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Breaker 1-9 for a radio check. My dad still has a CB radio. And an 8-track player. He’s this interesting combination of intellectual and redneck. He drinks Paisano, and is currently reading A History of the English-Speaking Peoples. He threw out my Highway 69 sign. I hate him for that. The term “69” took on great significance to my little high school buddies, after Carla, a senior, expressed her ignorance as to its sexual connotation. We would go on outings to Eckerd Drugs and buy suggestive items that cost 69¢, comparing our finds at the end of the spree. When Jason told us that there was a Highway 69 in Alabama, we had to go. He, Ginny, Susan, Jaydie, and I drove there one night, and stole 5 signs from the highway. We’d park the car by a sign, pop the hood, like we were having engine trouble, sexy Ginny played the lady in distress, so that people would look at her instead of me, and I climbed the sign and unscrewed it from its pole. By the 5th sign, I needed only 45 seconds. When I asked Dad where the sign was, he said “I threw it out.” My parents live in this huge house, with tons of space, and they toss out a sign that was leaning against the wall of my closet, sorry, my former closet, occupying no space. James promised that the next time I visit we’d take a trip to Highway 69 and reclaim a sign.
My brother Mark brought his wife and little 8-month old daughter, Cassady, to our high school reunion. Because the baby was in town, my sisters in Florida flew up. Cassady is so beautiful and happy, she squeals and squeaks and laughs and dances because that’s all she knows is how to be beautiful and happy.
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