Sunday Drives
By Sondra Zalewski
Few things from my childhood resonate with me more than Sunday drives. Sunday was the only day my parents didn’t work. Despite my father’s two-hour round trip commute, he enjoyed driving for pleasure on his day off.
It might help to know that my father once raced cars. While this vocation didn’t pan out professionally (he’d have kept funneling money into the effort if my mother allowed it), my father continued to relish the challenges of skillful driving.
On Sundays, we often visited my grandparents by taking the back roads route. If a particular visit weren’t in store we’d simply drive aimlessly. This primarily entailed traveling in the opposite direction of neighborhoods and turning down whichever road looked the most fun. Abundant turns and elevation changes were preferred. Honoring the speed limit was not.
My sisters and I were always safely fastened into seatbelts, but my father’s driving challenged their restraint. This was, of course, the best part. Accelerating up a hill brought tremendous elation in knowing we couldn’t climb upward forever. When the crest of the road inevitably dropped off, the car hung airborne for an everlasting second, along with our stomachs. Then all fell back to earth punctuated with a burst of laughter.
“Do it again!” we wailed.
Next came the tight turns. My father lived for those. Nothing like hugging the apex and hitting the gas to pull out of the corner and into the straight. Each turn lurched my sisters and me across the backseat into one another. Effort was made to add as much extra smoosh as possible. This caused groaning as well as future retaliation on an opposing turn. Middle seat got no relief.
“Slow down, Jay!” cautioned our mother.
Our shrieks and groans may have sounded desperate at times, but they never carried disappointment. On a spring day, the rolled down windows only added to the thrill. Cool air rushed in as the car tore down the road. Tree canopies dappled sunshine onto our heads. Hair whipped across our faces and made the experience even more delirious.
When my father drove like this, it felt as if we were on a roller coaster. We didn’t have the money for actual carnivals and rides, but we did have money for a little extra gas in the tank on a Sunday.
Time was scarce for my hardworking parents, but spending it together on a weekend drive recharged each of us from the collective energy in the car. It pumped up my father after a long workweek. It got my mother out of the house and off laundry duty for a few hours. And for us girls, it was all you could ask for on any given day of your childhood: two parents by your side, laughter escaping from your breath, and the freedom that only the open road can give.
Creative Fog
by Sondra Zalewski
I’m an introvert. People that know me well may disagree with this statement. To them, I am engaging, chatty, and even annoyingly inquisitive. I know the truth. Friendships are not things I seek, but once I’ve stumbled upon one I enjoy, I nourish and ultimately cherish it.
When COVID-19 hit my small sliver of the world, I had no fear of the quarantine isolation. My nuclear family of four provides me with plenty of one-on-one interaction. In truth, I’m used to working at home alone all day, so this feels like a party. Technology fills the rest of the gap by allowing me to keep in touch with extended family and friends.
This will be fine, I tell myself. I hate shopping, and crowds, and gregarious strangers. No need to excuse my way out of any social events. Homebody is practically my middle name! I will hunker down and nourish my soul. I’m built for this.
Except I’m not, because I’m also an artist. My creative side comes with a hefty does of empathy. While this may help my day jobs, as graphic designer and creative writer, it does not suite a pandemic.
I’m grateful my family is healthy, but pieces of my creative soul die along with every victim I read about. These strangers to me are loved ones to someone else. No matter how hard I try, I cannot shake the sadness I feel for them—each and every one of them. Bearing witness to tragedy can be just as debilitating as lying at its core.
No matter what kind of artist you are, creation cannot happen when your well is dry. Creative wells fill differently for everyone. They also empty differently. One can only hope that the time between the two demarcations is long enough to foster output. Accept this vulnerability. Bring your creative well sunshine and love as often as you can, but honor its depletion. Trust that when circumstances allow, it will swell to abundance once again.