In the summer my parents traveled across the USA.

We went by car to see America.

The west was the place my Mom & Dad liked the best.

My Dad would say “everything got big once you crossed the Mississippi River.

These trips were made in big cars.

Dodges, DeSotos and Oldsmobiles were their choice.

Big cars with big trunks and no air conditioning. 

Every summer for two weeks we would pack our suit cases and head off for a vacation.

These trips would take us to Pikes Peak, Yosemite, Tetons, Yellowstone and more.

The trunk was filled with belongings and food. 

We stayed in motels called kitchenettes.

My mother cooked meals at night and we lunched at roadside tables or in parks along the way.

In the 1950’s’-60’s there were no eateries of substance. 

Places like turnpikes and Howard Johnsons chain restaurants came later.

Eating out would take too long and it would be too expensive for our family.

My Mother being the cook was the only way we could afford to travel.  

I never heard her complain of her role.

The lunches were sandwiches.  

Dried beef came in little glass jars in those days. 

Hellman’s made sandwich spread which I can still taste. 

A steady supply of Ham slices and cheese were in the cooler. 

Dry Ice was used to keep the food cool.  

We had boxed cereal for the morning: Wheaties, and Cornflakes for some 

and yes bacon and eggs for the most of us.  

The kitchenettes had a double bed for Mom and Dad and singles for the rest of us.

These trips included for 4 or 5 of us.  

Mostly my brother and me were the other 2. 

Later my older sister bowed out of these trips and stayed home with Grandma.

Sometimes the single beds were cots that folded out.  

It was sufficient with white sheets and simple blankets, a welcome space to be 

still after riding in the car all day. 

The signs for places to sleep still burn bright in my mind.

“Vacancy or NO Vacancy” signs were the signature for the end of the day. 

There were no reservations for staying at any one place.  

We would hunt for a large tourist center or a small city that could host us.  

My Dad would not be happy unless he drove 400 to 500 miles a day. 

This meant we got up early and were on the road driving and looking and driving and looking. 

He filmed the sights with an  8mm movie Kodak camera. 

My mother’s little black box camera was no longer in fashion. 

So there are no “stills” of many of these later travels.  

Thinking back on these times is a blur.  

Riding in the car was a dream space. 

Meditation and sleeping were mixed with reality of the big sky, the mountains, 

and the flashing landscape that I saw out the window of the car.  

Summers were hot and the stops for gas were a joy. 

Our legs could stretch.

Each gas station had cold soda’s in tubs of ice. 

When you dipped your hand deep into the cold ice water to get a coke it was 

a break from the heat of the car space.  

My mother loved “cream soda”. 

Why I remember her passion her soda choice–it is like Proust’s Madeline —

She kept a diary every day. 

The diary contained the time we started each day, the weather, the mileage, the name of

the Motel and the place. 

The end of the days were recorded as well with little notes of highlights of the day.  

She kept little objects from the travels as well. 

Some of the things kept were match books from Motels, or postcards or

a leaf from a tree. 

She also liked to take seedling pines home or a ferns. 

These were kept in little cups of dirt.  

Later on return to Indiana these little plants were put in her yard.

She also collected a state plate from every state we visited.

48 states to collect was her goal. 

The collection still exists.

I have 1/2 of them and  my brother got the other 1/2. 

He is dead now so I don’t know if the other 1/2 still exists.  

My Mother and Dad were lovers of travel and seeing new things. 

I thank them for that. 

They were fearless in exploring the mountains or the cities. 

They were farmers that saw the USA as something to explore and share the awe 

of the Redwoods or the Grand Canyon with their children.  

The love for America was intense.  

The love for nature was better than religion for them. 

Obsession and passion were part of their character.  

These trips for them were a time away.

The planning and the pleasure of this time was for them a joy.  

These were the days of two lane roads and the beginning of “car culture” in America.

The mobility made tourism a new industry. 

The Kitchenettes were before the Motel and eateries—no McDonalds or Kentucky Fried

Chicken on the maps.

We were pioneers.  “Oh pioneers” play a part of the American fantasy.  

Our family was far from the 19th century covered wagon of journey folk.  

This journey was our own version. 

The car was a kind of ship on the sea. 

The fields of wheat in Nebraska and the corn fields of Iowa

were equal to the vastness of the ocean.  

Ahab (my Dad) at the wheel of the Dodge and Starbuck (my Mom) following the map 

and documenting the days journey were stand ins for Moby Dick

(a book that I would become obsessed with myself later in life.)

What does all of this mean? 

Why write it down. 

Time will tell. 

There is more to say about these travels but this is enough.  

Retelling in limited doses is enough.  

Some things are erased forever.  

Imprints are on the mind.  

My cat JJ is in my lap, JJ’s head in my arm.

His front paws are crossed, eyes closed, as he dreams of his journey.

The day begins in real time now.