Saturday in the Car with Dad

My musical education started at a young age during Saturday morning errand-running with my dad. We had a midnight blue Lincoln Town Car, circa 1980, with a landau top, making the car into a faux convertible. The equally blue leather bench seats were unbelievably wide to my four-year-old eyes and were so hot that they seared my little legs in the summertime. I had quite the attachment to that car. The shining chrome that ran all around it and the sheer size of the thing made me feel like I was riding in a limo. The backseat, to which I was relegated on trips to Omaha and other seemingly far off places, had an armrest that pulled out of the back of the seat. I’d often hide things in there, looking forward to “finding” them again the next time I was back there. The pocket on the back of the passenger seat was also a hiding place for my toys and other miscellaneous things. I especially loved to sit in the open trunk. Just like any other kid, I sought out places that were just the right size for me and the trunk was one of those places. The one thing that kept me continually entertained, however, was the radio. As we drove to our first destination, I’d play with the dials, tuning in to our favorite station and we’d drive on, bopping along to the oldies. One of my favorites was Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman.”



My dad would wake me up early on Saturday with a cheery “buenos dias,” one of the few bits of Spanish we shared as if it was a secret language. While I was getting dressed, he’d make me an “orange juice sunrise” (something I thought was extraordinarily unique until years later when I realized that “grown-ups” usually added tequila). Once I drank it down, we’d be off. On the way to our first stop, we’d invariably hear one of our favorite songs: “Great Balls of Fire” by Jerry Lee Lewis. Pretty soon we’d be pulling up at the recycling center where we took our pop cans. I loved the metallic sound of the cans clinking against each other in their plastic garbage bags. The recycling center was exciting and different, the smell of stale beer and the gently sticky cement floor were a novelty. My dad would dump the cans into a metal basket that was bigger than me in order to be weighed before going into the compactor. I was allowed to keep the change we received from the cans—never more than two dollars, often just a small assortment of quarters, dimes and nickels. The men at the center were always very nice, bringing a small wicker basket full of suckers down from shelf so I could pick one. I’d unwrap my sucker and look around while my dad talked about the Huskers with the guys for a few minutes. Soon, we were on our way to the next stop.



On our way to continue the errands, we’d turn the radio back up. This time Elvis’ “Jailhouse Rock” came on. I’d bounce around in my seat, trying to sing along, but failing miserably because I couldn’t really decipher the lyrics. That was half the fun, really. We’d swing by Russ’s Market to pick up some pecan rolls, my favorite treat that I only got on those mornings. I’d pull apart the roll, saving the inside for last and then feel around in the bottom of the white paper bag for any pecans I’d missed. Once I’d eaten my breakfast, I was left with sugary, sticky fingers and a happy smile. Of course, pecan rolls weren’t a constant—sometimes we’d pick up doughnuts. They were never the big glazed ones, though. I always insisted upon cake doughnuts, either cinnamon and sugar or iced with sprinkles. Just like I’d look for missing pecans, I’d also root around for any sprinkles that had fallen off. The sprinkles were easily the best part of the doughnut. Then again, licking the sticky, sugary goodness off of my fingers was also pretty great.



Our next stop on those Saturdays was the Farmer’s Market. Held downtown in the Haymarket, it was somewhat of an adventure trying to find parking. Since the streets were blocked off, there was never anywhere to park within about three blocks, unless you got really lucky. Most times, we’d park under the viaduct and hope that the plethora of pigeons didn’t poop on the car too much. The Farmer’s Market was another place that always seemed exotic and exciting. The fruits and vegetables made for colorful displays and there was always some sort of entertainment. While the food was definitely fascinating, my favorite part was the variety of arts and crafts booths. I’d walk with my dad, hand in hand, looking at the booths, occasionally stopping to examine the wares. There was one selling polished stones, another had wind catchers and stained glass. Still others sold original works of art or garden statues made out of tool parts. After several weeks of looking at these statues, we bought one, a large colorful bird with rebar legs and rake spokes for a tail. If we hadn’t already gotten our pecan rolls, we’d pick up a couple of extra-large ones from the woman selling baked goods in front of the Empyrean Ales brewing facilities. After a while, my legs would get tired of navigating the cobblestone roads and we’d move on. Back in the car, I’d turn on the radio, my spirits revived by the cocky strumming of the Everly Brothers’ “Bye Bye Love.”



