Loading up the Family Truckster

For generations families have stepped out of their comfort zones. They’ve taken stock of their finances, packed their belongings and ventured forth into an unknown section of the world and a whole different dynamic of familial relationships. I am, of course, speaking of the Family Vacation.
There have been big evolutionary changes in most aspects of this rite of passage. It is no longer Ma and Pa strapping the water barrels to the side of the Conestoga, wedging sacks of flour between the cradle holding little sister and the small keg of gunpowder, and hoping to get to Grandma’s house before the snow started flying. Modern travel is characterized by each individual in the car being wrapped in a cocoon of personal space aided by the technology of iPods, portable DVD players, specially designed neck pillows filled with heated therapeutic granules and potpourri, and Dad praying they get to Grandma’s house before the power supply for the electric doodads has been drained, requiring actual interaction amongst the occupants of the minivan.
I may just be a typical overly nostalgic middle-aged person, but I think many aspects of the family trips I took as a kid surpass the hyper-technological, safety first travel of the early 21st century. As I have stated before in these pages, I am pro car seat. My children were always wedged into a great tightness, like Pooh in Rabbit’s front door, as we drove anywhere, often to their chagrin. In contrast, in my youth we did not have the rules or even the availability of anything beyond a lap belt in the back seat. The four Pyle siblings would bounce around the interior of the station wagon like free range potato chips in their airy bags before the communistic sameness and compactness of the Pringles can car seats and seat belts were imposed upon us all.
How many of you remember those pre-minivan station wagons, with the inexplicable fake wood paneling on the side (was it supposed to resemble an English professor’s den)? There was a bench seat in front and another one behind it. Beyond that lay an expanse of metal and plastic which was perfect for spreading out an unzipped sleeping bag, a plethora of pillows, a supply of cookies, G.I. Joes, and Danny Dunn, boy scientist, books in order to pass the time. (For girl memories, substitute Barbie and Trixie Belden into the preceding sentence.)
The memories I carry of our family trips have Dad behind the wheel wearing one of those porkpie golf hats, often of a purposefully ugly color, with his elbow crooked out the open window. I was sitting right next to Dad with my oldest brother, George, sitting in the front passenger seat to my right. He wore a military hat which looked like the one Fidel Castro was always seen wearing. (Which was odd, because George may be the least militaristic person I have ever known.) Mom (with no hat) sat behind Dad. Not in some subordinate role, but rather to handle all responsibilities which required more than one hand or taking one’s eyes of the road, i.e. handing out Space Food Sticks and drinks from the thermos of water or tending to the child who was car sick or felt slighted by a barb from another sibling. The baby sister, Mary, would be sitting in the back seat with Mom. The “Back Back” which is what we called the furthermost recesses of the vehicle would be inhabited by number two son, Eric.
There was no technology used. We very seldom even turned on the radio. There was conversation and no fear at all of silence. I believe my dad liked the silence for two reasons. The first reason is the obvious desire for a calm environment in which to drive. The other benefit was if it had been particularly quiet for twenty to thirty miles he would, with no warning, reach out and slap my thigh. He used a cupped hand which did not cause any discomfort, but added optimum volume making sure the surprise was felt throughout the car, not just on my thigh.
This week I will be the guy with the ugly hat, hanging my arm out the window taking my family on a road trip. None of my kids sit close enough to me to slap thighs. I can, however, speed up just enough to cause a kid’s hand to jump as he/she brings a drink to his/her lips putting a dollop or two of water right down the shirt (another trick of the “dad trade” left to me by my father).