THE DRIVE HOME
by
Barbara Leigh Gregson
©Copyright 1998 by Barbara Leigh Gregson
NOTICE: ANY USE OF THIS MATERIAL/CONTENT WITHOUT THE PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR IS EXPRESSLY PROHIBITED. 
 
 

   
It was three thirty in the afternoon when I picked up Mom in Santa Ana.  Friday rush hour traffic started early and had stretched the normal hour and a quarter drive to two hours. The hills of North Orange County were ablaze for the second time in three days. It?s plume rose slowly to add an additional brown layer to the haze. According to the outside temperature gauge on my new car, it was eighty eight degrees, making it hard to believe that Halloween was only two weeks off. Summer seemed reluctant to make way for fall, a least not without a struggle and a few fires.
"We better buckle you up," I said to Mom as I snapped the seat belt into place. Heading back the way I had come I made a slight error on the transition road and found myself heading south toward San Diego. I got off at the John Wayne Airport and made an unplanned trip through the loop. As we drove past the terminals and the throng of arriving passengers with their bags and boxes I remembered photos that Mom?s father, Maurice had taken of Cal Rogers when he landed in Long Beach in 1911 on his transcontinental flight. I vaguely recall the dark photos taken at the beach. Big news of the day. Maurice was an avid picture taker and sent lots of letters and post cards to his soon to be betrothed, Annie in Paterson, New Jersey. Air travel had sure come a long way. On the other hand Mom had never even taken an airplane ride.
We made it through the airport traffic and finally, back on the 405 Freeway heading North. Well that killed 15 minutes. "How about a little jazz?" as I touched the CD button on the stereo. Mom liked jazz. She had often told me about the group she went out with before the war. They would hit the jazz clubs on Central Avenue in Los Angeles. I could picture it in my mind, a group of young white kids in the black section of town going to the clubs and sometimes homes of the musicians to smoke and drink and listen to the jazz sessions well into the wee hours of the morning. Among the group, Jack Webb long before his television fame, his girlfriend Gail Peck, now known to all as Julie London and Paul Stanhope, a boyfriend of Mom?s. Ironically years later I worked on a show in which Paul was one of the makeup people. I passed a hello on from Mom and in addition to his big grin, I swear he had a twinkle in his eye as he incredulously remarked "You?re Marian?s daughter?" I laughed as I remembered Mom telling Robin, "You don?t know everything about me." Mom was probably a bit wild in her youth. I never pressed for details, instead I listened as she would tell me bits and pieces on our various errands, visits to the doctor and shopping trips.
Hmmmm, shopping. We were coming up on South Coast Plaza. Mom and I hadn?t been there for years. We had always seemed to bypass it on the way down to San Diego. I glanced conspiratorially toward Mom. "A little shopping?" I was tempted, almost gleeful as the thought formed in my mind. I mentally started making a pro and con list. Might be kind of fun. Should I pull off and try to find a parking space? Don?t have a lot of time. How much time would it take? It was now after four. Hmmmmm? Nawww. Darn. Traffic was a bit heavy and Dad was waiting for us. Baring any major tie ups we wouldn?t arrive home till after five, probably later. I switched the CD from Grover Washington Jr. to Art Blakey at Birdland. Clifford Brown played "Once in a While."
Once in a while will you try to give one little thought to me?
An appropriate tune for reminiscing on the drive home. I tried to recall more of the lyrics and opted instead to hum along instead of singing.
When Mom worked as a planner at Lockeed during the war, she often said that on her trips through the construction areas she would sing (according to her) "off key" whatever current tune struck her fancy at the top of her lungs. Because the construction sounds were deafening, no one could hear her as she happily sang on her way from one office to another.
After some slowing, we zipped along quite well on the freeway, doing even better than the posted limit. As we came up to LAX however, traffic snarled to a stop. I worked my way over to the La Cienega exit. It wasn?t much better but the sun had gone down enough to open the sunroof. As Art Blakey and his group continued playing we worked our way through the west side to Pico and then headed north on Sepulveda Boulevard.
 
Mom had grown up and lived all over LA-Glendale, East 28th Street, West Adams, Sycamore and Franklin. For someone who didn?t drive, she knew her way around better than most people. I wouldn?t necessarily call Mom a back seat driver, but she was always giving directions. She knew about cars too, saying that by the time her Dad made sure she knew how to fix a car and change a tire, she wasn?t interested in driving. During her stint at Lockheed, she had to go somewhere with another co-worker. Neither of them could drive. She persuaded the male co-worker to drive the loaned vehicle. Needless to say, he ended up learning to drive and got his license. Mom relied on friends and family.
It was about six o'clock when we pulled up in front of the house. The last rays of sunlight gave the house a nice silhouette. I unbuckled our seat belts and went to the door. Even though Dad had recently fixed the doorbell, I automatically knocked the familiar "shave and a haircut.." As the door opened I said "Hey Dad, we?re home" and walked inside. I put my purse down on the ironing board in the family room and turned to Dad, "Well?where shall we put her?" He was hesitant at first and walked into the living room glancing over toward the fireplace and then to the breakfront. He cleared off some books on one of the shelves. I gently placed the small white glossy shopping bag with the "angel wings" tissue paper covering the urn on the glass shelf.  Mom was home.
 
 
 
"Once in a While" by Bud Green
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