Growing up, my family was a family of road-trip-takers.
Growing up, my family was a family of road-trip-takers.
Every summer we’d vacation somewhere or other, and to get there we’d always drive; Fort Bragg to camp by the ocean, Grandma’s house to brave the smothering heat of the Southern California desert, or hundreds of state parks around the western United States where the peaceful ambiance and pretty flowers delighted my mother and sent me into catatonic states of boredom.
Every trip we took (which was always accompanied by elaborate trip-tics my dad spent weeks studying beforehand and still remembers details of to this day) meant hours in a car attempting to entertain myself while resisting the urge to beat my irritating little sister senseless.
The thousands of miles of asphalt covered and hundreds of gallons of gas used not only afforded me the chance to see enough wildflowers to last a lifetime, but taught me something more important than what a cave stalactite looks like or why the rock formations at Bryce Canyon in Utah are reddish in color.
These extended car rides taught me valuable life lessons.
Life Lesson Learned in a Car No. 1: You’re never too old to act like a child.
Good ole’ Grandma was a participant in these summer expeditions more often than not, and she usually got stuck with her two disagreeable granddaughters in the back seat.
I say disagreeable not because either one of us are obnoxious on our own, but put us together in a confined space and watch out.
Obnoxioso Especial (her friends call her Emily), and I had been arguing about something or other for a solid hour when, somewhere between Arizona and New Mexico, it began to rain.
For some reason the rain had an unusual effect on my little sis and I because we stopped arguing and decided it would be really fun to hang our legs out the window as far as possible to get a short but sweet reprieve from the stifling summer heat.
This just about sent Grams over the edge, but unfortunately neither Blondie nor her big sister Red had any intention of obeying her, so after 10 minutes of her strenuous objections falling on two pairs of deaf ears she rolled up her pant legs and joined in.
Those bad boys hadn’t seen a razor in decades (the image of which I still have seared into my brain, thank you very much), but the effect that one act of immaturity had on her demeanor was astounding.
For several minutes I could clearly see the carefree girl she had been when she was my age – before she began walking to school five miles in the snow without shoes every day, that is.
Life Lesson Learned in a Car No. 2: How you get there is usually more important than what you do when you finally arrive.
My 16th birthday came and went without netting me what I wanted most – my license.
To obtain that cherished certificate, my dad informed me I had to prove I was ready for it on one of our summer excursions – this one a 9,000 mile jaunt to Atlanta for the 1996 summer Olympics.
I kicked and screamed and cried and threw tantrums for weeks, but there was no getting around it, so I spent a month driving across the country in preparation of one day being able to drive myself to the grocery store, or school, or down the street or wherever.
Looking back, it was probably a good idea (although I’ll never admit that to him), because it gave me oodles of experience I’ve used to get me out of near accidents and touchy situations ever since.
For some reason it didn’t help too much in the testing department though – when the big day finally came I barely squeaked by with a 73 percent on my driver’s exam.
I told my dad all that extra experience wouldn’t make a difference, but he never listens (he’s the stubborn one in the family).
Life Lesson Learned in a Car No. 3: Don’t sweat the small stuff.
If I died tomorrow and St. Peter told me I had to narrow down the most important thing I learned in life before I could walk through the pearly gates, this lesson would be it.
All the trips and all the tribulations suffered on those trips made for lots of bickering and fighting and irritation.
But I can’t remember any of the details about one thing that caused me angst during those trips.
I do remember gleefully sitting in a giant rocking chair with my dad and sister in front of some random gas station in some random town in Nevada.
I do remember laughing at my dad as he sang along to some crazy Zydeco CD he had bought in New Orleans.
I remember the big stuff – the stuff that matters.
Erin Musgrave is a staff writer at the Free Lance. Her column appears Thursdays.
