January 29, 2026

Background: The basis for this narrative, modeled after some of Robert Frost's finer long blank verse narrative poems (see, for example, "Home Burial" or "The Death of the Hired Man," although "The Buick" is still 3 times longer than those), is a true incident from my father's life. In February 1946, his mother, just separated from his father, took off in the middle of the night with her paramour, her mother and my father. Eventually they ended up in Montana. Several different "memoirs" my father left for his kids reference little about the trip, outside of him remembering how cold it was, how much his future stepfather stopped at phone booths, and one bad night in a hotel, all of which are captured here. It's not the first time I have written about this (for instance, Piano Center Stage), but those pieces have focused more on the downstream events that came from that journey. Now, as I approach my father's birthday, I am utterly fascinated by what might have occurred on that trip from Maryland to Montana. I cut down the time spent in Billings, as Great Falls is really where his journey ends . . . and new one begins. Because I am fictionalizing the material between the two terminals of the trip, I have changed the names; however, the personalities are true to the actual people.

Note: I recognize that few people can, in one sitting, read this long of a poem. As a result, if you prefer, you can read it serialized, using the links below (with links embedded in each section to propel the reader to the next section). With a few exceptions, such as the final section/post-script, each section ranges between about 50 lines and 75 lines.

Section 1

Section 2

Section 3

Section 4

Section 5

Section 6

Section 7

Section 8

Section 9

Section 10

Section 11/Post-script

The Buick [full poem]

It's two o'clock AM and the young boy,

Fresh off his birthday, is jostled out of bed,

Handed a suitcase, told to pack essentials.

"What? Why?"

                    "Hush," his breathless mother implores,

"We're going to get far away from here."

He's only been out of his father's house,

By his own count, about one hundred days,

Been Grandfather-less for even fewer.

In minutes, four people in a Buick

Century, the pride of the boy's grandpa,

Set out, heading west via Route 40,

Entertainer at wheel, protégée close,

Tiny grandma and fourteen-year-old boy

Huddled together for warmth in the back.

It's dark, February, year '46,

As the car speeds away from Hyattsville.

Away from what, we all might deign to ask:

For the grandmother, a cancerous corpse

Of her husband taken way too early,

Dragged by the pull of her spoiled daughter

And her precious, idolized grandchild;

For the entertainer, several bills,

Debt collectors, and his family too;

For the protégée, the boredom and chains

From the tyrant she had recently left;

And for the boy, drafting tools in his lap,

A few favorite books against his side,

The frightening apparition of a man

Who believed love came beside discipline,

His daddy, Jackson Franklin Wilkinson.

That Buick would have got to Route 40

Around Frederick when the boy must have 

Finally worked up the courage to ask,

"Where are we going?"

                                 "But that's a secret,"

His mother, or his (not yet) stepfather,

Or his grandmother must have told him back,

Although with a different tone for each.

"Get some sleep. We will be driving awhile."

The snow was falling all around the car,

The teenager reached for his inhaler,

The closed off interior triggering

Another all-out asthmatic attack.

--------------------------------------

Sometime later, as dawn bid good morning

Through the Buick's elliptical windshield,

The boy awoke from a troubled slumber,

And muttered to anyone who'd listen,

"Why did we travel back to Washington?"

"This is a different Washington, hon,"

His mother snickered from the front seat,

"It is Washington, Pennsylvania."

His driver established eye contact

With the child via the rear view mirror,

"Don't worry, boy, this ain't nothing like home.

You'll see so when I stop to get some gas."

And soon a Texaco appeared ahead.

As the attendant, smile and trusty rag,

Stepped up to service the car, the man,

Whose slick black hair the boy had been staring

At since leaving home, ran to the phone booth

By the cigarette machine, change ready.

"Who's he calling, mama?" the boy queried.

"Don't fret, son, he's taking care of business,

Let's go inside and find something to read."

In the station, looking for distraction,

He glanced at something with the name Gazette,

Saw a headline about Roe's cracked skull,

And thought of Jackson Wilkinson, the man

Who took him to Senator baseball games.

But his mother grabbed the splashier Life,

Saying, "Now this is something we can share."

He knew better than to request something 

With a story about baseball in it,

A connection to the man his mother

Desperately wanted him to forget.

