Telephone Lines

     The telephone lines swooped between each pole then steadily rose again, over and over. Sitting in the back of my mother's station wagon, I fixed my eyes on one line and watched it sink to its lowest point then rise to the next pole, over and over. The steady rise and fall was hypnotic. In all the world, it was one of my favorite things to do, and I got to do it all the time because my mother was always driving somewhere. I counted the seconds between each pole, one thousand one - one thousand two - one thousand three. Three seconds was the limit. It might've been longer if I were in the back seat of someone else's car, but I was in my mother's station. The speed limit on interstate was 75 mph, but she said everyone was allowed ten more miles per hour, so 85 mph was her minimum speed. Ninety-five was her average. She was in the passenger lane, or the "fast lane," as she called it. She always drove in in the fast lane.
     Suddenly, the seconds between the poles slowed down to five seconds.
     "Get off the road if you can't drive, buddy," my mother yelled.
     Just a few feet behind us, maybe a car length, in the right lane was a semi.
     "You're not gonna block me in," my mother said, leaning closer to the steering wheel. A smile came across her face. Her eyes started to glisten as she shoved the gas pedal to the floor.  The station wagon's engine roared. She hit the metal dashboard with the palm of her right hand. "Come on, Old Betsy, you can do it."
     I looked up at the telephone lines and tried to count the seconds as we veered closer to them, but I was distracted by the semi's horn blowing, then I turned to see the speedometer when my mother shouted, "Whoo, one hundred and five. GO BETSY." She glanced over at the man in the green car. "Where'd you get your license, Buddy, Sears & Roebuck?" Before I could look back to the phone lines, we had already darted back in front of the "knucklehead." I looked out of the big back window. The front of the car quickly disappeared.
     "Knuckleheads like that cause wrecks on the highway," my mother said. She turned and looked at me in the backseat. "Always remember, don't ever hit the brake unless you have to. Put the pedal to the metal. That'll get you out of a jam nine times out ten."
     I went back to watching the telephone lines, one thousand one - one thousand two - one thousand three.