing up,
Do you ever just go for a ride?