Today I rolled down all the windows and let my hair blow wild as I drove the country roads. I haven’t done that in 50 years, if ever, now that I think of it. When I was a teenager, the style was a teased and sprayed flip. We’d put scarves on our heads The Help-style, because a breeze could sink a hairdo in a puff.
But today, I’d been weeding at my sister’s, and then I drove the whopping mile to Dad’s, briskly lapped the half-mile track twice with the Farm Dog bobbing and weaving among the tall grasses, and hopped back into the car.
When Hattie and I drove back to Sis’s, I rolled all the windows down. My greying, shorter hair lashed about on the top of my head. I was reminded of the Pam Tillis song about the woman who let her pony run. My “pony,” aka Dad’s CVR, cranked up to a legal 55 mph, ran down County Road M, and the years fell away for a moment. Yes, indeed, it made me feel reckless and young. My new life’s soundtrack song, it seems, has replaced Adele’s Rolling in the Deep. Good.