I can remember many a car ride, short and long, where I sat in the backseat and watched my dad in the rearview mirror as he navigated one of the many four-door “boats” we had growing up. Sometimes to ensure that a well-deserved punch to the scrawny thigh of my brother would go undetected, but more often than not, just to watch him. When you’re a kid you fail to take into account that sound does travel, and that a parent knows the distinct sound of a sibling being “corrected” for any number of offenses, real or imagined.

Having spent a couple of tours in the trenches of parenthood now, I have heard, and ignored, such behavior occurring directly behind me as we traveled here and there. I knew the punishment occurring was probably justified, just as I’m sure my dad did, and since it is socially acceptable for siblings to tussle, it relieves a parent of having to explain themselves in a court of law. It’s like hiring a bounty hunter without them knowing they’ve been hired. The bounty hunter is quietly given an extra ration of candy at the next gas station for their troubles.

When all was quiet in the seatbeltless domain of our backseat travels I would watch as my dad’s blue eyes would dart about, scanning the ditch and road for anything that dare challenge the forward progress of thousands of pounds of steel and chrome. I always felt safe with my dad behind the wheel, and still do for that matter, and I always wondered what he was thinking. He was never real chatty while we traveled, never really seemed to care what was on the radio, just seemed content to drive. Content to safely get us wherever it was we happened to be going.

One time in particular stands out in my mind. I was thirteen. It wasn’t a long trip, only a few miles, more of a ride I suppose. It wasn’t a ride any of us wanted to take and it wasn’t to a place any of us wanted to go, but it was a ride that I’ve come to see as a part of life, more accurately, a part of the consequences of sharing in one’s life.

I sat in the comfy couch like backseat of our massive maroon 1978 Lincoln Towncar, shoulder to shoulder with my siblings. It was quiet in the car, no bickering, no pinching or poking, just quiet. Like many times before, I watched my dad in the rearview mirror, only this wasn’t like any of the times before. I watched his eye’s, watched and wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling, as we waited for the funeral procession to leave the church and take his father, my Grandpa Fritz, to his final resting spot north of town.

I of course didn’t ask him what he was thinking or feeling, those aren’t things boys ask fathers all that often. Things we often times don’t know how to ask. I could see he was sad, but there was strength in his sadness as well, a strength that let me know that it was alright to be sad sometimes.

I don’t know if he knew I was watching, he knew I was sad, he knew we all were, and he let us know, without saying a word, that although Grandpa was gone we were still a family, and everything was going to be alright.

You can learn a lot from the backseat when you have someone like my dad at the wheel.