Orange, ORANGE!

       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”.