Washing windows and falling in love.

When I was young my family took me on lots of road trips. We would drive to Yellowstone, from PA to CA, Canada, and to Fallon NV every summer. We drove thousands and thousands of miles, and during those trips our windshield would get very very dirty. When we stopped for gas, as we often needed to, my Grandpa or my father would step out of the car, and pay for gas. He would stand beside the pump as it began to fill our car with the steam we needed to get us the next 300 or so miles. I remember sitting in the back seat of the car, sometimes sweaty from being awoken from a nap by the sudden lack of movement, and seeing my father grab the squeegee from the soapy water they provide, and wash the bugs off the windshield while the gas filled our car. It was a careful meticulous act. Taking more time to scrub at the bugs, and only reaching halfway across the windshield. Then he would flip it over and draw the rubber across the glass revealing a clean and glistening windshield. I always felt hypnotized while I watched him do this.. I watched him walk around and finish the other side, and sometimes he would wash the back windows, making silly faces at me while I pretended to point out spots he missed. (Classic, I always did it, and he always acted as if I were hilarious for pretending to point out his missed spots.) The act of cleaning our windows was something I attached to my love for my father and Grandpa. They cleaned the windows without being asked because it needed to be done to keep the family in the car safe. 

When Jason and I got married, we piled all of my stuff into the back of his truck, and drove from Sunnyvale CA to Twentynine Palms. I was nervous, we had never lived together, were driving to a military base where we would be staying with friends until he deployed to Afghanistan, and I was now a WIFE! Our truck was pretty gross when we reached a gas station outside of LA. I had my bare feet up on the dashboard and the windows down. (The AC was broken.) Jason stepped out of the truck and paid for the gas, he placed the pump into the gas tank and headed for the squeegee. I smiled to myself. He began to squeegee the windshield, take extra time with the bugs he found, and then flipped the squeegee over to drag the rubber across the glass. I smiled so widely as I let this new moment seep into my memory. He was washing our windshield, without having been asked, because he cared about me in his truck. I giggled as I pointed out places he missed with my toes.

For me, washing the windshield of the car will always mean "I love you". I thought of that today as Jason pumped our gas on our way to Roaring Camp to see the trains. I thought of how much I loved him the day we drove down to Twenty Nine palms, and the many times he had cleaned our windshield since. I cherish those moments, when I remember the love and peace of the simple act as acted by my dad and grandpa, and how I now love my husband as he cleans our windows.. So silly, but love is silly isn't it?