Summer: the perfect time for road trips. This year we jumped the
gun a few weeks early, hitched up the wagon, er … tuned up the
truck and took off on another of the infamous Hammond Family Road
Trips.
Summer: the perfect time for road trips. This year we jumped the gun a few weeks early, hitched up the wagon, er … tuned up the truck and took off on another of the infamous Hammond Family Road Trips. Although the Hammond family has dwindled since the chicks flew the coop, leaving just my spouse and me and the family pooch, we persist in making a run for the border (California’s) several times a year.
We aren’t big on air travel, and yes, I know flying is faster when you’re talking roundtrips of 3,000 miles or so. But I figure by the time we remove our shoes at the airport umpteen times (thank you, Shoe Bomber person), it comes out about even. Not to mention our four-legged child begs to go along for the ride.
Now our dog is somewhat weird about this. He instinctively knows we are hitting the road again. He worries and frets for days before I even pull out a suitcase. He thrusts his tail between his legs and slouches off to bed where I imagine he’s lying down with one of his sick headaches.
Personally, I get antsy the night before a journey. Since we leave at o-dark-thirty in the morning, I stress about how tired I’ll be the next day without my usual sleep quota. I worry I’ll forget something critical and have to “go without” for the next two weeks. Or that the DVR won’t remember to record critical episodes of “The Biggest Loser.” Or the mother of all worries: Will my spouse be ready to leave before I am and give me the incredulous look that says “How in the name of all that’s holy can you NOT be ready at the exact instant I am?” So the night before our trip I am wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.
The good news is that over the years we’ve perfected our itinerary. Gone are the days when on the morning of our trip my spouse unfurls the roadmap (lit by the glow of the dome light) as we sit idling on the driveway. Or worse – suddenly having a roadmap the size of a bed sheet thrust at me so I can determine in approximately 1/1000th of a nano-second the best place to “turn off” to a more expedient route. You know how some people are just so not map-readers? Yep, that’s me.
Now I’ve noted over the years that California travelers may view the lifestyles of people residing in other states as quaint. Old fashioned, even. Californians have cornered the market on a fast-paced, cutting-edge way of life, and never is that more evident than when traveling through the peaceful countryside of those wide-open western states. Ironically, folks in those states possess the same feeling, but in reverse. For example: standing in line at a convenience store to purchase bottled water while Mr. H. fueled the truck, a red sports car traveling at a brisk speed suddenly barreled into the parking area, made a wide arc around the gas pumps and, gravel flying, exited the site again, peeling out at a rapid clip.
“Look-a that character,” drawled the guy in front of me to the cashier, shaking his head and plopping some coins on the counter. Wearing torn up jeans and dusty cowboy boots he probably belonged to one of the behemoth pickups parked out front. “Hmph; probably from California,” growled the cashier.
Well. Obviously I wanted to launch into my tirade about how not ALL Californians spend their days in hot tubs eating crab puffs but I was punchy from my approximately two hours of sleep so I elected to keep quiet – although I could’ve accurately pointed out that the two bizarrely juxtaposed road warning signs (“Men in trees” and “Eagles on highway”) were, indeed, planted in HIS state, not mine, for Pete’s sake!
On we traveled that day, observing lopsided rural stores, picturesque farms that seemed to be from a previous century, and all manner of livestock grazing behind barbed wire. Our southern route eventually took us through the northwestern tip of Arizona, the state with the controversial new immigration laws where we managed to not look like we were from another country, and we sure weren’t stopping for tacos.
Arriving at last in a small Utah village to stay the night, a fierce wind was squalling and icy sleet stung our faces in the gathering dusk. Dressed like the first breath of spring in a lightweight, flowery outfit, I must have been a sight exiting our truck in that late-spring storm, but hey! It had been balmy when we left California. Which is what I love about road trips; I can just let my freak flag fly; after all, I’ll never see any of those people again.
