By Lisa Rolf

I am glad someone was watching over

my Mother that night

seventy years ago,

as she slept in the ditch.

Even if it was only a single metal eye

blinking in the face of a flying horse

Leaping over a filling station and café.

Never straying off course,

On that summer night,

when my Aunt Emily ran away.

One sideways glancing horse’s eye

on a gas station signpost,

winking at my Mother from the evening sky. 

Red neon pulsed through the stallion’s veins.

And yet, the horse was warm-blooded, just the same.

Not carrying thunderbolts under his wings,

Just motor oil, listening to the crickets sing.

Yes, this hard-working horse was serving the poets,

and also meeting the needs of the passing motorists.

This was Pegasus just the same,

Hung high above them on a metal frame. 

High above the whistling trains, the farmyard fires,

Grandpa’s patched up tires,

Pegasus arched his back

And spread his wings.

My Grandparents must have wondered if Emily was alright.

As they slept in the ditch that warm June night.

Staring at midsummer stars,

Listening to the highway with its passing cars.

Drinking their well water carried in fruit jars. 

Riding with Grandpa was always frightening.

He didn’t stop at the stoplights,

he drove like lightning.

Not even on West Seventh Street,

in downtown St. Paul,

fearing his Model T would stall.

So I am thankful that Pegasus

watched over them all.

Ridden by Eos,

who scattered her petals

for a rose-fingered dawn.

Later the cops

brought Aunt Emily home. 

In 1939, my then 15-year-old Aunt Emily, and her friend Mary, packed a huge suitcase with ball jars of canned fruit. It was so heavy they could barely lift the suitcase. They had to eat as they walked, throwing out the empty glass jars to lighten the load. They were fed up with the Depression, so they ran away to seek their fortunes. Taking their small savings, the girls took a bus out of New Ulm, first to my great-grandparents’ house in St. Croix Falls, and then to Duluth. My grandparents, Duncan and Elizabeth Galloway, woke up at dawn, loaded the other kids into the Model T and drove to St. Croix Falls to retrieve Emily and Mary. Grandpa did not stop for any stoplights on West Seventh Street; he feared the car would stall. By the time they reached St. Croix Falls, the two girls had already left on the bus for Duluth.

Duncan said, “Goddamn, I am not chasing all the way to Duluth, Emily can walk home!” I know it is not good to swear, but this is a direct quote from my Scottish grandfather.

My grandparents had to turn around and drive back to New Ulm. It was another frightening ride for everyone as they repeated the gauntlet down West Seventh Street, again not stopping for any stoplights. Bystanders hurled insults at the car, as they sped through the red lights. Duncan couldn’t see well enough to drive at night, so at dusk when they reached Eden Prairie, they had to stop. My Grandparents had no money for hotels, or restaurants, so they just pulled over and spread a blanket in the ditch. Grandma had packed a picnic dinner, and she gave everyone a sandwich and a fruit jar filled with well water. My Mother and Grandma walked across a field to Wye’s Flying Horse Café. Grandma put a dime on the counter to pay for a glass of milk for her grandson, Dick, who was just a baby. Grandma poured the milk into a fruit jar and carried the milk back to the car. After they ate, they went to sleep in the ditch. This ditch was located by what is now the Eden Prairie mall. They awoke at dawn and drove back to New Ulm.

My then 7-year-old mother was excited to go on this trip because her family never went anywhere, except to the cemetery in Comfrey, 40 miles from New Ulm. So this was an adventure. But even a 7-year-old was frightened by Grandpa’s driving on West Seventh Street.

When I was a kid, I remember that I loved to see the Flying Horse sign on our way home from New Ulm. The horse was always leaping over the hills in Eden Prairie. It was a bright beacon in a dark sky. We lived in Bloomington, so the Pegasus sign meant we were almost home.

Now, I live in Eden Prairie, about three miles from the sign and ditch where my Mom slept. I write poetry. In the summer, I can still hear the crickets and train whistles at night. I can still smell the wood fires. The name “Pegasus” is derived from the Greek word for lightning, which is how Grandpa drove. Pegasus delivered the thunderbolts to Zeus. When Grandpa was mad, I imagine he thundered like Zeus.

Recently, the Flying Red Horse Mobil Station on Highway 212 was sold and the Pegasus sign came down. I have been telling myself that after the sign came down, Pegasus did not end up in the garbage, but instead finally completed his leap over the gas station and flew away. I like to think that Pegasus, the horse of the muses, is still in service to the poets.

Lisa Rolf is a resident of Eden Prairie