I grew up in Topeka in the 1950's, and highlights of those early years were Sunday trips taken in our family car: a frog-green Plymouth. I loved that car because it was the same age as me--both born in 1949. It was heavy, stubby, with sun visor in front, lots of shiny chrome, and a ship as hood ornament.

On Sundays we'd go visit Dad's brothers and their families in the country. We always took what is now old US-75 highway north, then turned east on Meriden Road, passing through rolling hills, ravines, scrubby timber and pastures. 

Dad had me ride in the middle of the front seat close to him so he could throw out his arm and protect me in emergency. It was a poor substitute for having seatbelts, but at the time it made me feel safe to be tucked in near my dad.

I had no siblings so I always enjoyed visiting my many cousins. Sometimes we would play in their barns, with the fresh smell of hay. The adults furnished plenty of lively conversation, and we would head home about dusk.

Once, after my grandparents had retired from their farm and moved into town, they came with us on our Sunday excursion. After dark, heading home, my grandfather began to sing. I had never heard him sing before. He sang The Tennessee Waltz--a sad and beautiful song. I was mesmerized! I will never forget his soft, sad voice and the hum of the car tires in accompaniment.

Coming home, especially if I was alone in the back seat, I'd lie down and close my eyes. Sometimes I'd drift to sleep, but even if I wasn't asleep I'd pretend to be. At home Dad would scoop me up and carry me inside to bed.