With a Lincoln Memorial cover,

He figured he could lose himself in this.

He wandered back to the Black Century

As the driver slammed the phone angrily;

He knew better than to say anything. 

As they set out again down Route 40,

Seeing the signs for somewhere called Wheeling,

He snatched Life from beside his grandma

And started rifling through the pages,

Glad to be looking at something else than

His well-thumbed Winslow's Famous Planes and

Famous Flights. Suddenly the magazine

Was wrenched from his hands by his grandmother:

"Babette, did you not look at what you bought?"

His mama scarcely moved a muscle

In looking back.

                       "What's the faux pas, Mama?"

"There's an article in here entitled

'Marital Hazards Beset U.S. Domestic Life'

(I cannot even begin to scan that!).

Did you really want Johnny to see this?"

"Why wouldn't I, Mama," Babette bit back

From the comfort of her passenger seat,

"Divorce is finally o.k. these days."

Suddenly Johnny pictured the red face,

Neck muscles taut, spittle flying from mouth

Of the man everyone just called Jack.

"Here," offering the offensive sheet back. 

"I think I'd rather try and sleep again."

----------------------------------

He awoke to his grandma's shrill complaint,

"If I hear 'Let It Snow' once more, I'll scream."

His mother fiddled the radio,

And when there wasn't static all he'd hear

Were the mysterious codes transmitted:

WCOL, or WKHC, or

WING, making him wonder if

The DJ had battled the Red Baron.

The driver (he couldn't see him as more)

Whispered softly to his mother up front,

Using the radio for cover when

Suddenly the Century stopped abrupt

At the Pennyroyal Opera House,

An unlikely stop among the gaudy

Roadside buildings slowly emerging on this

Journey into the heart of America.

"We're stopping for a few here in Fairview,"

The driver informed his backseat baggage.

"Babette and I shall be coming right back."

The boy and his grandmother exchanged looks, 

"I suppose we should stretch our legs," she said.

Johnny couldn't jump out quickly enough,

Shielding his eyes from the glare of the light.

"Where do you think we will stop for the night?"

The grandmother shrugged, pulling her white shawl 

Tighter around her bony pale shoulders. 

"Can't know with Fred? Depends how long they're there,"

Pointing at the esteemed Opera House,

Muttering "before they throw them both out."

Johnny inhaled the fresh, if frigid air,

Hoping to clear out his congested lungs,

And wondered what his dad was doing then.

He felt no sadness, but also no fear,

Just guilt and shame he could have never earned.

It was only a few minutes later

When the absent hurried back to the car,

Mom holding her pillbox hat to her head.

They hustled to get back in the Buick,

Fred pulling out fast, Babette stifling tears.

"Don't worry, sweet baby cakes," Fred whispered,

"These countrified hicks don't have a damn clue."

With a silence more awkward than it'd been,

Johnny decided he must push his luck,

"Where and when will we stop driving tonight?"

"Good question, boy," shouted Fred, too loudly,

Desired to shift the tension in the car.

"How 'bout close to the Indiana line?

Everyone look for some place we can stay."

"Meaning some place where we can all lay low,"

His grandmother hissed only to herself.

"What was that, Constance? I couldn't hear you."

"Nothing, Fred. Keep your eyes on the road and,"

Watching him rub his hand on Babette's thigh,

"Your damn hands on the wheel."

                                                 But it remained.

They found a set of cabins near Richmond.

"Isn't it adorable?" Fred proclaimed,

Although neither female showed delight,

Elation or begrudged admiration.

Rustic and functional, it gave them beds.

As the boy turned from his grandma's body,

He fell asleep convinced that Jack followed.

--------------------------------------

The next morning, wiping milk off his lips,

At yet another gasoline station,

Johnny listened to Fred on the payphone

Outside the rest room window, saying something 

About a broken deal in St. Louis. 

He heard Fred curse, words typical of Jack

Back home, which already seemed long ago.

He lingered in the foul lavatory,

Waiting to hear Fred step clear from the booth

To make his way back to the stupid car.

He didn't know why he hesitated,

But it made him feel more invisible.

Climbing into the back of the Buick,

He saw his mother sporting a new purse

And his grandmother her patented smirk,

"My savings go toward that pocketbook?"

