Road Trips & Rituals

Road trips and journeys have a sort of ritual to them, an almost list of rules that make the journeys go in certain ways.

Like the story of the young bride, whose mother was telling her how to cook a potroast by slicing it at both ends before cooking it. The young bride asked her mother why, who said, "Well, that's the way my mother did it, and that's the way I've always done it." So the young bride and her mother, full of wedding excitement and wanting to make a happy home, asked the grandmother, "Why do we cut the sides off the pot roast before cooking it? Does it change the flavor? Make the meat more tender?" The grandmother said, "I don't know why you two do it, but I always did it because I had a small pot."

My dad knew the mileage to every place we would go, and if it was someplace new, he found maps to that state and mapped out the itinerary. For the vacations that were not our regular trip to see grandparents, he would call ahead to hotels, and he would have an entire time line.

For trips to our grandparents, most all of whom lived in the same area, he had a certain ritual. After about sixty miles, he pulled over at the first interstate rest area. It took us an hour to get from my hometown to the interstate, so he figured that was a fine time for boys to go pee, I guess.

In the days of my youth, when the speed limit was far less than 70 on the interstate, if we left late enough in the morning that we would be traveling during lunch, he pulled over at another interstate rest area for lunch. Mom pre packed ham sandwiches and Cokes (long before the days of different Coke options). She always carried Nabs in the car for the trip too. We usually stopped by at least one Stuckey's both ways, my brother and I peeing as fast as we could, so we could go see the souvenirs and toy guns, the wooden shellac plaques, and the rediculously rich peanut logs they sold.

He knew exactly how far it was to the halfway point (on a 300 mile trip, there does happen to be a town about 150 miles), and he would always comment when he saw the exit sign to that town that we were halfway. Not a comment even, more of a statement, less than a proclamation. But definitely an announcement.

Then as we come into a Southern city about an hour from our final destination, he would always tell us some story regarding one of the exits, how he once had to stop and ask for directions. He would imitate the man's Southern drawl and repeat the words ". . . to Fortification. . . . " I don't remember today much of the story, just daddy, who already has a fairly pronounced Southern drawl, dragging it out further.

Then we get to the town of our destination, the town of my forefathers. . . . . where my parents grew up, and their parents before them, and by all family reckoning, everyone before them. There are 3 exits to town, and we would always take the one that took us to our great grandmother's house. She had lived on then-farmland for many decades, and by some design, an interstate ran just a mile that way, and would create an exit road that ran right past her house. We took that exit, and she would always be our first stop into town. She would also be our last, whenever we left, we went by her house, regardless of how many visits we had made over the course of the time in that town. She was a great grandmother on my father's side, and we always stayed with my mother's family.

On this recent road trip, I knew the drill. I haven't returned to that town in over 8 years, and somehow when I was driving down the interstate, I watched for that first rest stop. Not needing it so close to my current home, I passed on by, but regretted it later in the trip.

I had filled up on gas, and reset the trip odometer, so I could measure my gas and know the exact miles I travelled. I watched for that halfway town, and looked at that odometer. By coincidence, it's about halfway from where I live now as well. I finally pulled over at a gas station to get a Coke (diet) and a package of Nabs. On this stretch of interstate, there are two buildings that appear to be in operation, each roof bearing the distinct blue with yellow writing of a Stuckeys. But their interstate signage is lacking, and I regretfully passed them both before I knew they were there.

As I came into the big city, I watched for that road sign. I don't know why, it's doubtful they had changed the name or moved the road. Sure enough, it was there. And a little while later, I made a different turn. . . . a few exits ahead of the original schedule, I made a right turn onto a winding country road that would lead me to a small Baptist church. My great grandmother is buried there, and has been for some time now. The stone is white marble with a vase, sharing her name and my great grandfather. To their left is a smaller stone of a child of theirs who died as an infant, in the very early 1900's. I stopped for a moment, because we always do. We always stop to see her first. And then I went on.

I take the next exit now, not wanting to pass that plot of land that is now covered in industrial machinery, a truck stop or a welding shop, I don't know, and I don't care. There's another exit to take, one that cuts through the heart of town, and I prefer this route now. A route to my mother's family, where I stayed for two nights. My mother's family, my family. A plot of land surrounded by the smell of gravel and pine and country side. It's a different fragrance in the air, a different sun that sets. My aunt takes me to the graves of my maternal grandparents. They have always been a part of our visits, that did not change when they died, it doesn't change even now. We don't dwell on death, don't stay but a few minutes. We fill the drive with talk of life and all the lives in the country side, with a highlight of a plot of land a cousin recently acquired.

And this morning, on my way out, I stopped in town at a cemetery where paternal grandparents are buried. A short visit, I suppose mostly to make sure there are no ant hills, no dark mold. If I don't look closely, if I squint my eyes in the morning sun, I can see a young boy crying. But that boy is long gone.

One more stop on the way out, that same winding country road. This time I have flowers in hand, but the wasp nest in the concrete urn is not interested in letting me place them. Next time I know to bring a wasp spray. It's the last stop on the trip, the last part of the ritual. First to visit on the way in, first to visit on the way out, and then her grandson's son winds his way back out of that road, points his car North, and drives home.