My dad loved his Ford Truck
and by default, the Ford station wagon
he traded for when we moved to California.
A simple journey for some,
more difficult for a family of ten.
All the kids were under twelve years old
packed like sardines in a can.
Two things worried my dad on the trip:
did we have enough water to get through
the desert and were the station wagon and trailer
too heavy to get us over the mountains?
I remember sitting in the shade of the wagon
along route 66, my brothers and sisters
played in the sand while we waited for the engine
to cool. The sun was hot while we looked for scorpions
and lizards under the rocks. We got back on the road
after five o’clock to face the second hazard of our journey,
crossing the San Bernardino mountains at a slower
than average speed. My mother made us
say the rosary, my dad's face broke out in sweat
the slight drizzle cooled the engine but the car
up ahead slid off that two lane highway.
My dad pulled over to help
but the truckers told him they could handle it
and advised him to get back to his family
while the traffic behind him had slowed
so he could get over the mountain at a safe speed.
We made it safely to California the memory
of the trip a vague recollection. Today’s mountain
driving is not as difficult because the roads and cars
are improved but I can remember the courage
it took my dad to bring his family
looking for prosperity
risking everything, reaching for a bigger dream
all my life I've dwelled in that reality.
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