News from the Bitterroot...

One night, when I was a junior or senior in high school, I came home pretty late. I didn’t expect anyone to be up. I knew it was possible, however, that Dad would be up.

I turned onto the driveway and the headlights lit up at a large person at the top of the hill. He stood in a dress shirt and sweatpants, arms crossed, chin high. His stance was powerful and square. The headlights cast a shadow against the garage door and his hair was combed high that night. As I drove up the hill, I tried to make out his facial expression. His face seemed emotionless and I could not see his eyes because the headlights reflected off the lenses of his glasses.

I got out of the car.

“I was just hanging out with friends. Sorry if I am late.”

No response. Just kept his chin up and kept looking down at me with his arms crossed and in the same stance.

I kept walking to the house, trying to avoid any confrontation. Still nothing. I figured I was in trouble and I’d better stay outside so he wouldn’t have to yell at me inside and wake people up.

“I require…,” he paused and looked away into the sky for a moment.

“…a cream soda and…,” he paused again, looking away.

“…a Mr. Goodbar. Get yourself a soda.”

He gave me his debit card and I ran his errand.

I miss running his errands and seeing him at the top of the driveway. I always laugh when I think about his practice of standing at the top of the driveway to greet us when we drive up. I imagine that late night he had been laying in the grass, looking at the stars, when he saw me driving up Rachel Road in the white Nissan pick-up truck. When he saw me, he probably hurried to get up to stand at the top of the driveway.

Ryan