“Road Rip” I shot back in my best Scooby Doo impersonation, where? Kentucky. Well, it was not exactly Cocoa Beach but hey, it was a road trip. Instinctively my thoughts shot back to an earlier time when adventure and bravado were par for the course, and few inquiries were likely to solicit a more rapid or deep-throated response then kegger, girls, or road trip!. As we would at the drop of a hat, race off for parts unknown or unexplored, in shoddy vehicles with clever nicknames like the brown bomber or the olds-mow-bubble, undeterred by having to buy oil by the case to feed our steeds or inoperable windshield wipers. After all, we would reason, how far could Texas be anyways? And Da, if it rained we could just hang Johnny D. out the window to run them by hand (please do not ask how we knew that was even possible).
After determining that beer, gas, and oil, in that specific order could be covered we would simply put the pedal-to-the-metal and go. We had no time for specific byways or would-be situations back then. We were free I am telling you. Free at last! Usually hooping and hollering as if we were the James/Unger Gang crossing some imaginary borders. Free from the tyranny of our parents and school. Free from our mindless jobs, and our mundane existence’s. Free to finally be, the dimwitted Michigan hayseeds we were always meant to be!?
Yet we survived, and by the grace of God, always managed to make it back home. Sure, we had had to shoot the Olds-mow-bubble (Metaphorically speaking of course) outside of Joplin. And there was that whole real-life busted flat in Fort Worth thingy…But we still managed to get home eventually one way or the other. Recipients of dumb luck as much as anything else I guess. That and wonderfully tolerant and generous family and friends.
Granted those were simpler times: the mid-seventies. A man or boy could still hitchhike home from Cleveland if he had a few bucks to help him along the way. People actually stopped and picked you up back then. Some even going out of their way to shorten your journey. Unlike today when no matter how much we want to trust our hearts, our minds remind us that things are not the same anymore. Life has changed, sped up, progressed, or maybe the desperations have increased?
On this day, however, years later as I rushed to my closet to throw a few things into my very stylish mini-Tourister suitcase ensemble instead of an old paper grocery sack. It dawned on me that as a slightly overweight middle-aged man, I had no truly “bitching” jeans anymore. Or totally awesome bell-bottom slacks. (custom-tailored) to just the right length so as to ensure that they completely covered five-inch black platform stacks with multi-colored stitching, while never allowing said slacks to actually touch the ground, which would ruin them… (Double Dah! Dah...or something?). And, that when paired with some psychedelic silk shirt unbuttoned to the navel, had epitomized the cool of my youth.
Undeterred, I instead packed something comfortable (because that is what old farts do) and I broke for the door only to find my wife talking to the neighbors. “The dog food was in the garage. The fish food was on top of the tank. Her brother, who drove a red Pontiac, would be stopping by in the afternoons”. Noticing my restlessness, she then asked if “I would call the piano teacher, and the newspaper carrier, and the baseball coaches (both of them). And maybe find the radar detector, the GPS, the atlas, the laptop, and…the DC converter”, which meant that we were also going to be making a movie stop, and a grocery/snacks stop.
Hours, and maybe even days later, I am honestly not sure. Having fulfilled my list I was sitting on the porch with our Labrador, as what sounded like a convention of circus clowns clamored behind me. Finally, my wife, carrying enough contraband to arise suspicion if we were to come within fifty miles of a border emerged. “That’s not going to fit in the trunk and we are only going for seven days,” I protested. This, in turn, brought out the look, which made it abundantly clear that I would be well advised to keep my opinions to myself and make it fit.
So there I was dutifully trying to place several hundred cubic feet of “stuff” into a trunk roughly the size of a coffee table. Having to load, unload, and reload, several times. Eventually with the help of my oldest son I managed to get the trunk closed, convinced that even the slightest jolt and it would spring open like some motor city Jack-in-the-Box obstructing the vision of at least the first two miles of traffic behind us.
