There's a crack in my windshield that reminds me of my last perfect weekend. I didn't even realize something had hit my windshield with enough force to damage it as I drove the back roads of South Carolina, headed to Savannah to visit my childhood best friend. I hadn't seen her in a couple of years and we had planned this visit during her business trip from Texas for months. It was Friday, the 13th.
We found it strange that the Irish Pub we chose for dinner closed at 10 PM even though the hours etched into the door stated 1 AM. Chairs were placed atop tables and the staff began to sweep the floors, effectively driving patrons outside into the warm evening air.
The next morning, all of the parking garages in downtown Savannah were closed with "Full" signs lit up in orange neon letters, even though we could clearly see empty spaces. I was grateful to have a small car as I quickly turned in the middle of the street to snatch a spot on the opposite side. It was a busy Spring day and I had forgotten that it was Saint Patrick's Day weekend as I saw shades of green and glitter on tourists wandering the streets. I ducked into a bar for a plastic cup of tepid green beer.
The sun was warm and salty air filled my senses as we drove to Tybee Island with the top of my convertible down. I noticed the small crack on the windshield for the first time. It was the size of my pinky finger. Construction signs announced that the parade was cancelled. We drove down the main street of Tybee looking for suitable beach parking. It was lined with chairs and people securing their spot. The parade may have been officially cancelled but it still carried on without a permit. Savannah never did like being told what to do.
I pulled my beach bag from the trunk and we found a space to form a small red and white striped island. The battery operated radio picked up a local station and we basked in the sun for a couple of hours. College students on spring break played football and clustered nearby as sea gulls cried their haunting calls as they floated on the wind above the ocean.
The parade was in full swing when we left so I found a side street to avoid the festivities as we headed back to the hotel. The crack was getting longer but had yet to reach the center of the glass. I left on Sunday, heading home via a combination of interstate and familiar Georgia country roads. I stopped for gas in Milledgeville and noticed for the first time the anxious looks, gloved hands and abundance of hand sanitizer from other customers at the pumps. I had been carrying my own for a few weeks but realized I was no longer alone in my mission of germ avoidance.
It's almost April and the crack is much longer and has strayed slightly from its original course. I will need a new windshield but I haven't placed the call to my insurance company yet. I'm a bit sentimental about it as it is still a reminder each day of my last normal weekend.
I have been driving the same morning commute each day for nearly ten years. I listen to audio books, podcasts and my friends and family know that they will have my undivided attention if they want to call me. Living in the South, I've become familiar with complete strangers that have waved to me as I pass by each morning or evening. While the Englishman does not understand nor approve of this non-British behavior, I participate and return a single wave.
For many years, at the start of my commute down a lonely, questionably paved back road, a tall, weathered black man stood at the end of his driveway with his two granddaughters as they waited for the bus. The first two years, the smaller child would dance excitedly as her older sister boarded the bus and the grandfather would always wave at me as I paused until the bus ventured along. One August, the day came when the younger child was finally able to join her sister. When the bus schedule changed slightly, it was very rare that I saw the grandfather but with school out due to the quarantine, I spotted him last week, standing at the end of his gravel driveway in his housecoat and slippers and we waved at each other like old friends.
Further on my commute, I pass farmland and railroad tracks and sometimes I attempt to race the train if I am in a rush. An older woman wearing comfortable pants, white sneakers and a straw hat covering her silver hair, briskly walks down her long dusty driveway, turns left and walks carefully along the edge of the road. When she reaches her neighbor's driveway, she turns left again and heads for the house. No matter which part of her journey to visit her neighbor, she waves and I wave back.
My final wave might be my favorite. Each evening when I leave work, I head down a long rural road. It's lined with fields of cows and goats and old abandoned cars. When I reach the small town of Mesena, there is a stocky black man who walks down the center of the road. When he sees my car, he moves to the side of the road and he waves. I return the wave. For years, he would turn around and peer at me, puzzled at my very existence. Then came the day when something changed. He was sporting glasses and when I waved back, he continued on his way, moving into the center of the road once again.
As I started my Monday morning drive, I found it difficult to focus on my audio book. Thoughts swirled through my head about work and home and my "cup" felt full and heavy. I was stuck behind a pickup truck that was pulling a lawnmower on a rusty trailer. I slowed for the speed bumps in Buckhead, annoyed at their existence in the 25 mile per hour town. I glanced in the direction of the fire station and noticed a black lab carrying a red Solo cup in his mouth, slowly walking across the green grass glazed with frost. His tail was gently wagging and I wondered where he was going.
Perhaps he was concerned about litter and was headed to the recycle bin next door? Maybe he was en route to the old farmhouse to borrow a cup of dog food? I realized that I was smiling and continued to think about the black lab until I reached the highway a short time later. My focus had returned and it seemed that I had made room for possibilities in my own red solo cup.
There's a crack in my windshield that reminds me of my last perfect weekend. I didn't even realize something had hit my windshield with enough force to damage it as I drove the back roads of South Carolina, headed to Savannah to visit my childhood best friend. I hadn't seen her in a couple of years and we had planned this visit during her business trip from Texas for months. It was Friday, the 13th.