"Hush, Mama, it's nothing," Babette pouted,

"Fred bought it earlier before we rose,

Little something to get my spirits up."

Johnny pretended to read his war book,

Conscious of the Century's fierce conflicts.

"Hey," his mother interrupted later,

"Wasn't Dillinger jailed in Pendleton?

Don't you think he looked like Jack, Mama?"

His grandmother was not known to hold back:

"Their last names should both be changed to trouble."

But Johnny didn't care about John D.,

As that was somebody else's legend.

Only later did Johnny realize

He'd missed some important development:

Grammy was fuming, his mother humming,

Fred looking at a map flat on his lap.

"We'll stop in Terre Haute," he determined,

But no one seemed to listen or to care.

"Babette, I'll make a call or two from there."

"I wouldn't want to go to St. Louis,

Freddie dear, us knowing nobody there."

"We are not going to know anybody

Anywhere, darling daughter," Constance barked.

Johnny went pale; Fred snapped his fingers,

Bearing down with his eyes in the mirror.

"Enough, everyone. It will all be fine.

Men like me got contacts in any town.

We'll find our place to settle soon enough."

Sighing, Johnny cast his eyes down again,

No interest in Midway photographs.

He wanted to ask about future school,

But knew that discussion would not go well.

He'd survived so long with private tutors

Staring intently over his shoulders

While squeezing between humidifiers

That unknown schools couldn't disrupt the plans

Of the Buick's two star-crossed lovers.

------------------------------------------

Later, when they pulled into Terre Haute,

Fred found the sought-after public phone booth

On the main street in the heart of downtown,

Handing Babette a couple of dollars,

He pointed her toward a five and dime,

But Babette would have none of that, saying

"Here, Mom, take Johnny and buy something fun."

Babette thrust the money at her mother,

"I'm going to stand right here, give these boys

Something to stare at."

                                   Because, up the road,

Three lads, same age as Johnny, stood agape.

Fred waved them off, dropping change in the slot,

Turned his back to all and spoke softly

Into the phone, usual smooth talker.

Grandma grabbed at Johnny's hand, pulling him,

Causing him to stumble, misdirection

From the flirtations out on the still street.

In the store, a girl eyed Johnny sweetly,

As if she understood his agony.

Grandma cuffed his ear and pointed where

He could decide about some distractions.

Blushing, Johnny picked out a yo-yo,

Penny candies and a Baseball Digest,

Hoping for his grandmother's secrecy.

Constance gave a small nod, eyes on the street.

With her change, tucked magazine in her bag,

His conspirator grasping Johnny's hand,

And stood at the door.

                                "Snow's falling again,

"We might as well wait in here 'til he's done."

From behind them, the little girl bawled,

"Mommy, look at all that little boy got!"

"Livvy, not all of us are so lucky."

Johnny blushed again, aware of how

They didn't fit in, staring at his shoes.

"Oh, Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,"

Sang the shop owner, only to be sneered

In rebuff from the pint-sized woman

Who clearly wasn't from around these parts.

Johnny coughed violently, then searched

Frantically for his inhaler he'd left

Wedged in the backseat of the black Buick.

"C'mon, honey, let's get back to the car,"

Constance directed, ever well aware

Of the boy's essential medication.

"O.k., everyone," bellowed Fred, volume

Always increased at times when he needed

To boost the illusion of some control,

"It's off to Cedar Rapids we shall go.

Say goodbye to 40, we take new roads,

Sorry, Johnny, we will not be crossing 

The mighty Mississippi for a while,

And yet I promise you that we still will."

Johnny smiled with mock appreciation,

Wishing he had the map here in the back

So that he could locate Cedar Rapids.

"Is that a yo-yo, honey?" said his mom,

Clasping her hands as if she's describing

The found treasure of Sierra Madre.

Babette never swung around in the seat

To make eye contact with her only child,

But straightened her hair, dabbed at her lipstick.

Johnny was used to her stop-and-go talks,

Her flashes of motherhood checked by

Her incessant appeal to womanhood,

Even as Constance clucked right beside him,

Sliding the Baseball Digest 'cross the seat,

Where he kept it hidden between his books,

Another symbol of the man behind.