I could see it now: Highway Patrol Officer: “What happened here?” Innocent motorist (just involved in a six-car pile-up on interstate 75): “Well sir I was driving down the road on my way to Tupelo”. Officer: “Why Tupelo?” Innocent Motorist: “That’s where Elvis is from.” Officer: “Yea that’s what I’ve heard, go on”. Innocent Motorist: “So there I was tooling along minding my own business, when all of the sudden out of nowhere, these Mickey Mouse boxer shorts roughly the size of Montana came fluttering across my windshield, (as if I had just driven into some type of clandestine Walt Disney paratrooper training exercise). Unable to see I was then forced to avoid several other garments, before finally pulling off to the side of the road. Once safely on the shoulder, I was then rear-ended by a Volkswagen Beetle wearing what I could swear was a very attractive Victoria Secret brazier…?”
Loading the children into the car proved even more challenging as the customary “I called it “first” celebration broke out. “Dad…I was sitting here first, and Roby made me move.” “Na ah, I called it in the kitchen, and she ran out and took it.” “No, I didn’t. “ “Yes, you did.” “Did not.” “Did too.” “Did not...” “Hey! Can we please just get out of the driveway first?” I scolded.
Finally loaded, I got the car rolling as the children continued to silently jostle for their preferred seats. At this point, the baby was accidentally pushed to the floorboard. “Da-a-a-d Miche-e-el-l-e Pu-sh-e-d m-e d-o-w-n. “ “No, I didn’t Da-a-a-d…” “OK cut it out she has to sit somewhere. Just come up here”, I said. “I don’t want to-o-o. I want to sit in the back.” “Just come up here for now please.” As I stopped to allow her to crawl over the seat and check for traffic, my wife asked. “Did you grab the mobile phone?” “No, I thought you were going to grab it.” “Well, I did not. “
Back down the driveway, we went. I jumped out of the car and ran into the house only to upon exiting see my wife getting out of her side of the car with the baby in tow. “I have to go potty, daddy,” she sniffled. “What, didn’t I just ask everyone if they had to go five minutes ago?” “But I didn’t have to go then”, she explained. “Well hurry up then.” “Hey…came another voice from the peanut gallery. “I need to go too”. “Can I go grab my game boy? I forgot it”, another chimed in. “What-ever”, I finally said slumping to the stoop once again and placing my chin in my hands. “Just let me know when you guys are finally ready to go.”
Facing the realities of what spending the next nine hours in cramped quarters with this band of misfits (whom I deeply loved): might actually be like, my enthusiasm began to waver. Clearly, there were going to be many more seating disputes and potty breaks ahead. When had this happened I wondered? When had howling over state lines been replaced by whining about potty times? And it was then that I had, an epiphany!
Which was that if that trip was ever going to be enjoyable for anybody involved “I” needed to jettison my romanticized, self-absorbed memories of days gone by (for the time being at least), in favor of our current there and then’s. Because someday the memories that we were making that moment were going to be all that my by then grown children themselves would have left of our time together. And I sure as heck did not want to be the guy remembered for not being able to hold his Nachos and Southern Comfort. (Metaphorically of course)…eww gross! (And once again, poor Johnny D.) But in his defense, he was pretty darn sick by then from spending so much time hanging out of a car window in the rain.
Eventually, we did make it out onto the open road and as I was adjusting my rear-view mirrors, I saw the three young innocent souls staring back at me. Hitting the cruise control and settling in I gently nudged the baby, now sitting quietly between my wife and me. She looked up timidly as I began. “You know…it’s like road trip rules or something, that you always eat dessert first when traveling. What do you say we split one of those ice cream bars I saw your Mom sneak into the cooler at the store?” With an instant ear-to-ear grin, she shot up and squealed over the seat-back, “DAD said to give us an ice cream Samish!”
“Na uh”, came a response… “Dib too”, the predictable retort. “Daaaad why does she get ice cream?” another chimed in… “I don’t know, I don’t make the rules”, I answered, smiling at my wife.
And with that, we had finally begun what turned out to be a most excellent family adventure! But then again what did I know I was just a smuck.