Was Jenny Just Along for the Ride?

Escaping Expectation

Raul Rodriguez photo

"Wouldn't you rather have a Buick?" Tom playfully growled as his long, black hair whipped in the wind from the open car windows. He gave off a throaty laugh and down shifted his new '78 Regal as a herd of Holsteins began to cross the gravel road.

Yes, Jenny was with a cool guy in a new Buick. Her dream of being with a sharp dude who understood her was coming true. Her spirit soared in the spring air.

But, at the same time, something about Tom troubled Jenny. Perhaps he was too cool, too carefree. Was he really interested in Jenny? Or was she just along for the ride?

The grumble of the idling V-8, the racket of the herd and the sharp barks of the cow dog echoed off the shadowy Kickapoo hills on both sides of the car. The cows pushed against each other to get away from the dog and down into the pasture below. The sun had just dipped below the jagged horizon of oak and maple, creating a stark silhouette against a western sky of orange and blue hues.

In blue and white striped bib overalls, the farmer followed the dog, which snipped at the tails of the last cows to cross the gravel. As the cows disappeared, the soft chatter of the frogs and crickets from the creek below filled the calm, twilight air.

The pair waved at the farmer, who raised his walking stick in reply. Tom revved the engine and carefully crossed the new path of fresh cow manure so it wouldn't splatter his royal blue car.

Tom then scurried up the winding gravel road out of the valley, leaving a cloud of dust behind but retaining the fresh scent of cow manure, which temporarily overpowered the new car smell. Once they reached the top of the ridge, Jenny noticed the manure smell gradually faded. The last rays from the setting sun behind cast a faint but distorted shadow of the Regal along Jenny’s side of the road.

"We should be able to get WLS up here," Tom said hopefully and leaned over to tune in the Midwest's most powerful rock station from Chicago. "Come on, 50,000 watts of power!"

The four-speaker Delco stereo radio produced only a faint static with a few blips here and there as Tom cranked the tuning knob toward 90. Then, he hit it. "A little luck... a little luck... a little, little, little luck ..."

Jenny could feel the cluck of the harmony, so mellow, bounce off the white, perforated ceiling of the Regal and escape through the windows as they softly cruised away from the sunset. Across the broad horizon, the cloudless sky was turning orange, then blue gray and then purple.

Tom beamed as he started snapping the forefinger and thumb of his right hand to the beat. He looked at Jenny. His eyes were full of delight. He started harmonizing with the duet.  "A little luck... a little luck... a little, little, little luck ..."

It was another one of the couple’s "after-work dates," as Jenny had come to call them. Tom and Jenny worked in the same office, where she had left her car in the parking lot so they both could try out his new car.

Over the last 15 years, she had worked her way up from an initial secretarial job to product accountant, and Tom, 12 years younger than she was, had joined the organization last year as procurement manager after graduating from college.

Both raised on dairy farms, they were the first generation in both of their families to get off-the-farm jobs at the Kickapoo Valley’s regional dairy cooperative, which manufactured the milk from its member farmers into butter and cheese. She was 36; he was 24.  

They both knew life was fragile. Jenny’s sister had died from leukemia in 1963. Her father had died from a brain tumor in 1968. She understood what Tom had to go through when his younger brother, Mike, died in 1969 when a bull charged him in the family’s barnyard.

And she understood what it was like to have career aspirations as a woman in a workplace, dominated by men, in which women were governed by different rules.

Maybe all of those circumstances would help Tom overlook their age difference. Was that a false hope? Jenny didn’t know.

“Expectation is the root of all heartache.” - William Shakspeare

But riding with a guy in a blue Buick into that quiet May night was coming close to fulfilling one of her fantasies. With a little luck, could their relationship develop into something good for both of them?

The road flattened and turned into blacktopped County T. Tom pumped the car up to 60. The darkening sky arched the ridge and valleys to the north and south.

“This is my home country. I used to bale hay on the next ridge.”

"Let's stop and see Joan," he said with a sparkle in his eyes. "You remember Joan? She came to our delegate meeting last year."

"Long blonde hair?” Jenny said stiffly, not at all liking the idea of stopping at another gal’s place.

"Yeah," he replied with a raised eyebrow and quick smile. "Joan and I went to high school together."

"That's good," Jenny agreed, wondering how often they had gotten together.

"She and John have taken over the farm from their folks," he said. "They retired last fall, you know."

Tom drove into a U-shaped driveway, which linked a white house, trimmed lawn and 100-foot red barn. The lights in both the house and barn were on. With a familiarity that surprised Jenny, Tom  drove up to the barn door and tooted his horn.

Joan stuck her head around the corner of the open barn door and stood, silhouetted, against the two rows of bright lights in the empty stanchion barn. She then moved with slow steps forward, as if unsure who was sitting in the dark, silent car. Wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans, she bent down to look into Tom's window.

"Wouldn't you rather have a Buick?" he gushed.

"You got it!” Joan exclaimed. “I thought it wasn’t going to come in until next week.”

"Came in yesterday," Tom quickly replied. “Joan, you know Jenny Watson from product accounting?"

"Oh, sure," Joan replied after peering into the passenger seat.

"You have a nice place here," Jenny said politely, not necessarily putting her most enthusiasm into her off-the-cuff observation. "How many cows are you milking?"

"About 90," Joan said.

"You've been at that level for a while," Tom commented.

"Well, yeah, since mom and dad retired. And when John got out of high school, we decided to beef the herd up a bit, too."

"That's a lot of work," Jenny managed to comment, again with controlled politeness.

"Yeah, but there's two of us and Dad still helps out now and then," Joan replied. "We just finished chores. Wanna come in the house?"

"No," Tom declined. "We've gotta get back."

"You doing anything Saturday night?" Tom asked Joan in a lower voice, as if Jenny couldn't hear or didn't count. Jenny gulped and felt herself sinking into the passenger seat. In her mind, she  pretended not to be next to a hunky guy in a blue Buick. But, Joan was still there at the car window.

"I don't know yet," Joan replied softly, almost inaudible in the still night air as Tom started the car and turned on the headlights. "Call me Thursday."

Now, 50 years later, the heartache Jenny felt that night has faded. After a lifetime of surprises, her preoccupation with expectation has dwindled. Tom and his Buick gradually became irrelevant. 

Jenny found herself riding the wave of new job opportunities for women during the 1980s. She eventually became a product manager for Kraft Foods in Chicago. 

But, at 81, Jenny still fondly remembers a Kickapoo Valley sunset during one awesome spring: the deep shadows, the vivid colors – and the smell of fresh manure softened by the new-car fragrance of a ‘78 blue Buick Regal.

It’s a moment in time that is still real but seems so far away now that she and her husband, George, a retired realtor, live in a downtown Chicago condo.

Jenny’s takeaway tip from her story: Forego gnawing expectation to savor the present moment.