We all survived Memorial Day weekend, which means it’s now officially summer road trip season. This is the time of year when the Auto Club sends out reminders that the price of gas has gone up. Gee, thanks. I hadn’t noticed.
I’ve always enjoyed road trips, in part because it was the only time that my parents didn’t bicker incessantly, except over the speed of my dad’s driving. Of course, my mom never drove. It was unthinkable that anyone with two X chromosomes would ever take the wheel in my father’s car, even though X chromosomes are five times bigger than male Y chromosomes. (Yes, they are. Look it up.)
Whenever I tell anyone that I like road trips, I hear a litany of horrors about past trips that people were forced to endure as children.
“Our father made us pee in a cup so he didn’t have to stop anywhere,” is a typical refrain. “It was a nightmare.”
Luckily, our dad liked being on the road as much as we did, and he was always up for that extra spark of adventure. Alligator farm? Sure, let’s stop. World’s largest thermometer? Why not?
He even built a wooden camper shell for the back of his old pickup truck, complete with padded benches and windows, so my brother and I could argue in greater comfort.
Being in the back of a camper was particularly welcome because both of our parents smoked incessantly — as people did back then — so riding in the back of our Ford Falcon station wagon was a cornucopia of second-hand smoke.
The Fisher family on a road trip, circa 1962. (Photo courtesy of Marla Jo Fisher)
Before the camper was built, the parental units would lower our Ford Falcon station wagon’s back seat and throw down sleeping bags, so my brother and I had lots of room to stretch out and shove each other as we drove along the highway, limited only by the amount of luggage that also had to fit back there.
Nowadays, of course, kids would be straitjacketed into car seats and seat belts, but no one worried about sudden highway death back then.
We were not one of those families that played fun games along the road like 20 questions or I Spy. We didn’t look out for interesting license plates. We just covered ground. The big moments came mostly at Stuckey’s restaurants, which were then dotted around the country.
We’d sit at a booth and order health food like chicken fried steak, reading copies of velvet-voiced radio personality Paul Harvey‘s book of wit and wisdom that were offered for sale on every table, while we waited for our arteries to be clogged. There was also the obligatory visit to the truck stop store, with its bumper stickers and signs, such as “If you think nobody cares if you’re alive, try missing a payment.”
One of my most memorable moments was when my little brother decided to defy our parents’ edict that he could not bring his tiny pet turtle along. He hid it in the back of the station wagon, inside its small plastic pool with fake palm trees.
It was only a matter of time before he started screaming, after realizing that the turtle had escaped from the plastic paradise, and was somewhere underneath the sleeping bags and luggage. Our dad swerved to the side of the freeway, and unloaded the entire back of the wagon until we found the little creature. He was not happy about this. I don’t remember what happened to the turtle, but I fear the worst.
Another time, I was maybe 5 years old when we stopped somewhere in the middle of nowhere to get gas. I woke up and climbed out of the back to go to the bathroom. Gas station restrooms are always so sanitary.
When I came out of the toilet, I looked around and our car was gone. I shrugged my shoulders and, unperturbed, sat down on the curb to wait.
It was probably 50 miles before my mother glanced back and discovered I was gone. No one had seen me get out of the car. I could hear her screaming for 49 miles, as the car made a U-turn and headed back to find me.
My mom was traumatized for life. I was fine. I knew they’d come back for me. My brother was probably disappointed.
Once we had the camper shell, we were freed from cigarette smoke blowing back into our faces, and had enough room to reduce the arguments.
Nowadays, of course, kids have all sorts of accouterments like air conditioning, video players, streaming music, video games and headphones. My kids managed to drive through 11 national parks without ever once looking up from an episode of “SpongeBob SquarePants.”
My adult friends who were riding along would always insist that I turn off the video player and force the kids to look out the window at the scenery. So I would obey. After the kids complained incessantly for a few miles, the friend was always happy to turn it back on.
Nowadays, my kids are grown and we don’t take road trips together anymore, which makes me sad. When we go somewhere together, they always want to bring their own cars and meet up. It won’t be long, though, before they’re taking their own kids on the road. I hope they enjoy it as much as I did. Just don’t bring the turtle.
Related links
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: Travel misadventures make great stories — when you get home
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: Travel misadventures with, and without, underwear
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: Our trip through Narco land
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: Here are some of my favorite travel tips. Tell me what you think.
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