--------------------------------------

That is how the second day proceeded

As the Buick crossed into Illinois,

Drove around Normal, Fred chuckling it was

"Anything but.

                      Right, Babette, my dear love?"

They finally arrived upon the wide

Mississippi as the sun headed down.

"Let's stop and look," Constance barked from the back.

"That's a splendid idea," whispered Fred,

"Be good to get the boy some fresh air too."

And as they stood on Davenport's outskirts,

Johnny knew this was a river once crossed

Almost certainly closed off everything 

He tied to Hyattsville and Washington

And Mister Jackson Franklin Wilkinson.

Later, just outside of Cedar Rapids,

Fred parked next to a modest motel

Making Babette squeal with surprising glee.

"I can't spend another night in a cabin,

Their ugly rooms are so much beneath me

This will be so much better, you will see."

The room was icy cold, frost on windows,

Fred asked the front desk for a space heater

Which sadly only made matters much worse,

As the lack of enough ventilation

Made Johnny's asthma begin to flare up,

And he spent the night tossing and turning,

Nauseous, running to the bathroom hourly,

Fred staying right by him, stroking his hair, 

Telling him everything would be alright

That they'd be far away in the morning.

The long, miserable night for Johnny,

Made him wonder if he'd rather be dead.

-------------------------------------------

Fred, still feeling for the boy now tied to,

Dropped them at a diner for full breakfast,

A much-needed two-hour break from the seats

Of the ubiquitous Black Century.

When asked, the waitress gave him directions

To the city's closest Western Union,

Fred left with the car, promise to return

With better news and stopping point in sight.

Babette commanded the table as she

Was wont to do; all in that diner had

Attention drawn to the homeless trio

Through every tilt of her crimson head,

Every lilt of her girlish laughter,

Every flirtation with the owner.

Johnny ate little, tummy still unsure,

And thought about Alice, his last tutor,

If she worried about his grammar skills,

And if he would ever see her again.

His grandma took endless coffee refills,

Letting her daughter drone on through the meal.

When Fred returned, good news seemed absent,

He and Babette went to talk by the door,

Constance rolling her eyes with no more care

Whether Johnny noticed or understood.

"Here's good news, all. We're off to Montana,

I hear they name it the Big Sky country."

Johnny from the window of Dell's Diner,

Said, "The sky looks pretty big right here, Fred."

His mother's lover slapped him on the back,

Telling him, "you ain't seen nothing, yet, boy,

Now let's all hop back in the Century

And see how far this company can get."

Then he started humming a Broadway tune,

 A low "mmm mmm, mmm mmm,

                                                  mmm mmm mmm mmm," 

"He's a fool and don't I know it," the voice

Of his mother joining in, "but a fool

Can have his charms. I'm in love and don't I

Show it,"

             the black Buick speeding away.

"A dollar's yours if you know this, Johnny.

It's time we educate you on the Arts."

"Don't be bothered, dear," Constance intervened,

Handing him a crisp bill, "It's my dollar." 

However, the car was barely moving,

The snow was brutal and the progress slow,

Fred frequently getting out of the car

To brush his windshield or to find the road.

Constance did her best to keep spirits up,

Quizzing Johnny on state, world capitals,

Attempts to draw attention from the Plains,

Only for Babette to make them subject

Of her own innocent teaching method:

"Who would be the Indians of these parts?"

She'd ask her fair-haired son out of nowhere,

Not that she would know the correct response.

Signs for towns sparked a little interest,

Distractions from the slow crawl they were on,

Places like Boone, Vermillion, Armour.

As night descended and dinner beckoned, 

Fred chose the Chamberlain Country Cabins,

Bustled to the office, returning fast,

Saying, "Help, Constance, you need to come in,"

His grandmother struggled against the wind,

Five-foot frame dissolving into the snow.

From the car, Johnny could see the frozen

Banks of the Missouri River, wondered

How many more mighty rivers they'd cross

To create boundaries for his father.

---------------------------------------

Babette still complained about the cabins, 

And Constance had to yell hourly at Fred

To shut the door and keep the cold air out,

Each time he snuck out for a cigarette,

But Johnny could take his breaths easily,

Felt rested, ready for another day.

He would have loved a stop in the Black Hills

Or a sudden visit to Mount Rushmore,

But Fred argued the rush was for Billings,

Where they would finally put down their roots.

