Road Trip(s)

Last night we drove through the middle of Utah. A full moon-- a harvest moon-- made the sky bright. We drove fast on the highway and the black mountain silhouettes blurred past reminding me of sound waves that my physical science professor drew on the chalkboard.

My feet were on the dashboard. My leg bones would have crunched if the airbag blew out. I tapped my chipped red toes in time with a little Mozart. He, the driver not Mozart, whistled the melody with the flutes. I love it when he whistles.

I learned to whistle once this summer. At the beginning of a different road trip, I announced that we were not allowed to come home until I could whistle. He drove while I blew a lot of noiseless air from puckered lips until finally, I produced a clear note. I did it again and again and again. Then, we pulled into my driveway and came home. I was so proud of myself. Little did I know that it was the first and the last time that I would successfully whistle.

Allan Jackson says I've gone country. He might be right. I've become a southbound I-15 regular-- all the while listening to a bit of country twang. (The only exception may be last night's bit of Mozart.) I suggest listening to country music on road trips, especially if you're driving through desert and red rock cowboy land. It's just one of those things-- like eating watermelon on the Fourth of July or wearing new clothes to the first day of school.

Six. Six road trips in five months. That's what I was thinking when my toes were tapping on the dashboard and I saw the green exit sign for Provo, Utah. I put chapstick on my air conditioner dried lips for the 30th time in four hours (divide by two for accuracy) and said, "We're almost home."

That was the most depressing thing I said all day.