Growing up, our family never had enough money to take regular road trips and besides that it would require someone to be hired to milk our cows twice a day, feed our chickens, take care of our dog, etc. This is a kind way of saying that the trouble would be more than worth the trip might be to our family.
Back in those days, in the early and mid-1940s, motels were few and far between – and too expensive, restaurants were expensive too, and the only affordable part of the trip was gasoline for the car, which, by the way, had no air conditioning. The gas generally cost between 10 cents and 20 cents per gallon.
Consequently, with one exception when we drove to Louisiana to see our aunt and uncle and cousins in 1948, any trips we took were generally “turn-around” ones so we could be home again within twelve hours, especially when my brother, Jerry, and I were still too young to do all of the daily chores.
Other families we knew well, that did not live on farms, were free to take longer trips. But even their trips seemed to be unforgettable as they described them to the rest of us.
Skipping ahead to today, family trips taken with the children of Generation X parents, are in danger of death by neglect. Neglect from teenagers who are perpetually wired into their electronic devices and neglect from misbehavior by the younger siblings also riding in the rear seats of the family their younger siblings riding in the back of the SUV. This always seemed to occur when the back seat was just beyond the long arm of parental justice and any other interaction between parents and children.
A few years earlier, everything seemed to be different, mom would sit in the passenger seat up front and dad would so all of the driving, but only after everyone and everything was packed in the car. He would stride out of the house like a relief pitcher walking across the outfield to take his position on the mound at a baseball game, and ask rhetorically, “Is everyone ready?” Seatbelts were optional, if they even existed, and everyone thought they were too busy to take the time to buckle them.
Things in the car would be calm for a while, but about an hour into the trip, something would set dad off – maybe a yell from one sibling after a kidney poke from another – and the fur would fly. It would also happen when one sibling would ask: “Are we almost there?”
That was when the magic would happen. Road rage between two drivers is usually deadly serious, but road rage between father and children always gives the children a wonderful opportunity to develop critical-thinking skills right there in the car.
It became a time when the threats would begin. “Don’t make me come back there.” This was an absurd threat because it was unlikely that dad would ever stop to crawl in the back seats to make peace. His concern for getting to a destination on time was really his prime goal for the day.
The next threat was, “Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” That threat was always menacing, but the kids always knew it was “all hat, and no horse.” Never would a threat like that make a child stop crying, and everyone, including dad, knew it.
The next threat was, “I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.” That was always followed by silence until one of the kids made a “peeping” sound and the others joined in symphony form. Pretty soon, the back seat sounded like a chicken hatchery and not even the old man could suppress a smile.
The next admonition that came from the driver’s seat, was, “This is our only bathroom stop. Make yourself go.” Most urologists will say that is not a good idea.
By that time, we had reached our destination.