The Drive

It took one hour to drive from The 'Bach to the Big City. Most of that was four-lane Trans Canada driving.

I'll never forget passing the local Police Chief. "We're still going the limit," said my father but I wasn't so sure. I thought the Chief might pull out his revolver and shoot us. 

The 'Bach didn't yet have a pool, so our mother drove us for swimming lessons. I remember there was a guy with long, curly hair. He was in charge and had dark green bikini briefs. He also had an enormous schlong. The young women had to wear a one-piece. 

"I really racked-up the miles that summer." The day would come when we would kill for one hour of highway driving but it was not upon us yet. 

Neither were seat belts. I remember one winter evening when the church youth group took a brown van to Saints' Roller Rink. We kids held down the back and played Spin-the-Bottle. We had parkas on and hoods so nobody could tell we were touching noses and not lips. 

The Christian Service Brigade took cars to the city arena to see a hockey game. In the back seat we were stacked like cord-wood, but it was important that the driver had his arms clear. 

"I want to go to the city with you. You have a powerful car and people don't know it."

"Yeah, but I correct too quickly."

We pyekked up Reimer Ave. 

"See?"

"Let me have the steering wheel."

I remember going to Dutch Maid for ice cream and rescuing some parishioners whose car had conked. This time it was a mere six in the back seat. I don't recall who was in the front seat but it was quite crowded. 

"Put pepper in the radiator. The pepper finds the leak and expands."

"Whatever you say, Dad."

It was a different time. It was the '70s. 

And we looked like this -- all the time.