Sir Duke

The power of music is simply amazing. Normally, when I am in the gym, my iPod is cranked up and I am oblivious to the rest of the world (unless, of course, there are any hot, muscular guys at the gym – then I am busy projecting a pretense of being oblivious while I sneak in leering glances). Last week, however, I heard a familiar riff piped in through the crappy gym speakers. It was a very retro day for the gym; the music was a mix of old 70s hits. I caught the opening bars from Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke,” and instantly I was transported in time away from the gym and back to my family’s 1977 Toyota Corolla hatchback.

In what seems like an obvious case of child abuse now, my parents would pack my older brother (age 12), younger sister (age 5), and me (age 7) in the back of the car. With wanton disregard for seat belts, they folded down the split seats, laid out sleeping bags, and the three of us spent the duration of the road trip sprawled out in the back. Sometimes we concocted forts, other times we read stories, and still other times we engaged in a bitter internecine warfare that was kept at a low enough intensity to prevent my dad from following through with his threat to stop the car and dole out justice. There were stinger pinches and insults, jokes and tickles, tears and the uncontrollable fits of giggles (that also induced threats of car stoppage and spankings.)

In accordance with the norms of human group dynamics, a triad can be a very unstable relationship. Sub groups form and alliances shift suddenly and with tragic consequences. Sometimes it was the boys against my sister. This usually caused my sister to plead for my mother’s protection/interference. My mother, too, had been the baby in her family. My mother’s intervention was usually stern, quick, and unquestioned. She was the disciplinarian of the parental couple.

Other times, the young end of the spectrum would gang up on the long suffering, former only child. As the oldest, my brother was given limited guardian responsibilities. In effect that meant he was the biggest tattle-tale that ever lived. Think of the back seat of our road trips as a prison where the warden’s attention is divided and the inmates know there is a rat amongst them. Retribution was sometimes fast and viscious, other times it was purposefully slow and torturous. Retribution could take a physical form…invading his declared personal zone or worst of all touching him. Or it could take on its own cruel mental dimension.

My brother had always been a reader. To hear the stories about how brilliant my brother had always been, you would be forgiven for thinking he had been literate in utero. When sufficiently annoyed with my sister or me, he would try to retreat to reading something (usually reading something without pictures to prove how much smarter he was than we were.) The mental torture would begin with us asking him what he was reading. He would try to ignore us, but that was an untenable position. Never underestimate the resolve of a 5 and 7 year old to pester. I don’t think we ever reduced him to tears, but there were several times when his voice broke as he made his pleas for parental intervention.

What all this has to do with “Sir Duke” is that regardless of the state of either open warfare or sibling cold war breaking out in the back seat, the opening bars of “Sir Duke” brought out an instant truce. We all knew this song so well that the lyrics were burned into our young minds.

Mom sang.
Dad sang.
Sister sang.
Brother sang.
I sang.

We knew the song so well that in those days, when driving under a bridge meant you lost the radio signal for a few seconds, we still were at the right words in the right pitch once the radio reacquired the signal. From iTunes, I know that the song lasts exactly 3:52. For nearly four minutes, there was peace in this world. My solution to the Mid-East Arab/Israeli conflict would be to pipe in “Sir Duke” on loud speakers all over Israel/Palestine. It is impossible (IMHO) to be angry with anyone while that song is playing.

In 1979, we were living in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas having recently moved from Fort Belvoir, Virginia. My dad was to attend the Army’s Command and General Staff College. Graduation from CGSC was a prerequisite for promotion to higher rank. Classes didn’t begin until fall, so that summer we packed up the car and headed off to visit my mom’s relatives in Albuquerque and my dad’s relatives in El Paso. To get to Albuquerque from the Kansas City area you can stick to the Interstate highway system and go south on I-35 to Oklahoma City then head west on I-40. The more direct route is to take the hypotenuse of that triangle using state roads through southwest Kansas and northwest Oklahoma, eventually cutting through the Texas pan handle and getting on I-40. You can drive faster on the interstate, but if you catch the right traffic flow it is a much shorter duration trip on state roads.

The reason I mention these details is that we always took the direct route. I also mention this to reveal how I learned about the stereotype of black people and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Personally I have never been a fanatic about KFC specifically or fried chicken in general. I am not against it, it just isn’t a special deal. My father, on the other hand, is unable to resist the Colonel. If I was ever out and about with my father and lunchtime came around, it was KFC…no questions asked. I didn’t particularly care for cole slaw (to this day I have my reservations about it still.) The french fries were always atrocious. If I didn’t get a leg, then it was a torturous meal. The drumstick had the approriate ratio of skin to meat. Getting a chicken breast was the worst sort of lunchtime hell in my opinion back then. My father could never understand why I always wanted a HappyMeal instead. For a college educated man, he could be rather dense sometimes — Happy Meals came with toys!!!!

