Tailgating

    Roderick and I were sitting on the tailgate of our red 1971 Ford pickup, parked under an elm tree by the side of a gravel road. It was Sunday afternoon, and we had been riding around, relaxing from a hard work week. He had driven down a road that I was unfamiliar with, saying, “There won’t be much traffic here,” and he was right. We hadn’t seen a single vehicle besides ours.

    Our Igloo Playmate cooler and ice from the ice house had cooled the six-pack of Pepsi and kept the package of Fischer’s ham cool and nutritious. Ruffles and Roman Meal bread, along with Keebler Rich'n Chips cookies, which were perfectly warmed and softened after riding around for a couple of hours in the bed of the truck, made up our lazy picnic fixings. 

    We watched birds and butterflies swoop and flit by our roadside retreat. Wildflowers bordered the road on either side and honeybees were busily collecting nectar.
    A cornfield across the road was nearly ready to chop for silage. A breeze rustling the blades of corn produced small dirt devils that meandered down the road for a few feet before disappearing.
    We were enjoying the shade and the breeze, laughing at the dirt devils’ random travels, and had relaxed even in the stifling August heat. Roderick was singing snatches of “Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound,” tapping out the beat on the side of the truck bed. I was humming along until he told me to get on key; I laughed and stopped humming. I’d rather listen to him sing anyway.

    I finished the Pepsi I was drinking and put the can in the paper grocery sack. Roderick asked if there was another Pepsi. I checked in the cooler; there was so I shook off the water, popped the top and handed it to him. He chugged about half of it, and handed the can to me. “Take a drink then I’ll finish it and we’ll get rolling.”
    I took a good swallow, handed the can back to Roderick and he finished it off. I added that can to the five in the sack, along with the half-empty package of chocolate chip cookies and most of the loaf of bread, then picked up a couple of fist-sized rocks from the side of the road and put them in the sack. I stashed the sack in the corner of the truck bed, with the cooler next to it. I knew the items would get jostled around, hopefully not too much.

    Back in the truck, Roderick started the motor and lit a Marlboro Red before putting the truck in gear and slowly pulling onto the road. He was driving much slower than his usual breakneck speed so I asked, “What are you thinking about?”
    He grinned. “It’s too hot to go home and sit in the trailer and it’ll be hours before it cools off. Do you want to head to the creek?”
    “Which one?” 
    “The closest one,” he replied, and increased his driving speed.

    A few minutes later we were on the banks of a beautiful slate-bottomed creek with large trees whose branches shaded the water and sandbars. Roderick pulled to the side of the crossing and parked before putting out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray.
    We got out of the truck and walked downstream. It was an oasis in the midst of the heat. A breeze stirred the trees and gently rippled the surface of the shallow water. Around a bend in the creek was a smooth sandbar with the creek curved around it, creating a secluded and well-shaded refuge from heat and spying eyes.
    Roderick wrapped his hand around mine and we went the few steps to the sandbar. Roderick was stepping on dry rocks, and I was wading in the cool water; my canvas sneakers would dry quickly. Once there, we sat side by side on the sandbar, which was cool and dry, and I told him, “This is nice. We should’ve brought our lunch here.”
    “I’ll remember that the next time,” he replied, then laid back on the sand and pulled me down to him. His brown eyes held the promise of a lovely afternoon, enjoying each other and the cool breeze across the slowly moving creek.