While we were downtown, we’d swing by the University of Nebraska Federal Credit Union at 17th and Q streets. My dad would pull the big car into the small parking lot and we’d climb the four steps to enter the lobby. The smell of paper money permeated the building, giving the whole place a crisp, fresh scent. Waiting in line gave me time to check out my surroundings. I especially liked hopping along the variously colored polished granite tiles. My active imagination made up new routes every time we were there. Once a window opened up, we’d advance to the teller, my head just high enough to see over the ledge and I’d pass my recycling earnings to the woman. Oddly enough, I don’t remember any men working as tellers. I didn’t exactly understand the importance of putting my money into a savings account, but my dad said I should, so I did. A few years later, when we started taking trips together as a family, I’d proudly exchange my cash for American Express traveler’s cheques. The colors on the cheques made them more appealing than regular old bills and made me feel very adult when I paid for something with them. They came in larger denominations than I’d ever held before—a twenty dollar traveler cheque was my ticket into the grown-up world of real commerce. After my very small transaction, we’d head back to the car and move on. This time Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue” filled the car with his signature hiccup.



The short drive to Nebraska Bookstore, the University of Nebraska bookstore, was executed to the end of “Peggy Sue” and the beginning of “Chantilly Lace” by the Big Bopper. The minute I’d hear the opening “hellllloooooo baby” I’d insist upon hearing the song out. If the song wasn’t over by the time we’d parked, we would sit with the battery on until the song ended. Afterward, we hopped out of the car and walked back to Nebraska Book. The large building seemed truly gargantuan to me, filled with the smell of paper, and I was constantly interested in the bumpy gray rubber flooring. My dad would deposit me in the “gifts” area while he went to look at other things. This section was filled with stuffed animals, charm bracelets, plastic dinosaur sets, gag license plates and other odd, but fascinating, items. There were also shelves of children’s book. From a very young age I loved to read, so shelves of books that seemed to be just for me was wonderful. I’d pull some down and sit on the floor, reading about trees and fossils, anything I could get my hands on. Evidently I was well-behaved enough for him to trust me alone. If I was done reading before my dad came back to find me, I’d invariably wander over to read greeting cards. I didn’t understand many of them, but I liked reading them anyway. Once my dad was ready to go, we might walk around campus a little bit before heading back to the car again.



At this point in the day, we usually had a couple of things left to do. One was to stop by Earl May and pick up bulbs and seeds for my mother’s garden. The other was to peruse the garage sales. Living close to Sheridan Boulevard usually afforded us with plenty of opportunities to check out the rich folks’ leftover possessions. Knowing we had plenty of time to peruse other people's trash (but perhaps our treasure), we went to Earl May first. Grass seed was almost always on the list for spring planting, but we often picked up tulip bulbs, impatiens, marigolds, petunias and, my favorite, snapdragons. Walking into the store was like walking into a fairy garden. The overwhelming smell was of grass seed and soil, a heady mixture. I’d walk around the store and look at the garden decorations, the fountains and lawn furniture. There were two parts of the store that drew my attention equally, though: the pets and the greenhouse. I loved the greenhouse because of all the flowers. The atmosphere was humid and full of floral aromas. I liked to walk around the aisles looking for fallen blossoms on the damp cement floor. I also liked the animals, mostly because I knew I’d never have any of them. The fish were deadly dull, but the birds and chinchillas were two of my favorites. Nearly every time I’d ask my dad if we could get a parrot. Predictably, the answer was always a heartbreaking “no.” Back in the car even the raucous sounds of Little Richard and “Long Tall Sally” couldn’t cheer me up.



Soon enough, I was back to my happy self because we were pulling up to a garage sale. Garage sales were great because I was more likely to convince my dad that I needed some random toy or article of clothing. One of the best buys we ever made at a garage sale was the Pass the Pigs game. Even when I was young, I was intrigued by the peculiar sensation of sifting through someone’s life. Each item on a table or rack had once held meaning for someone, if only briefly. I was never fully comfortable with the idea that someone might look over my baby crib or stuffed animals in the same manner someday. However, that didn’t stop me from accumulating armloads of things I didn’t really need. My dad used garage sales as a way to help me with my math skills too, having me add up the purchases before we bought anything. He is brilliant at math, but was never condescending or mean when I got something wrong. We’d gather up our newly acquired things and pile back into the car for the last time, heading home, usually to do some yard work or plant the seeds we’d bought. The strains of Chuck Berry singing “Johnny B. Goode” carried us right up into the driveway. There was really nothing I loved better than spending Saturday mornings with my dad and this is the music that will always remind me of him.