So the Buick stopped around Sturgis,

Where Johnny got a genuine Cowboy hat,

Constance a set of leather moccasins,

And Babette some rhinestone boots that made Fred

Whistle once again.

                             "This stop may be it,

"Until we're in Billings; Three hundred miles

Of nothing and even less on these roads."

With nothing but the endless flatness of

Eastern Montana landscape before him,

Johnny determined he would find his voice.

"Is it your hope Daddy never finds us

In the remoteness of this Montana?"

In the absence of a clear signal from

WCAT out of Rapid City,

Silence broken only by the static,

Johnny waited for someone to answer,

His mother eventually with "yes."

"He wouldn't be the only one, Johnny,"

His grandmother said, smirking at his side.

"Now, Mother, shush. We know this rural life

Will make it better for Johnny's breathing,

And let him now have a normal childhood."

Johnny smiled, knowing it was expected,

Not ready to pull his doubts from his depths.

Past Hammond, the snow lightened a little,

The road was unpaved, more fitting for a

Horse and Buggy than an automobile

"At least Montana State Route Eight," Fred joked,

"Takes us through some of the best-named towns.

Lame Deer was merely a bump in the road,

I wonder what Crow Agency provides?"

Eventually the Buick stopped

At the Northern Hotel, quite a landmark,

If you believed the Billings marketing.

Yo-yo in his left, Johnny felt his right

Pulled tight by his mother following Fred

Into the vast Northern Hotel lobby.

"Let's sit over there," his mother pointed

To a couch and a chair, "while Fred gets us

Set up here."

                    They watched a portly man

Direct Fred to the lobby's piano,

A baby grand in stunning ivory.

Suddenly the room was full of music

Bringing all strangers to a complete pause.

He watched his mother's face become a lit,

Remembering he rarely saw her beam

As she beamed now in this western town,

And weighing where they were and where they'd been,

Johnny was determined to settle in

To whatever life this transition brought.

The fat man ended up shaking Fred's hand

And directed his staff to find them rooms,

As it seemed Billings would be his new home.

Johnny envisioned new friends, a new school,

But he was ahead of himself, or more

Accurately ahead of Fred's fixed debt,

In a fortnight, even before his name

Could be recalled by classmates or teachers,

Johnny saw the Buick outside the doors

Packed to the gills yet another time,

Fred telling him Great Falls now awaited,

A destination farther north and west.

"How much more distance do they think we need?"

Johnny wondered from the back of the car

As it plowed again through snowy back roads.

It'd be awhile before he understood

That they ran from more than Jack Wilkinson.

--------------------------------------------

In Great Falls, Fred had been given advice

To check for work at the Rainbow Hotel,

And soon he'd be entertaining its guests

As well as the locals hanging out there.

"Well, get that, it's the Missouri again,"

Babette babbled at sighting the river.

"That's 'cause it starts in the Rockies, Mama,

And works northeast before heading southward."

"You really are pretty clever, Johnny,"

Fred praised, turning into the hotel lot,

"There's no way we will let these local fools

Put you back in the eighth grade like Billings

Was prepared to do. Ninth grade or bust, son."

Such word was the first time such endearment

Had been bestowed from driver to the boy,

And Johnny felt no qualms. Peace was his goal.

Sure enough, the Rainbow gig stabilized,

The Buick stayed parked by a duplex,

Constance's bankroll kept Babette's dream alive

So that they could open a studio,

Where she could teach the pretty local girls

Who wanted glimpses of the Eastern boy

Correctly placed in the Great Falls High School

Ninth Grade per Fred's powers of persuasion.

And even though Constance didn't approve

This makeshift family was in the clear 

From the clutches of Jack F. Wilkinson.

Until that day the foursome arrived home,

Their second April in the Treasure State,

Johnny admiring the archery set 

He got with the prize money from winning

A school academic competition,

Because as the Buick pulled to the curb,

They were shocked to see Reverend Jones

Standing on their porch with none other than

The smiling Jackson Franklin Wilkinson.

Babette screamed, Johnny stayed quiet,

Constance encouraged Fred to take her in,

But not before showing her upbringing

With a "Hello, Jack, hello Reverend."

