5. In the 1960s, my dad drove a black Rambler with a red interior. We didn’t wear seat belts back then, and there was a nice-sized hole in the floor. It was so cool: When we looked down, we could see the street speeding beneath us on our way to Buddy Burgers. “Rambler” was an odd name for a car. Definition of “ramble” from the internet: “Move aimlessly or without any specific destination, often in search of food or employment.” This did not describe my dad; he was a beloved high school biology teacher and the most fun dad on the block. He would sing and dance in the grocery store, teach us how to sketch comic book characters, and bring home candy on Friday nights.
Best dad ever. Everyone loved Dad.
Except Mom. They were divorced in 1972, one month before my tenth birthday. While my mother was freed from the confines of an unpredictable husband who did things like buy a used car with a hole in the floor, we kids were stunned by the sudden turn of events. It was a confusing next couple of years (decades), because he loved his kids more than life. But he chose to leave for good. The divorce was never discussed, and we were expected to carry on. Some people would call that cruel—and I would say, yep, it was cruel—but we all learned to develop coping mechanisms.
Like keeping busy. My school days were full. Idling wasn’t an option. Being busy filled my time, but the minute I left home for college, I lost my way. I knew I was off track, but I couldn’t steer my way back. Until a few years later, when, with my mother’s nudging, I found some direction.*
And while I have tried my best to forget those times, I own them now. If you find you’re out there rambling, don’t feel bad about it. It doesn’t have to stop your journey; it can just be part of it—left turns included.
* See No6. Thanks, Mom.