The Need for Speed…On The Way to Lake George…
June 15th, 2010There are transition moments in every young man’s life. Moments when he knows he is getting older, when the mantle of responsibility comes a little closer to the shoulders. The moment when one generation starts ceding power to the next.
We all have those moments.
Mine started on a warm June day in northern Minnesota. Our hay racks, the large flat trailers used to haul hay in from the fields behind one of our trusty tractors were falling apart. After morning chores, Dad made the announcement over breakfast.
We needed to rebuild those racks. And we needed lumber to do it.
Not any lumber would do, we would need good, sturdy, Minnesota lumber, two by fours, two by sixes and two by twelve’s, not some fancy planed stuff either, but real, rough lumber from the lumber mills scattered to the east in the forested areas towards Park Rapids.
And the search would start today.
Newly armed with a learners drivers permit, only five months shy of my sixteenth birthday, Dad informed me as we were putting on our best seed caps, I’d be driving part of the way today.
This was a big moment in a young man’s life on our farm. Dad didn’t cede control of the vehicle easily. He was the driver - of the farm, of the family, of most things. I don’t think he liked to turn the keys of the beat up old Ford to anyone.
Climbing in, we set off through town, Dad barking encouragement all the way through town and out onto Highway 200, in between comments on crops, weather, and running through the list of the lumber that we would need.
The defining moment came beyond Roy Lake, approaching Zerkle (a real town), Dad, reviewing the list of lumber turned to me, looked over his glasses and gave me the classic father question, “You’re going a little fast here aren’t you?”
Looking at the speedometer, then out the window, I looked at him and said, “Dad, I’m doing forty-five in a fifty-five mile an hour zone.”
Dad seemed at a bit of a loss for words for a minute, looked at the approaching fifty-five mile an hour sign coming up, leaned over and looked at the speedometer, sat up. Turned to me, scowled, and said very matter of factly, “Just because the speed limit says you can go that fast, doesn’t mean that you have too.”
You can’t argue with logic like that.
We drove through all the little forest towns between Park Rapids, Bagley, and Bemidji, finally finding the right pieces of lumber at a lumber mill outside of Lake George. I don’t know if Dad noticed me winking at all of the girls on the side of the road as we passed through Lake George (it was the biggest week of the year with the big town festival that week), but when we stopped for lunch at the little dinner on the edge of town, he took over the wheel again.
The trip was, overall, a great one. It was a great trip with Dad, learning, talking, and visiting as men do. Time that, with three older brothers, was often a rare thing.
But me being me, I just couldn’t help myself.
Driving home on Highway 200, I looked over and said, “Going a little fast there aren’t you?”
I swear I saw a smile behind that scowl.