My family, being many mouths to
clothe, feed, and house, was never rich.
Although we grew up in a fairly nice neighborhood, and my dad was always
employed, my parents went to great lengths to save money—coupon clipping, no
allowances, food bought in bulk, eating out was a rarity, and family
“vacations” were never trips to Mexico, or flying across the country to see the
Big Apple. While “vacation” may not be
the correct word, family trips were taken almost every summer. We had cousins in California, Washington, and
Idaho, and when the hotter months rolled around and school was out, the parents
would pack their kids in their large, brown, 12-seater van (sometimes, if their
were not enough seats to spare (before the seatbelt laws), a child would sit on
the floor in between mom and dad’s captain chairs in the front of the vehicle),
and head off down the highway.
Mom
would wake us early in the morning (at around 4 or 5am) the day of the trip,
and we would all wearily stumble into the van with our pillows and blankets
dragging behind us, bags already packed and stacked in the back, seat
assignments planned and handed out the night before. Leaning up against windows and each other we
would doze off, and wake up already bumping our way down the road to our
destination.
Family
trips, long and usually hot, were always pretty fun. My mother, a cooler at her feet, would
prepare sandwiches and snacks, passing them back with questions like, “who’s
hungry?” or “who wants turkey, who wants ham?” Apples, and a knife would be
produced, and she would cut away, whistling all the while. This meant we always made great time, only
stopping for gas (and you had better go to the bathroom while we were stopped
at the station, because we would not stop again until the gas gauge indicated
need).
For
family road trips, my dad bought had purchased two large, 64-oz plastic jugs
for soda. These jugs were fastened to
the seats with bungee cords, and pulled out at gas stations to be filled with
pop. My family, devout Mormons, could
only drink soda that did not contain caffeine, so the options were limited:
orange, root beer, and sprite. Two,
special children were chosen by father to carry the vessels into the
convenience store, each to be filled with one of the designated flavors. The other children, forced to stay in the
car, would hang out the doors, or call through the window slits—the van had
those wretched windows that only popped opened with frog handles, creating a
small opening at the base of the window, barely wide enough for a child’s hand
to feel the wind caress his skin, let alone get a blasted breeze going through
the vehicle—yelling to the chosen ones what flavor they should bring back,
“Orange, orange!” “ROOT BEER ROOT BEER ROOT BEER!” “Sprite!, get Sprite!!” And
heaven help the children who brought back two of the same flavor.
After we were back on the road, the pops
would be passed around the cabin, “Orange, third row”, “I SAID ORANGE THIRD
ROW”, “Sprite to the front, please”, “Who has the Sprite, Matt, will you get
Kendra’s attention, SPRITE TO THE FRONT, KENDRA”.
Should
the arguing becoming incessant; my mom would flip down her rearview mirror,
sunglasses glaring into the back rows, searching out the problem the child,
threatening punishment. If the arguing
insisted, became irritating, or too much to handle, my dad would boom, “Pass
the mugs up front”. A cry would go up
from the children in the back, “No, please no, we will be better”, “Thanks a
lot Lance, look what you’ve done!” The mugs would solemnly be passed to my dad,
who would roll down his window—of course the front windows rolled down fully, a
privilege of being a parent—and he would open the lids, and poor the sweet,
sweet liquid out on the road.
When
the road became boring, with the sun high in the sky, my parents would start us
singing rounds, row by row. We had:
Round One:
Get up ol’ Dobbin, We’re going to town
Get those wheels a-turnin’ around
Get those wheels a-turnin’ around
Giddy-up! We’re homeward bound
Round Two:
I like to take my horse and
buggy
While I go travelin’ to the town
I like to hear ol’ Dobbins clip-clop
I like to feel the wheels go’ round
And:
White coral bells, upon a slender stalk
Lilies of the valley line my garden walk
Oh don’t you wish, that you could hear them ring
That will only happen when the fairies sing
When
we neared the end of the trip, my parents would call for all of us to take out
our headphones, and “clean up your areas, put on your shoes, We’re almost there”.
