As a child who attended public school, I always knew I had to wear something green on March 17th whether I was Irish or not, rather than run the risk of being pinched. Even as an adult, I love not just wearing green on St. Patrick’s day, but dressing up for an occasion despite not having an actual character in mind since Halloween is my favorite holiday. Why dress boringly every day of the year?
And then out of nowhere while driving, Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” reminds me of something green. Picture this: a gas-guzzling medium green Town & Country station wagon with the fake wood paneling on the sides. Bare thighs sticking to the fake green leather in the back middle seat between my two older sisters with the smell of cold fried chicken, circulated by the AC.
We took family car vacations in the 70s and 80s. The longest ones were during the dead heat of summer from Little Rock, AR to Cascade and Hampton, VA to visit both sides of the family. I don’t remember ever staying in a hotel en route to visit the relatives. We minimized having to stop for food because Mom always fried up a lot of chicken legs for us to eat along with chips and soda, which was a treat because we normally drank Kool-aid or sweet tea with dinner and bottled water wasn’t yet a thing. Anyway, if we ever got hungry or thirsty, all we had to do was reach or crawl over the backseat to get something to eat or drink because wearing seat belts wasn’t a big deal either.
Even though Willie Nelson’s hit song came out in 1980, the year after my family had moved from Arkansas to North Carolina, it so perfectly captures those long cross-country family vacations. In reality, my mother couldn’t have started singing “On the Road Again” during those trips. Yet I clearly remember her singing that song during the start of subsequent trips in the green machine.
And speaking of music, how did we not end up killing one another with just one radio and ME for entertainment? This reminds me of one short-lived game that I invented where I was the radio and all my sisters had to do was change the channel and I’d sing a different song.
One my sister’s tapped me on the nose, told me that was the “off” button and wouldn’t turn me back on. Neither would my other sister. I was mad as hell. I complained to my mother, who I could clearly see was laughing even though she was facing forward and wasn’t making a sound. When Mom regained her composure, she turned around and suggested that I just be quiet for a while.
As a child, the only times I was “quiet for a while” was during church, half the time at school, and when I was asleep. As a matter of fact, if I’d grown up in the 90s, I would’ve been given Ritalin. Instead, my elementary school day consisted of two outside recesses. The neighborhoods where I lived were so safe, I could play outside, unsupervised with my friends over a large area. Mom used to joke that if anyone ever kidnapped me, they’d bring me back. She also claimed that she’d only hear my voice out of all the other kids. Yet if I was in the house and awake, but she couldn’t hear me, then she knew I was up to something.
So, there was NEVER a snowball’s chance in hell I was going to be quiet while confined in a station wagon and awake. No climbing trees, no playing on the monkey bars, no bike riding, and no running around while screaming and laughing out loud. Just sitting between my sisters for 16 hours who didn’t even know the proper way to play radio!
Over the years, newer family cars replaced the green machine and yet it still lingered. My father had been a mechanic in the Air Force, and especially loved working on cars. He was such a car enthusiast that he was always ready to buy a new car if it wasn’t for my mother pumping the brakes on the idea.
When I was a senior in high school, I’d driven the green machine over to a friend’s house party. Even back then, I never gave a damn about a car being a status symbol–just a way to get from point A to point B. However, the old station wagon, with its weathered fake wood paneling had developed a nervous tick. At random times, the horn honked–all by itself.
I made that entire 15-minute drive to my friend’s house and back waving at people to play it off. Most people waved back. When I returned home and complained to my father about the honking, he responded matter of factly, “Oh yeah, you have to pull up on the steering wheel when you drive it.”
The last memorable time I spent with the green machine, I was a college student. Typically, I came home with a large green Army bag full of dirty clothes to be washed and ended my visit with a trip to the commissary with my father to stock up on groceries.
During this particular trip, Dad had locked the keys in the car. We used a payphone to call Mom to rescue us. While we sat on top of the back of the station wagon waiting, Dad looked over the grocery bill. I’d zoned out until he shouted, “Tampons! Girl, those things are expensive. No wonder this bill is so high.”
In retrospect, I’m amazed that was when Dad had learned about the high price of menstruating. After all I was the youngest of three daughters and he’d been married for nearly 30 years by that point. But who am I to judge? That was the moment I’d learned Dad was the bring-home-the-bacon-and-give-the-money-to-your-wife kind of husband.
And these days, that’s the only green I’m usually thinking of.