The South Shore Journal, Vol. 1, 2006, pp. 53-54.
Cherrywood, Red Roses and the Red Caddy, Graveside
Patricia Lundberg1
His mother bought a Chevy
At 65.
Told us all she’d learn to drive then.
Drove that Chevy to the store meat market church camp Women’s club Wisconsin
Almost all the way to
The Other Side.
And she damn near did till we
Took away the keys when she tap tap tapped that bus, still in her prime at 91.
His father rode a cycle.
A motorcycle. Never learned to drive cars.
He parked his cycle only to
Ride the rails. St Louis run, a steward for
Fifty-odd years.
Odd duck. Retired with a railroad
Pension, he steered and roared from his easy chair,
Waving his arms around, simulating flight, shaking a
Cane at the grandkids.
Scared them all off.
Oh, but their son, a chip off the old Chevy and cycle block,
Drove fast fast faster in a whole succession of
Flashy flashier flashiest cars. Cadillacs mostly.
Bought his last one at age 91, a two-seater, red, I think,
Just after heart surgery.
Had the dealers bring the cars to him.
Round and round tinmen paraded those cars in the circular driveway,
Jaguars, Porsches, Chevys, maybe even a Ferrari, while he
Recuperated,
Lusting after those cars. Bought the little red Caddy
Convertible
Just before he lay down and died. Stress ulcer.
Blood flowing unseen.
The Red Caddy attended the wake, where everyone
Coveted that Caddy and wondered at the man.
Wondered why we didn’t bury him in it instead of
Cherrywood covered in red roses.
1 English Department and Women’s Studies Program, IU Northwest. The author may be reached
at IU Northwest, Center for Regional Excellence, 3400 Broadway, Gary, IN 46407 or at
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