My sainted wife and I were taking a trip down memory lane
when she began waxing nostalgic about trips she, and her family, took when she
was a child.
Those words sounded very familiar to me, although I had
never heard them from her lips before.
I closed my eyes and was taken back to a place that seemed
as though we both inhabited, albeit at different times. Then she screamed.
“Open your eyes!!!
You’re driving!!!”
Indeed I was. But her
story brought back memories of my childhood adventures with my own family, some
of which I’d like to share.
She confided that her family drove a four-door black sedan,
which acted much like an oven in the sweltering heat of Texas
Her family was composed of a gaggle of sisters and a lonely,
tormented brother, as well as a Mother and step-father.
Vacations for her, as well as my clan, were not as regular
as one would think. We rested and played
when money was available. There were no
times that cash was actually flush, so our recreational life was sporadic, at
best.
She recounted as to how they were piled into the road oven,
four-deep, and given instructions to BE QUIET.
Just as trips in Upstate New York, Texas jaunts appear to be
equally miserable.
My Dad was a hard working family man who didn’t say much; my
Mom did most of the talking. She
provided “guidance” for my sister and I to avoid getting yelled at, and/or a
thorough beating for not following orders.
Those orders consisted of BE QUIET, too.
My sainted wife recounted a trip – I’m sure there were many
– when her Mother packed sandwiches for the family, for the trip.
As an aside, there was no such thing as fast food back
then. In fact, fast food was any critter
that could flee like the wind – rabbits, deer, and game birds. Mc Donald’s, Burger King, Hardee’s, and
Wendy’s, had yet to be created.
Bathroom breaks were, unfortunately, available at service
stations. I say “unfortunately” because
Dad’s cars got pretty good mileage resulting in four-hour treks betwixt
toilets.
 |
| Contains bathrooms unused by my family |
The gist of this adventure is that Mom’s sandwiches were
peanut butter and jelly. The unlucky
part is that we weren’t allowed to have drinks with us, on the road; neither
was my better-half’s family.
Such an important detail is often left out of the
story. Remember those great distances
between toilets? Drinking to wash peanut
butter down your throat translated into “I’ve got to pee! I’ve got to pee!”
There was no sympathy ricocheting about the car for anyone
born with a bladder the size of a garbanzo bean, much like me. But I digress.
As the old adage goes, “It’s not the destination; it’s the
journey that make memories.”
I found it fascinating that my better half recalled those
times similar to mine, and actually spoke fondly of them.
And all this time I thought my family had put the word “fun”
in dysfunctional. Evidently we didn’t
own the market, which is refreshing.
