When I was young, which to me was not that long ago but to my kids it is unimaginable, my parents would pack my brothers and sister and I in the car and go for a drive. My parents loved to drive to the little surrounding towns and look at the beautiful big old houses. There was no rhyme or reason to it, for my family it was a way to dream and relax, well most of the time.
In those days it was an inexpensive way to spend some time together as a family, back before you had to sell a kidney to get a full tank of gas. It was not law to wear a seatbealt so we would pile in the car the four kids in the back and mom and dad in the front.
As we rolled out of the gravel driveway Dolly Parton would start to sing about her “Coat of Many Colours” from the 8 track tape player and my little brother would start to sing along. We would drive along the river and into Dresden, which was only about a ten minute drive from our home. It was long enough however, for the rhythmic sound of the tires on the pavement to lull my youngest brother into the hypnotic sleep that overtakes us all still to this day whenever we are in a car for any length of time.
As we made our way through town my older brother would slide down in his seat in an attempt to hide the fact that he was hanging out with his family from any of his friends that we might pass. My sister would be looking out the window for any chance to blow his cover and I would be playing the “What If” game. What if there’s an earthquake? What if all my hair falls out? What if we get a flat tire? In an effort to get me to stop talking for any amount of time at all my mother would look out the window and ask me if I saw the giraffe we just past.
Remembering back, I surely wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box as I whipped my head around to scan the block we had just past in hopes of spotting the totally out of place herbivore. Not only did I fall for it once but repeatedly, never questioning my mother why there were lions, tigers, and rhinos hiding behind farmer’s tractors or standing in the middle of a bean field outside of Petrolia.
The name game never failed to come up at some point during our drive. This is the game where you have to make up a man’s name and a woman’s name as well as a town and something to sell all starting with the same letter. We would go through the alphabet and whoever landed on Q or Z would inevitably be stumped until my mom would whisper an answer in their ear in the knick of time.
Usually by the time we reached whatever small town we were visiting the kids would all be sleeping, resting against each other like some strange human domino formation. Mom and dad would slowly tour up and down the streets that resembled any and all Norman Rockwell paintings. They would look at the beautiful old brick homes with all the intricate woodwork adorning the gables and large front porches. That was their time, the part of the trip that belonged to them, to talk and dream or reminisce about life.
Those slow, sleepy, dreamy days are held dear by everyone in our family and is something that we enjoy doing now with our own children.
