Southern Legitimacy Statement: After thirty-six years of teaching in the Midwest, I relocated to the Hudson Valley. The journey to New York was preceded by childhood in North Carolina, theater tours in the South, marriage in Alabama, life in Los Angeles, and decades at Wabash College in Indiana. The one constant has been the return to Emerald Isle and my North Carolina family.
Tough in the Right Places
My dad was a Chevy man. He drove generations of Bel Airs, always with four-doors to accommodate at least five unbuckled kids and my mother. Driving with his left, his right hand was free to swat at children bickering in the backseat. He drove other “passengers” on occasion—a lop-eared rabbit purchased by my mother from the state fair, dyed purple and blue Easter chicks, and my first dog, a Collie I named Queenie, because, she seemed like royalty to me.
Although he never said it, dad would have preferred a muscle car to the passenger, a car worthy of the Winston Cup, or some similar stock car race he watched on TV. That wasn’t to be, and he never complained. Instead, eventually, he purchased a second vehicle to call his own (no one else in the family would be brave enough to drive the thing). It was a beat-up, rusted out Chevy pick-up truck, with a floor choke and stomp starter, providing additional assurance that this vehicle belonged to dad alone. And while this gave him some independence, he remained, almost exclusively, the primary motorist, the chauffeur of our family passenger car, our Bel Air, used daily to transport children, and once a year as a source of joy, of deliverance, a vacation.
Our most memorable trips were those that landed us on the beach of Emerald Isle. Then, a sleepy fishing community near the southern tip of the Outer Banks, we’d check into our quarters and spend the day body surfing. Dad, seeking solitude, floated on swells beyond our reach with only his barrel chest, toes and face above the surface.
Late in the afternoon, burnt and sweaty, we’d retreat to our beach rental, and feast on a meal mother had prepared for the trip. After a time, when we had exhausted mother’s leftovers, dad said we would try an Italian restaurant that had opened recently nearby. Climbing into our 1958 Bel Air, we rode the beach byway with eyes shifting from the sound to the sea.
We arrived at the restaurant, a freshly painted stucco building decked with red tile and creeping vines. Opening the restaurant door, we were met with the welcome chill of air conditioning. The host greeted us, asked if we had a reservation, and when dad said “No,” the host waved it off and told us to follow. Single file, we marched to a table dressed in white linen, with all proper glass and silver ware. The host pulled a chair for mother as the rest of us circled for seats. Seconds later, the waiter arrived and placed bread and butter on the table, and then, with precision, delivered a leather menu to each, the girls first. “Shall we start with something to drink?” he asked. Before anyone could speak, mom spoke for all: “Water is fine for now.” The waiter left, mother leaned in and said, “Do not touch the bread.” She turned to dad, opened his menu and pointed to the price of something like pasta. We waited for his reaction. There was none. He simply cleared his throat, rose from the table, and instructed us to follow. Which, we did.
Stepping outside of the restaurant, we were reminded once again of our place. The Bel Air, parked nearby, was ready to receive us. Dad wiped his forehead, mom clutched her pocketbook, and my sisters and I raced for window seats. The parking lot was nearly empty, which mother attributed to the price of spaghetti. Mom and dad discussed dinner options as the four doors closed on backseat complaints of vinyl sticking to sunburned skin. Dad started the car and we rolled away.
With vacation over, going home, I had grown weary of sisters who had refused to give me a back seat window. Voices surged. We rode unhappily. Some distance from the ocean, Dad pulled over at an unremarkable spot. Unremarkable, except for this odd contraption with a sign that read, “Kicking Machine.” Mother stayed in the car; the kids gathered around Dad, who, explained the workings of the thing—a winding crank, a simple wheel with boots spaced equally on spokes. He demonstrated. “Watch, with my back to the wheel, I bend, turn the crank, which, in turn, turns the wheel, lifting one boot after another, each kicking me in the derriere.” He worked the machine again, this time with more speed. His punishment over, he said, “Sometimes, you need to kick yourself in the butt.” Reluctantly, we agreed. When he asked, “Who’s next?” No one volunteered. Before I had a chance to sacrifice a sister or two, Dad instructed us all to line up. Which, we did, one boot after another.
