An Early Start
1999
I think the reason I like touring so much is linked to fond memories of traveling with my family as a child. Mom, Dad, 2 younger brothers and baby Libby packed into the Ford Grand Torino station wagon several times when I was in grade school. And I loved every minute of it (or at least every minute I remember now). It was such an adventure. Before one trip, mom let me hold in my little hands the six $50 bills which she had taken out of the bank the day before our departure. This was money for the whole trip. Imagine life without ATMs. I felt a slight let-down upon handling all that money. It sounded like so much, but, there it was, just 6 pieces of green paper. And it wasn't mine, so, who cares.
Mom would pack a cooler full of those little cans of juice, apples and plums, a loaf of bread and butter and balogna and mustard and pickles and swiss cheese and tomatoes. She'd make sandwiches for us as Dad drove. Dad would get one of the kids to rub his shoulders and neck as we drove. I always hated being asked to do this task of drudgery, but always felt a warm sense of goodness when I was done. Mom would pass the sandwiches around after making them to order ("I don't like balogna! I hate pickles!") Those sandwiches tasted better than Mom's usual sandwiches for some reason. I think because it was harder to take her efforts for granted out there on the road. She had to make do with what she had for food and balance a little cutting board on her lap and cut slices of cheese in the rocking car. She served them on a napkin and we passed around little cans of apple juice or little cups of Za-Rex poured out of a cooler. Eating in the car was fun. On the trip to Illinois I remember "cooking" breakfast one morning on the floor of the "way back" of the station wagon. It must have been just above the muffler, because it got the Pop Tarts hot enough to melt the butter Mom had spread on top of them.
We drove long hours on these trips: Maine to New York, Maine to Connecticut, Maine to Washington DC, and the biggest trip we ever did: Maine to Chicago. We played word games and filled out puzzle books. We'd sing songs and make up knock knock jokes. We'd be on the lookout for anything of interest: a baseball game going on, a herd of cattle, an old farm with silos, a mountain tunnel, high bridges, trains. We'd try to get truckers to pull their air horns. We stopped at the baseball hall of fame on the way to Illinois. We went to the Smithsonian in DC.
I think it was on the trip to Schenectady that Dad told us solemnly to remember all our lives this day as we listened to President Nixon resign from office. It didn't seem important to us, except for Dad's stern demeanor. How were we supposed to grasp this thing, which wasn't affecting our lives at all, and which was only important, it seemed, because they said it hadn't ever been done before. Hell, for an 8-year-old , lots of things have never been done before.
Hotels on the way were a rare exotic treat. Pinball games and ice machines. But we always stayed with family at our destination. There would be aunts and uncles and cousins we hadn't seen in years, or maybe had never even met. We'd be shy at first, clinging to mom and dad, then slowly venture into this new place. Playing hide and seek or whiffle ball or Monopoly or model race cars or hiking around the neighborhood. Our long lost cousins would, in a few hours, be best friends, and when it came time to leave, no one wanted the fun to stop.
The earliest trips I remember were Virginia to Maine in the late 60's. I was 4 or 5 years old. We drove a blue station wagon that was named "Mo." For Motor I guess. I remember at stop lights, if Mom let off the brakes just a little, it would stutter forward with a groan. I remember Mom saying how much she hated the New Jersey Turnpike. I was fascinated, enthralled by the heavy industry we passed through on the way to rural idyllic Maine. I loved seeing the freight yards full of tank cars, the cat walks around the smoke stacks and refinery towers, the yards of transformers, the smell of oil and gases. Production. Industry. Wealth. I had a Lionel train set at home, and from the high bridges, the steel and smoke below looked like the world's greatest train set.
For a special treat we'd get to stop at a McDonald's. We'd beg for it and my parents would relent once in a while. I remember the feeling of accomplishment, of newborn manhood which came when I was allowed, for the first time, to order a Big Mac. It came in a red paper cumberbun, with lettuce spilling out over the sides and special sauce smeared on the inside. It seemed so huge; I barely finished it. Stops were rare, and my folks had us pee in the McDonald's cups that previously held our orange soda. Mom would crack the car door open and pour them out discreetly as Dad slowed down to pay the tolls.
We drove our parents nuts fighting there in the backseat. Anything was worth fighting about: someone's humming - it's bugging me. Someone's hogging the window. He won't share. Mom, he hit me! We'd get verbal warnings, threats, pleas to stop fighting and just be kind and patient with each other. Then we'd get the slamming on the brakes and Dad turning around and yelling, with the rare swat over the back of the seat. This would produce a deathly silence for some time. Maybe you'd hear a sniffle here and there. One time, we were fighting so bad that Mom made little brother J, probably 7 years old, walk home about a mile. I think we really did drive them crazy - literally.
Whenever we got home from one of these trips we'd all be asleep, long past the "When are we gonna get there? How much longer?" phase. I'd wake up in Dad's omnipotent arms, amazed how the last leg of the journey had flashed by, feeling warm and comfortable and safe. My brothers and sister beside me were scooped up out of naughahyde slumber and carried into the stale-smelling house like a sack of onions, all limp and open-mouthed.
When I drive today, it's like I'm back in my mother's arms. I feel both safe and free. Independent, self-sufficient and responsible for no one but myself. In a year I drive more that all those family trips put together. And I do it in a car of the same vintage, same model even, in the case of the '75 trip to DC in the Duster.
Mostly I've been driving alone. But I bought a van in '98 and booked a band tour in June. It was 95 to 100 for 10 days. No AC. We went Austin - St Louis - Memphis - Nashville - Atlanta - Birmingham - Chicago - Indiana - Austin. Going about 80 the whole way. No wonder the engine puked. We barely made it home going 55 with 7 cylinders and 12 pounds of oil pressure, 3 flat tires and a thrown alternator belt. But I was happy as a clam on that trip because I had family with me. A band family, that is. Old Ivan Brown slaps the upright bass, smokes cigarettes and tells stories about the old days. Charles Arthur plays wacky, sweet and tough on steel guitar and telecaster, constantly searching for the fun in any situation. Having good people on the road with you makes all the difference in the world.
A few days after I got home from that trip, after the joyful reacquaintance with my wife and dog and cats and my own bed, I felt a strange thing - I was homesick. Homesick for the road. I missed my brothers in arms. I missed the sense of adventure that comes with storming about the countryside with a mission. And the sense of accomplishment at having made it through the trial by fire. I even had a craving for a McDonald's hamburger. I was embarrassed, but there it was.
I know I have a lot of traveling ahead of me. I just hope I continue to feel at home out there. And I hope I can continue to do it with good friends. |
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