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Golden Hours: A Ride with Aunt Frieda

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Corvette owners are a breed of their own. They love their cars with an intensity that borders on reverence—each curve, each gleam, each roar of the engine is a personal statement. More than mere transportation, a Corvette is a passion, a lifestyle, a rolling work of art that demands to be shown off and shared, especially on perfect days. In Illinois, true climate perfection is rare—at most, there are a mere 30 days annually when meteorological conditions align like a delicate choreography: skies of cobalt blue, temperatures hovering at a precise 76 degrees, air so pure it feels like liquid crystal.

On one such luminous autumn day, I phoned Aunt Frieda, my 95-year-old matriarch with eyes the color of weathered sage and a spirit more adventurous than most. "I'm coming to get you," I said, and minutes later, my metallic-red C-5 Corvette gleamed in her driveway, its polished paintwork reflecting shards of brilliant sunlight. We lowered the convertible top, and the world opened around us. Corn stalks stood like burnished golden spears, their leaves rustling in whispers of amber and bronze. Soybean fields rippled in waves of olive and emerald, creating a living tapestry that stretched to the horizon. Weathered red barns and silver silos punctuated the landscape, their paint faded to soft, muted tones of rust and slate. The warm breeze carried a symphony of scents: the sun-warmed sweetness of ripe corn, the rich earthiness of turning soil, hints of wild clover, and the sharp green tang of recently cut grass. Aunt Frieda's silver hair caught the light, a soft nimbus around her face as she gazed out at the familiar terrain. We meandered past mirror-like lakes reflecting cloudless skies, the Corvette's engine a low, melodic purr. Around each gentle curve, another vista unfolded—a watercolor of harvest and history, of land deeply loved and carefully tended.

The following summer, Aunt Frieda was gone. A hip replacement, a sudden blood clot, a stroke—and weeks of struggle concluded her remarkable journey. The memory of that perfect day became a treasured farewell, a final celebration of her vibrant spirit against the rich palette of the Illinois countryside we so dearly love. We all miss her. But oh, the memories remain, as golden and enduring as the autumn fields we once traversed together—and as timeless as the gleaming red Corvette that carried us through that perfect, sun-drenched day.
Ron Egolf Ron Egolf