Babette pushed Johnny back with her arm,

"What do you want Jack? How did you find us?"

"I'm not sure which question to address first."

The reverend held up his hand in grace,

"Allow me, Babette, to help him explain,

He came to the church seeking help finding

His long-lost son. When he described the boy, 

And the family he might still be with,

I knew he had to be looking for you.

I gave him my word, now I do for you,

Let the boy spend a spell with his father.

As God is my witness, I will be yours."

"Fine, Reverend," Babette had to concede,

"You stay here with Johnny for a minute,

While Jack and I go and talk over there."

--------------------------------------

Johnny stood still, Jones' hand on his shoulder,

Watching his parents stand by the Buick,

Babette heated, but Jack remaining calm,

While the Reverend droned on about grace,

Johnny gasped as Babette hugged Jack,

Even if her shoulders were clearly tense

Leading his father back to the front porch.

"It's o.k., Reverend, we're of like minds.

I will leave you three gentlemen alone.

Jack has got a few things to tell Johnny,

Then I'd appreciate it if you'd show 

Him the way back to the bus terminal."

With a nod to the three of them, Babette

Swung on her heels and went into the house.

"I'll just stand over by that tree," Jones said,

"And give both of you the chance to catch up."

Jack motioned his son to sit on the stoop,

Pulling up his own pant legs as he sat.

"How have you been, son?" Jack's voice near breaking,

Surprised Johnny with natural rawness.

"I've been good," Johnny aware of the eyes

On them from all the houses on the street.

"Good. Really good to hear, John.

                                                 Your breathing?"

"It's better, Dad. Penicillin's helping."

Jack's smile was bigger than Johnny had seen,

"Fantastic! Open spaces must help too."

Jack wiped a piece of lint off his trousers,

"And how about school? You getting good grades?"

"Straight A's with a B in public speaking."

"Super." 

            Then after a pause, "I've missed you."

Aware of his mother's gaze through the blinds,

Johnny struggled to know how to reply.

"How'd you find us?' Johnny finally said.

"I've been looking for well over a year.

I got a little lucky. Your Mom's friend,

Gladys Stone, offered to forward letters

To you, but I guess you never got them.

One was returned with a Great Falls' address,

So I hopped on a Greyhound.

                                           Here I am.

Stopped at the first church I ran into,

Where Reverend Jones knew all about you."

Johnny eyed the reverend tossing rocks.

"Lucky, yes, Fred conducts the choir at church."

Jack smiled, turned to look at the house.

"Is he good to you, John?" "Oh, very kind."

"Good.

          I told your Ma I want a divorce,

And then we can both get remarried.

Just know,"

                 Jack hesitated as he searched

For the right words, "That we both love you and

All of this has nothing to do with you."

Johnny stifled a tear, nodding his head,

But discovered his mouth had gone bone dry.

"Tell you what, John. Your mother has agreed

To allow me writing you directly.

Get ready for some letters, news about 

Eddie Yost, Mickey Vernon, Stan Spence.

Maybe this year we can win the pennant."

Johnny could feel his dad's hand on his knee,

But couldn't see past the tears in his eyes.

"Write back if you want to. I'd treasure it."

The silence seemed to envelope him,

As both of them struggled to continue.

The reverend cleared his throat, Babette

Loudly swung open the porch's screen door.

"Can I get a hug, John, before I leave?"

Johnny stood up and opened his arms wide,

Embraced the man he had been told to fear.

"I missed you too, dad," he finally said.

With a tip of his hat toward the house,

A soft step toward Reverend Jones' car,

Jackson Franklin Wilkinson took his leave.

-----------------------------

What's to make of the Century's story,

Set out with no noble goal like the Argo,

Or completed in vain like the Pequod?

It was a vessel of escape for sure,

But Johnny needed to hold onto some

Kind of lifeline, because of the quartet

He'd the most to lose without knowing it

While passing through Fairview or Terre Haute,

Or when crossing the heartland's waterways.

Even though Great Falls would lead him to love

And the kindness and support of others,

The illusions he had of his mother

Dissolved every time she tore his Dad's

Mail open, more when censoring his own.

When he went off to college far away

From Maryland and Montana, by choice,

He felt his ties closer to his origins

Than to the home where the Buick took him.