I came up with Chevery for a word that modifies two years in explaining what kind of new car dad got and how often. I wonder if he enjoyed pulling into some far-flung school, cloud of dust no doubt. I know he enjoyed talking to people and was used to being a leader. As for how effective he was at setting and sustaining policy or functioning in the hierarchy of the provincial education system, that's less certain.
I wonder if the army had been good training for both love of cause and irritation with standard procedure. As I muse in that way, I engage in self-amusement. This wondering, I suppose, has as much to do with what my experience of those times would be as with his.
He was the one in the red car, though, pulling in from Rush Lake. Got time to walk up and down a few aisles, ruffling the hair and poking the ears. Meet with the principals and teachers a moment. Head home.
In case you're not familiar with the roads around Herbert in the 1950s, think (after dust) of stones, hell on a new Chev. But the Trans-Canada itself was mighty fine. I could sit in dad's lap and pretend to work the steering wheel as we rounded that last curve east toward town.
I've noticed that dad was the kind of buy people remember, as if inspired somehow. Everyone else hated his guts, no just kidding. Not everyone.
The fact that my own car is red has nothing to do with wanting a red car like dad's. I will admit that if I found out about a '56 Chev, red or not, I'd want it.
(Over a giant culvert west of Herbert on the old highway.)