The way I remember things doesn’t always have a lot in common with the way things actually happened. I might have my facts mixed up. I might “remember” things that I only heard about. But I’m not sure it really matters for a post like this — a post about car trips I took with my family when I was a kid. This is how I remember it.
There were a lot of car trips — Visits to Grandma in New Jersey. Trips to attend a summer camp where Dad was guest speaker. Family vacations which usually took place in April or October and often got me out of school.
We always left home early. Like 4:00 a.m. early. Dad would be standing at the door with his coat on, calling upon us to “Hurry up!” while we were still stumbling around in our pajamas. We’d pile into the car, and Mom would back out of the garage. Dad was legally blind, so Mom did all the driving.
We’d always pause in the driveway so Dad could say a quick prayer. Dad was the master of quick prayers. He’d sometimes spring them on the congregation at the church he pastored. By the time most people figured out he was praying, he’d have said “Amen” and asked everyone to open their Bible. His driveway vacation prayer was usually, “Lord, your will be done.”
Dad always liked to get a couple hours of driving behind us before we stopped for breakfast. I threw my pillow and blankets on the floor in the backseat and went to sleep. Often, when we finally did stop, I wouldn’t want to get up and go inside. I’d stay in the car by myself while my parents ate inside. You could do that back then. Nobody wandered around abducting random children. (I’m guessing you could do it now too, although you can be pretty sure somebody who thinks they know more about raising kids than you do would report you to the authorities.) Sometimes I’d lie on the floor and watch the pattern of lights from neon signs and passing vehicles play across the windows.
When I did go inside the restaurant, there would always be music playing in the background. There’s a certain style of soft jazz that, to this day, immediately takes me back to early morning breakfast stops. I remember eating a lot of donuts.
After a while, the floor would get too hot and I’d sit up. When the windows were open — which they often were — I’d stick my hand out, palm down and zoom it up and down in the wind. Or I’d turn it palm to the wind and imagine I was holding jello. On sunny days, I’d watch for hours as the shadow of the car grew and shrank, grew and shrank as we passed hills and fields. Sometimes I’d imagine I was riding a bike along the shoulder at whatever speed we were traveling. I’d have split seconds to pick my route around roadside obstacles.
When I got bored, Dad would start a game of “Count the Cows.” Each player would get one side of the road. We got one point for each cow we passed on our side. If we passed a cemetery on our side, we lost all our points. The winner would get a banana split, but if I remember correctly, this was loosely applied. Sometimes there would be no ice cream. When there was, everyone would get some.
We never stopped at fast rood restaurants. Dad hated them. If we were on the Interstate, we’d head for the roadside oases. Otherwise, we’d watch for restaurants named for women. This probably isn’t true, but I know we ended up in an awful lot of them. We hit a lot of diners too — with the long counters with displays of cake and pie under plastic domes and individual jukeboxes in the booths. One time in Stevens Point, Wisconsin, Chuck Connors from The Rifleman walked in while we were eating and sat a few tables away.
Dad wasn’t big on stopping at tourist attractions. We’d pass billboard after billboard for “Mystery Spot” or “Wayne’s Gator Farm,” and I could only dream. There wasn’t a chance on earth Dad would let us go. I cannot count how many times he said to me, “When you grow up and have your own family, you can come back and go there.”
Dad liked to start early and he liked to stop early. We often found a motel as early as 2:00 p.m. Holiday Inns were our preferred choice. One time we stopped on my birthday. If I had been one day younger, I would have stayed for free. The clerk withstood Dad’s argument and charged Him the extra rate. We’d settle in so early, I’d have most of the afternoon to kill. If it was warm enough, I’d put on my swimsuit and head for the pool. Sometimes there would be other kids and I’d make friends. Other times, I had the pool to myself. I don’t remember there being any lifeguards.
But the first thing I’d do is wander all around the motel checking the coin return slots on vending machines and pay phones. I’d usually find enough to buy myself a candy bar. I once bought a Coke and had the entire machine empty onto the floor. Dad made me take them to the desk clerk who, I’ll just bet, took them home.
I have a recollection of walking outside of a motel somewhere in Florida when I was maybe 10. On the other side of a two-lane road was a narrow beach and then the ocean or maybe the Gulf. Somewhere in the immediate vicinity was a small shack that sold fresh orange juice. I had sufficient money to buy a glass. I hesitated, then went in and bought one. I remember this being the first time I walked into a store and bought something with my own money on the spur of the moment without my parents’ knowledge. Maybe it even happened.
Riding a goat in Wyoming
Nighttime driving has its own memories. Dad would fiddle with the radio. Sometimes he found fake boxing matches. An announcer would be covering a bout between some current champ and a famous boxer long retired. It would be broadcast as though it were live, blow by blow, for however many rounds it “lasted.” I’m not sure I understand why this was interesting.
Other times, and these were my favorite, Dad would search the dial for baseball games. At night, in the car, we could pick up stations from far-away cities. We’d be driving through Northern Illinois and catch two innings of a game on the Houston station, or a couple minutes of the Pirates on KDKA in Pittsburgh (the only station east of the Mississippi with call letters beginning with “K” — I’ve known that bit of trivia for as long as I can remember). I loved listening. I was an avid Cubs fan, but there were fewer teams and fewer players in those days and I collected baseball cards, so I could usually tell who was playing within minutes. There was something very “Twilight Zone” about pulling these games out of the darkness.
There’s one more memory that remains stronger than all the others — Dad yawning. He’d lean back as far as he could in his seat, pound the roof of the car as hard as he could with both fists and give a Tarzan yell at the top of his voice. It really bugged me, which, I imagine, is exactly why he did it.
I still enjoy traveling. A little of the magic is gone, but not all of it. And I’ve even gotten to a few of those spots Dad wouldn’t stop at.