At any rate, during the trip through Oklahoma we stopped at this one small town KFC which was infested with the largest flies on the planet. This placed horrified my mother and grossed out the children, even though we were normally oblivious to such matters. We stopped there on the way to Albuquerque, and we stopped there on the return trip back to Kansas.

That car trip wasn’t all hell. My parents did not drive all night to get anywhere. We would drive a good portion of the day and then stop at a roadside motel, usually a Howard Johnsons. Even though it is generally a tacky chain, I have fond memories associated with HoJo. Wherever we would stop, there was always a pool. After getting situated in the room, we would go down to the pool and have a great amount of fun. I now realize that my parents were desparately trying to get us to use up all of our energy so we would fall asleep. Their devious plan always worked. Drowsiness usually overcame the horror of having to sleep in the same bed as my sister.

At the same time that “Sir Duke” sparks an inner reserve of joy, there is also a touch of melancholy. In 1980, my parents announced that we were hitting the road again to take a trip out to Albuquerque. This time, though, we would be staying there. As a military brat, moving was nothing new to me. In fact I thought everyone moved as much as we did. We said our goodbyes to our friends in Kansas, the movers packed up the house, and we loaded up into the car.

Once again, we took the hypotenuse of the triangle.
Once again, we ate at that damn fly infested KFC.
However, this trip, we didn’t stop at a hotel.
Instead we drove non-stop late into the night.

Approaching Albuquerque on I-40 from the east is a special memory. I-40, the land to the east of Albuquerque is a mountain which then opens to a high desert plain. When driving west from Texas for hours you literally see nothing but desert with a few outcroppings of eroded rock. When I lived in Kansas we called these plateaus, I would soon learn in New Mexico they were called mesas. As the hours pass, you eventually start to see the mountains way off in the distance to the west and north. As the day progresses the mountains to the north remain far away, but the mountains to the west begin to grow in size. Having made this trip numerous times in the day, I know that the mountains rise to a 10,000 foot peak. However, this trip the sun set and we continued to move forward into the vast dark night. When we finally reached the mountains, I was told that Albuquerque lie on the other side. Counterintuitively, we actually drive downhill, not uphill into the mountains. The eastern plains of New Mexico are higher than the Rio Grande valley. I-40 twists and turns through Tijeras canyon. Eventually, the highway begins a wide right turn and the foothills of the mountains frame the glowing city of Albuquerque. Because it is in a valley, one can see the entirety of the city. Even as the car descends down from the eastern heights one can see the vast expanse of the city. It is a fantastic approach to the city. We had awoken from our road trip stupor to experience the view. My dad guided the car from the extreme eastern part of the city to the southern part of town. Eventually we parked the car in front of my mother’s mother’s house and began to unpack the car. We were put up on various cots and beds.

The final memory I have of that road trip haunts me to this day. It had been late when we went to sleep and all who know me know that I am not a morning person. It was early the next morning and my dad came into the room. He wanted to say good bye because he had to go fly somewhere that day. I was tired and was used to him having to go away for little trips. So instead of waking up, I just played possum and pretended to sleep. He simply kissed me on my forehead and left. It was only later that afternoon that I learned he wasn’t moving with us to Albuquerque. My parents’ had decided to separate. I don’t think I quite understood what that meant at the time. Later I learned that it meant my dad was never going to live with us again. I was a shock, but there had been foreshadowing.

The last year my parents lived together was a bad year. I was partially aware of the tension, but I did not grasp its potential. Saturday mornings, my siblings and I were told to either remain in our bedrooms or go down to the basement to watch cartoons. Saturday morning were the times my parents fought in the dining room. They were always quiet when any of us children would emerge from the basement family room to get some juice from the kitchen. However, there was always a detectable thickness in the air. Sometimes, we could hear the heated discussion when we were down in the basement. We knew things weren’t right, but we didn’t know things were that bad. It was also confusing, because we still did the family things our neighbors did. We still went to mass on Sunday mornings. We still went to the Officers’ Club for Sunday brunch. We even dressed up for a family portrait. It was our last portrait of us as a family unit. I still mourn the fact that my mother, in a fit of rage, destroyed every copy of that picture.

The power of music is simply amazing. Thirty-one years have elapsed since that last family car ride. Yet merely hearing the opening bars I am transported to the backseat of our old Toyota. “Sir Duke” reminds me of an innocent time before my parents split. It reminds me of childhood before you learn that your parents are flawed. It reminds me of a time when my life was uncomplicated. I hadn’t made any of the mistakes or decisions that would ultimately set my course in life. “Sir Duke” summons up the memory when life was all potential.