For as long as he could remember, it had been the same ritual. On Thursday nights, Dad would pack up the old Ford F-150 with all the things needed for the weekend. His Dad, his brother Shawn and himself all loved the Ford. It was a great blue color on the body, with white wall rims on the wheels. It had a standard transmission shifter on the column and on some rare occasions, his dad even let him shift the gears. His Dad had worked on the truck from time to time in the driveway, patching rusted holes in the body where the Wisconsin salting had eaten its dinner.
In the early days of their ritual, his dad had packed the truck with camping gear. They didn't have a roof over their heads where they were headed in the woods. The truck would be efficiently packed and ready to roll on Friday at 5:00 p.m. sharp, on Thursday night. On Friday, his Mom would pack a large red cooler filled with food for the weekend. The boy would come home from school and his Mom would be busy doing something around the house. Before leaving for their weekend Up North, in northern Wisconsin, she’d have the house in perfect order. She’d said the same thing each time before leaving.
“It’s nice to come back to a clean house”.
His Dad would come home from work, ready to roll immediately. Knowing that her husband was always eager to “get on the road” when he got home, she’d always have everything packed for the weekend next to the front door or in the garage. They’d pile into the old Ford, four across the bench seat with lap seat belts and a sun cracked blue plastic dashboard staring at them. This is how their weekends began. A family travelling together for a three and a half hour journey to northern Wisconsin.
Their first stop after the long hours in the cramped truck was in his Mom’s hometown, Beaver. They’d pull up in front of the house and opened the truck doors, smelling the sweet northern pine air. His grandma and grandpa, Frank and Stella, would be sitting in their Lazyboy reclining chairs waiting for them. With a couple good rocks on their chairs, they’d be on their feet to greet them with smiles, hugs and kisses. Fresh coffee would be put on while Stella’s lemon meringue pie would be served. The adults would talk about the projects for the weekend while the two young boys tried to keep their eyes open. After the pie had been eaten, they’d say their goodbyes and pile into the Ford to finish their journey.
It had been another thirty-minute ride for them until they’d reached their final destination in Middle Inlet. They’d turned onto Moonshine Hill road and had traveled deeper into the dark forest eventually arriving where the small boy called his real home. For years and years they’d made this voyage. It was their family ritual.
They’d arrived Up North.
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