It is 1970, I am six years old. I have been hanging out in the house with Grandma while Dad and Uncle Pete are out in the driveway painting our latest stock car. The last one, #54 (so named because it was a 1954 Ford sedan), lost it's steering linkage while rounding 
the east bend at the track, carrying Dad out across the field, through a herd of herefords, coming to rest at last in (well, at the edge of, anyway) a slough. It was quite a thing to witness, really. The cattle, as though they were quite accustomed to having large, blue vehicles come sailing across their pasture, did not even shift themselves out of the way as #54 careened past. They raised their massive heads and chewed thoughtfully (though in a rather disinterested fashion) as they watched the hulk slow to a stop. For all I know, #54 may sit in that farmer's slough to this day.
This new car has been painted a shocking shade of pink. Grandma and I are resting our elbows on the window ledge, watching her two youngest sons as they open a tin of black paint for the roof and numbers. Grandma scolds her boys for choosing such frightful colours. They threaten to name the car after her if she doesn't stop harassing them. We all laugh - oh, how I love Grandma's laugh! It is deep and throaty and resonant....quite unexpected from such a tiny woman.
Finally, it is time to load the car on the trailer and drive down to Rapid City. I see by the name on the rear fenders that Grandma's boys have named the car 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang' and that makes me laugh. I ride in the back seat, the sun hot on my hair, the upholstery scratchy against my bare legs. It is not a long drive from Oak River, but I am certain it takes pretty close to forever to reach the track.
The track is little more than a flat piece of field surrounded by pasture, a bluff, and more field. On a rise to the south, a row of something resembling bleachers has been built by someone, or, probably, by several someones. They have also built a ramshackle shelter to which they have given the very grand name of ‘canteen', though it is built chiefly of salvaged materials and the spaces between the vertical wallboards are nearly large enough for me to reach my arm through. Sometimes, I sit in the long grass on the shady side of the canteen, resting my head against the dry, grey boards, watching the farm ladies inside, cooking hamburgers and hot dogs on a huge charcoal-fired half-drum, filling and re-filling galvanised tubs with Fanta, Crush, 7-Up and Coke. I want to offer to help with the bottles and tubs of ice because it is a summer day in Manitoba and it is hot and the icy slurry in the tubs looks like heaven.
Between races, Dad calls me by my nickname (my favourite name) down to the pit. I feel Important And Special running across the track, each footfall poofing up a black cloud of dust. Dad gives me two coins and I run back across the track to the Canteen, where I let the nickels fall from my fist onto the worn plank counter and ask for two grapefruit Crush, please. The farm lady with the blue apron stretched across her ample frame smiles as she opens the bottles and tells me to wish Dad luck in the next race.
Dad is grinning as I hand his bottle to him - his teeth showing brilliant white against the dirt and smears on his face. He lifts the bottle, tips his head back and I watch, fascinated, as a sparkling, golden river of grapefruit Crush runs out. The sun is behind him and he is haloed in light. He is laughing with his brother and their friends and I am certain they are immortal.
Perhaps somewhere, on some plane of existence, that ages-long day still exists. Perhaps the men of my childhood are all still young and strong. Perhaps they still laugh in the summer sun...greasy, dirty, sweaty, happy.
I want to believe so.
the east bend at the track, carrying Dad out across the field, through a herd of herefords, coming to rest at last in (well, at the edge of, anyway) a slough. It was quite a thing to witness, really. The cattle, as though they were quite accustomed to having large, blue vehicles come sailing across their pasture, did not even shift themselves out of the way as #54 careened past. They raised their massive heads and chewed thoughtfully (though in a rather disinterested fashion) as they watched the hulk slow to a stop. For all I know, #54 may sit in that farmer's slough to this day.This new car has been painted a shocking shade of pink. Grandma and I are resting our elbows on the window ledge, watching her two youngest sons as they open a tin of black paint for the roof and numbers. Grandma scolds her boys for choosing such frightful colours. They threaten to name the car after her if she doesn't stop harassing them. We all laugh - oh, how I love Grandma's laugh! It is deep and throaty and resonant....quite unexpected from such a tiny woman.
Finally, it is time to load the car on the trailer and drive down to Rapid City. I see by the name on the rear fenders that Grandma's boys have named the car 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang' and that makes me laugh. I ride in the back seat, the sun hot on my hair, the upholstery scratchy against my bare legs. It is not a long drive from Oak River, but I am certain it takes pretty close to forever to reach the track.
The track is little more than a flat piece of field surrounded by pasture, a bluff, and more field. On a rise to the south, a row of something resembling bleachers has been built by someone, or, probably, by several someones. They have also built a ramshackle shelter to which they have given the very grand name of ‘canteen', though it is built chiefly of salvaged materials and the spaces between the vertical wallboards are nearly large enough for me to reach my arm through. Sometimes, I sit in the long grass on the shady side of the canteen, resting my head against the dry, grey boards, watching the farm ladies inside, cooking hamburgers and hot dogs on a huge charcoal-fired half-drum, filling and re-filling galvanised tubs with Fanta, Crush, 7-Up and Coke. I want to offer to help with the bottles and tubs of ice because it is a summer day in Manitoba and it is hot and the icy slurry in the tubs looks like heaven.
Between races, Dad calls me by my nickname (my favourite name) down to the pit. I feel Important And Special running across the track, each footfall poofing up a black cloud of dust. Dad gives me two coins and I run back across the track to the Canteen, where I let the nickels fall from my fist onto the worn plank counter and ask for two grapefruit Crush, please. The farm lady with the blue apron stretched across her ample frame smiles as she opens the bottles and tells me to wish Dad luck in the next race.
Dad is grinning as I hand his bottle to him - his teeth showing brilliant white against the dirt and smears on his face. He lifts the bottle, tips his head back and I watch, fascinated, as a sparkling, golden river of grapefruit Crush runs out. The sun is behind him and he is haloed in light. He is laughing with his brother and their friends and I am certain they are immortal.
Perhaps somewhere, on some plane of existence, that ages-long day still exists. Perhaps the men of my childhood are all still young and strong. Perhaps they still laugh in the summer sun...greasy, dirty, sweaty, happy.
I want to believe so.
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