By DAVID IZRAELEVITZ
Los Alamos
Although we have made the road trip from Los Alamos to Terry’s family in St. Louis and back dozens of times, we still begin preparing for the two-day drive in advance, piling on the items we rarely use except on long trips: a pre-planned GPS or Google Maps itinerary, a flashlight, an emergency kit, and importantly, the yerba mate gourd so I can sip the traditional South American caffeinated drink. Then we would head out East, retracing the steps of the Santa Fe Trail pioneers. Except that those pioneers didn’t have a garage whose door may, or may not, have been left open. Terry and I, middle age memory and cognitive abilities in full and sad display, cannot remember either way, and we turn around after half a block’s travel to verify that yes indeed, someone had closed the garage door, although we can’t remember which of us did it.
The boys very much enjoyed spending time with Terry’s family in Missouri, so this trek back to the land of her ancestors was a familiar, typically summer trip for more than 15 years. For most of our history in Los Alamos, our trek included three children, often a dog, sometimes a frog, and once, on the way back, a jar full of guppies I had promised to relocate from Grandpa’s aquarium. Before smartphones, the mapping requirements for such a logistical trek were quite severe. Not only did we need to fill up the gas tank as needed, but we also needed additional restrooms because someone “didn’t need to go at the gas station” 15 minutes earlier, as well as grassy areas for the dog to do its thing and some place for the kids to run around so they would nap in the car, or at least be entranced by a Harry Potter book-on-tape. Hence our careful mapping of all McDonald’s Play Places between start and finish.
I do most of the driving as this only requires having eyes on the road. I know the responsibilities of riding shot-gun, and I would much rather have Terry take care of that. All I need from her is a steady supply of snacks and caffeine from the yerba mate. The complexities of the trip came via the three bundles of joy in the middle and back seat of the minivan, and since I was driving, the middle and back seats were Terry’s domain. Her job was simply to hand out food, books, paper towels, and an occasional barf bag. As I would peek in the rearview mirror, she reminded me of a Vegas dealer furiously dealing cards around a blackjack table. Oh, and she was also the one who would arbitrate who sat in which seat for how long, change the book-on-tape immediately, continually peel oranges and distribute slices, occasionally read the map and correct a hypnotically-tranced driver (from too much caffeine), and turn into Mrs. Plastic Woman to reach the back seat of a moving vehicle as the need for negotiation, nutrition, or discipline demanded.
It is much, much simpler now. No kids, no dog, no frog. We are heading out soon to California to see our son and his family, and it is just Terry and I on the open road. Her voice announcing the next highway exit has been replaced by a synthetically pleasant Google voice. Bathroom breaks are predictable and productive, and there is certainly no need for multiple Garfield or Calvin and Hobbes comic strip collections.
On our more recent road trips, there is no shouting, no crying, no requests to replay a key section of the Harry Potter book-on-tape or requests to keep the engine running because “the chapter is almost over!”, no fighting over seating order, no cracker explosions, no car sickness from reading too much Garfield, no contortionism to distribute food or scolding. On this trip, there is no enigmatic loss of a single shoe somewhere Amarillo and Tulsa. We are sometimes listening to an audiobook, but more frequently, she’s knitting and I’m hypnotically tranced from too much caffeine. We get to listen to the murmuring of the wheels beneath us, speculate about what our children are up to these days, and reminisce about those long, chaotic, and wonderful family road trips.