An old guy in a blue Chevrolet pick-up truck approaches me driving on a quiet street in Taylorsville, Mississippi. One hand is perched at 12:00 on the steering wheel. Extending his fingers without losing the grip on the wheel, he waves.
Dad (Cecil Swann) at South Padre Island, Texas (c. 1982)
I didn’t know him, but I thought, “That was nice.”
I waved back.
I’m pretty sure that waving at people is limited to small town life – usually south of Interstate 40. If it’s a reasonably small town you’re driving through, someone’s gonna wave at you. I’m also convinced that if you tried this in other places, you’d get shot or have an unfriendly gesture flashed back at you.
My dad always waved – right hand on the wheel, left hand holding a Pall Mall cigarette; ashes on the seat and floorboard. If his hand was empty, then he’d be holding a cup of sugar and milk – with a touch of coffee.
My dad grew up in a small town. He was born in 1928 in Pensacola, but he and his Mom soon moved to what my wife would call the village of Silas, Alabama.
And it is.
I’m guessing they waved a lot in Choctaw County.
I grew up with the smell of these horrible smelling cigarettes and although I don’t mind the smell of some pipe tobacco and most cigars, I detest the smell of cigarettes.
He was the quintessential red-haired step-child.
At 16 or 17 he stretched reality (like many others) to join the Army – just in time for the end of World War II. I’m guessing he wanted to see the world and get out of Choctaw County.
The U.S. Army gave him a chance to do just that.
Once he told me, between commercial breaks watching Black Squad Squadron, that he was a driver for an Army general. He’d also been a mechanic and a drill instructor. The Army even taught him to jump out of perfectly good airplanes. (its a crazy world).
He waved goodbye to the Army after a few rambunctious years.
It has been more than 20 years since my father died.
But sometimes I can still see him clearly, driving that blue and white 1974 Chevrolet Pick-up work truck with white toolboxes on each side. He’s holding a cigarette and a large Styrofoam cup of coffee is precariously situated in front of him – sloshing occasionally all over the dashboard.
He takes a puff, stretches back against the seat, and waves at an approaching car.
.jpg)