This is January
Another January ...
It's dark outside. Dark and cold.
We walk back to our Century after Dad's basketball game. The parking lot doesn't have too much snow on it, but the snow it does have is grayish black. Dirty snow. There's enough snow still on the ground in places, and it's still cold enough, that I wear my boots. I wear my boots everywhere this winter. I'll change into my gym shoes -- Peanuts gym shoes without any shoelaces, because I can't tie my own shoes yet -- at school for gym class, but that's only once a week.
Dad won his basketball game because he always wins his basketball games. Sometimes, he will meet his teammates for a beer after the game and take me with. He will usually get me a soda and let sit in on his conversations with his friends or give me quarters to play pinball. Sometimes, we go to McDonald's after his games. Tonight, we are just going home.
The green Century is cold when we get in. I'm sitting in the back seat because I can't close the giant door by myself. On cars with only two doors, I see grownups pull the door close while bringing their foot in all at the same time. I'm afraid I'm going to close the door on my leg. Besides, Dad usually makes me sit in back, even when Mommy isn't in the car with us.
He starts the car as the windows begin to fog up. I start drawing with my finger on the little window on the side in the back. This car doesn't have back windows we can roll down. That doesn't matter when it's cold, but during the summer, we need Dad or Mommy to roll down their windows if we want to get any air in back. The radio is playing a song I like, "Keep on Rocking Me." We leave the Olympia Park parking lot and start heading home.
I sit in the back seat and listen to music. Here's another song: "Blinded by the Light." I try singing along with it, but I don't know what he's saying after singing "Blinded by the Light." I think it's "It's a revolution of the roller in the night," so that's what I sing. I stare out the window into the cold night. The orange street lights keep passing us by. My side of the car is dark, then we pass a street light, and the orange gently rolls through the car, and then it's dark again. Then we pass another light, and another, and another. With each streetlight, we are closer to home.
Dad just turned down Austin Avenue and is headed toward our house. Austin is my whole world. Grandma Elsie works at a restaurant on Austin and Irving Park. Auntie Nancy and Uncle Howard live a block off Austin on Berniece Street. We take Austin to Belmont and turn on that street to go shopping at Wieboldt's or see movies at the Will Rogers theater. Dad will drive down Austin, pass Diversey and turn on Wrightwood to get to our street. Anyplace away from our house, we take Austin and then turn to get there.
We pass familiar places on Austin: Mommy and Dad's bank, the 7-11, that big college, the school with the humongous smokestack. I look at them through the foggy window that I've written my name on, and I look at them as the back seat becomes dark and then becomes light again every time we pass under another street lamp.
We're getting close to the house. I still wish we went to McDonald's. Dad parks next to the curb in front of the house, the house with the wagon wheel in the front corner of the lawn. I press the button that pushes the front seat open so I can get out of the car. It's dark outside. Dark and cold.
It's dark outside. Dark and cold.
We walk back to our Century after Dad's basketball game. The parking lot doesn't have too much snow on it, but the snow it does have is grayish black. Dirty snow. There's enough snow still on the ground in places, and it's still cold enough, that I wear my boots. I wear my boots everywhere this winter. I'll change into my gym shoes -- Peanuts gym shoes without any shoelaces, because I can't tie my own shoes yet -- at school for gym class, but that's only once a week.
Dad won his basketball game because he always wins his basketball games. Sometimes, he will meet his teammates for a beer after the game and take me with. He will usually get me a soda and let sit in on his conversations with his friends or give me quarters to play pinball. Sometimes, we go to McDonald's after his games. Tonight, we are just going home.
The green Century is cold when we get in. I'm sitting in the back seat because I can't close the giant door by myself. On cars with only two doors, I see grownups pull the door close while bringing their foot in all at the same time. I'm afraid I'm going to close the door on my leg. Besides, Dad usually makes me sit in back, even when Mommy isn't in the car with us.
He starts the car as the windows begin to fog up. I start drawing with my finger on the little window on the side in the back. This car doesn't have back windows we can roll down. That doesn't matter when it's cold, but during the summer, we need Dad or Mommy to roll down their windows if we want to get any air in back. The radio is playing a song I like, "Keep on Rocking Me." We leave the Olympia Park parking lot and start heading home.
I sit in the back seat and listen to music. Here's another song: "Blinded by the Light." I try singing along with it, but I don't know what he's saying after singing "Blinded by the Light." I think it's "It's a revolution of the roller in the night," so that's what I sing. I stare out the window into the cold night. The orange street lights keep passing us by. My side of the car is dark, then we pass a street light, and the orange gently rolls through the car, and then it's dark again. Then we pass another light, and another, and another. With each streetlight, we are closer to home.
Dad just turned down Austin Avenue and is headed toward our house. Austin is my whole world. Grandma Elsie works at a restaurant on Austin and Irving Park. Auntie Nancy and Uncle Howard live a block off Austin on Berniece Street. We take Austin to Belmont and turn on that street to go shopping at Wieboldt's or see movies at the Will Rogers theater. Dad will drive down Austin, pass Diversey and turn on Wrightwood to get to our street. Anyplace away from our house, we take Austin and then turn to get there.
We pass familiar places on Austin: Mommy and Dad's bank, the 7-11, that big college, the school with the humongous smokestack. I look at them through the foggy window that I've written my name on, and I look at them as the back seat becomes dark and then becomes light again every time we pass under another street lamp.
We're getting close to the house. I still wish we went to McDonald's. Dad parks next to the curb in front of the house, the house with the wagon wheel in the front corner of the lawn. I press the button that pushes the front seat open so I can get out of the car. It's dark outside. Dark and cold.
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