A Ride Before Dawn

This is the first of the Storytime Essays. A collection of memories and musings from my childhood…kate granado

With the moon low in the sky and the sun stretching to begin a new day, we waited in line. The widow insisting that we arrive before dawn for the 6:00 am express. If you travel across the country on a Greyhound bus, you should ride in the first row, opposite the driver. The widow squeezed my little eight-year-old hand and reminded me, “it’s always best to have a front-row seat on the bus and in life. How else will you see the road ahead?”  

It’s June, the beginning of the summer, and the beginning of the end—the end of the mourning period. The widow, my mother, slowly emerging from her hibernation of distance, alcohol, and midnight conversations with herself, desperate to relive the times with those no longer alive and forgetting to attend to those who were. Death takes what it wants and leaves the broken hearts behind. My father’s sudden death, nine months earlier, in October, had frozen us in a place where healing stood still. Until now.

Anticipation sparked the air as we boarded the bus. We were both convinced that the summer skies would be filled with lightning bolts of adventure. After all, we were on our way to Hutchinson, Kansas, which is just about in the middle of the country. For months leading up to our trip, my older sister, Jeanette, would phone to tell me stories from The Wizard of Oz. Kansas was the home of Dorothy, Toto, and the little munchkins. It was a happy place. We could be happy there. We could be happy anywhere but here. Boston held all the memories, and we were hostages of the sadness.

And here, in Boston, was going to quickly become a distant place with the starting of the engine. The enthusiastic driver shouting out, “are we ready to see the USA?” With the hum of the road beneath the Bridgestone tiers, the rhythm of the journey was set. With diligent pursuit and increased speed, we followed the straight white line running down the middle of the road leading us to our happy future.  

There was a time when our future happiness did not depend on the Greyhound Bus Line. In fact, there was almost too much happiness. We should have stored some of it away. But we didn’t know we would lose so much, so fast, with no warning. Who stores supplies when you think things will never run out?

All the other summers began, on time, on Memorial Day. There was always the frantic rush to pack for the summer journey to the lake house a few hours away in Wrentham, Massachusetts.  “We’ll be away all summer,” was the recurring message from my mother.“Tell your father to pack the special tea, and, Kath, don’t forget your little red sun hat.” The electricity of adventure surrounded us. Even as a small child, I could feel the excitement. You could feel and see the happiness in those around you. Even Teddy, the dog, felt the excitement as he ran in circles of gleeful anticipation.  

The ride to the country was the first sign of the many adventures ahead. My father drove us in his yellow Checker Taxi cab, he and my mother in the front seat, Teddy the dog and me in the big, wide, back seat.  

The first detour was a ride through Franklin Park. The park was a Sunday afternoon favorite for the family. I could not leave the city without saying goodbye to all the animals at the Franklin Park Zoo. With the window down and my braids blowing in the wind, I would wave and yell, “Goodbye zebra, goodbye elephant, goodbye giraffe. I’ll be back soon.” Going through Franklin Park was by no means a short cut; it was a pretty cut. My father would say, “who would want to short themselves on the pretty things in life?” And, he knew every pretty cut in Boston. He could even tell you the exact second the traffic signal would turn from red to green. He rarely missed it. As a kid, I never noticed there was a yellow light between the red and green!  

The second detour was off the Parkway, which ran next to Franklin Park, and it was my favorite: Howard Johnsons. Ho Jo’s. All Howard Johnson Restaurants looked alike. It was a long, ornate white one-story building with a large double-door entrance. In the middle of the roof, situated above the double doors, was a perfect New England cupula, painted in bright orange. Inside the restaurant, the red leather booths were lined up along the full expanse of the front windows. 

Our bright yellow Checker Taxi would ease into a parking space at the entrance. No blue Buick for us. My father would jump out and open the doors with an expansive gesture of politeness that made both my mother and me giggle. My father was distinguished looking with his grey hair and narrow mustache. And, without exception, he was the best dressed, most elegant taxi driver in 1954 Boston. When we entered the restaurant, we were greeted by the hostess and directed to follow her. As we walked to our booth, my excitement grew, and I could not help but skip along in front of my parents.  

A few hours later, there was exhausted excitement as we drove into the camp. In New England, a house on a lake is a camp, and a house at the shore is a cottage. We were camping in the big old two-story house my family had rented every summer for longer than I was old. We pulled off the road into the large tree-dotted front yard – no lawn, just yard. The evening was crisp and clear, the lake’s fresh scent mingling with the country’s sweet smell. And there, slung between the two biggest trees, was the grey canvas hammock, the best spot at the lake for hide-and-seek.  No one ever found you in that mass of canvas. At the far end of the yard was our familiar house; it was ours for the next three months of heaven. When the front door was open, you could see through the house to the lake. On the weekends, when my brother and his friends arrived, at least one friend would run through the open door, and the entire length of the house, out the back door, onto the wharf, and right into the lake. Sometimes clothes and all!

The long day came to a close with Teddy, the dog, and me all snug in our damp bed in the country. We would listen to the hum of laughter and grown-up voices drifting in through the open window. The soft murmur settling over us like a blanket of contentment. In the country, the grown-ups always ended the evening outside beside the lake. Lake Mirror, the jewel of Wrentham Massachusetts, the home of sweet memories and happy people for the next three months.

Memories remind me of the blackberry patches by the lake. Some days you would emerge with a pail full of blackberries. Other days you came out with only scratches and a pail filled with tears.  My favorite memories always seemed to be summer memories, sun-drenched golden memories of my big brother and older sister. My brother Bill and sister, Jeannette, in their early twenties, would be in the camp most weekends with their friends from the city. I remember a perfect summer day when Bill, tall, handsome, a newly commissioned Marine, was coaxing me to swim to him while he continued to move backward slowly. It was years before I figured out why I never reached him!    And, the amazing Teddy dog, always by my side. Before I could swim, Teddy dog taught me how to dog paddle as Jeannette cheered me along, holding onto the back of my bathing suit. It was a perfect summer day.

Again, at the end of the day, I would hear the familiar hum of late-night laughter outside my bedroom window. This time it’s the youthful voices and laughter of my brother Bill, Jeannette, and their group of friends. The muffled voices and laughter ran into the early morning hours when the last laugh is on the grown-ups inside, telling them to “call it a night.” The circle of friends would beg for more time while they waited for “sunny and dawn,” a sweet joke of youth.

All these memories seem so far away and long ago as we head into our second day on the Greyhound bus. I lean into my mother, her arms wrapping me in hope, as her soft hand brushes the hair from my small 8-year-old face. She whispers that we’ll see my sister, Jeannette, soon, and maybe she knows Dorothy and Todo and will introduce us. We giggle, and the thought of seeing Jeannette and the rhythm of the bus lulls me back to sleep.

Little did I know that Kansas was only the first stop on our summer journey.

to be continued…