Beauty and art in a Dodge Charger

Looking out of the front windows of my house I can see ash trees, planted by me almost 25 years ago, lining the south side of the ditch. They were planted before we knew anything about the emerald ash borer but, thus far, they seem to be doing OK, at least 30 foot tall now.

Between my house and the ash trees is a nice field, one I mow, and every day dozens of deer cross the field, these days in a hurry because what is called the ‘deer rut’ has begun early. It’s the time of year wherein the male white-tailed deer find that their testosterone has runneth over and they are desperate to have sex. It’s a simple concept, one all too common in the males of our species, even me at one time.

It was almost half a century ago this time of year that I found myself, as I often did, along the side of the road, holding my thumb out. I recall one day in particular because, as you might guess, there were women involved. I was on my way to see my girlfriend and what I think was about a 1970 Dodge Charger rumbled over to pick me up.

I was standing along Highway 20 in Waterloo. “How far you going?” “Dubuque.” “Hop in.” Simple as that. The driver was a woman a few years older than I, attractive in a hard sort of way, nice smile, dark hair pulled back because the windows were open. It was a spectacular car, big V-8, Hurst shifter, the works.

Here’s what I remember most vividly, because I’m a guy, and therefore a bit of a pig. She wore short cutoff jeans (think Li’l Abner) and she had wonderfully long legs, legs that traveled up to here and even then seemed to keep going, and every time she shifted gears the left leg would drop and lift, working the clutch, choreographed by God.

I’m not sure how one defines beauty and art but I was pretty sure I witnessed it that afternoon, and she was kind enough to drop me off at the dormitory where my girlfriend lived, a girl I would love until her dying day. Not sure why I’ve been thinking about this. If the driver still is around she’d be well in to her 70s. I want to believe she’s still out there, driving too fast, working a manual transmission hard, showing a little leg, and smiling because she understood her power.

I’ve also been thinking about the first time I received a kiss from a girl. I was in junior high school, attending Bible camp, when a blonde my age stopped me in the woods near the swimming pool, and kissed me. I didn’t kiss her back, as I had no idea what I was doing. We corresponded by letter the rest of the summer, then it was over, another odd memory lost to the strange whims of time.

Not all of my thoughts examine the distant past. There were times, more recently, that I go back to again and again, and I’d like to share them with you. Last December my wife was in her final days of Alzheimer’s and I would make every effort to feed her, even though she had no interest in food. I would put a spoon to her lips with something soft on it, oftentimes her favorite, vanilla ice cream. She wouldn’t open her mouth but her face always lit up as she pursed her lips. It was the most beautiful thing. She thought I was kissing her.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.