Had other pioneers followed my lead, no one would ever have crossed the Rockies. I’d have gotten out in one of the square states. I had a difficult time making car trips with my four children. No way would we ever have gone further than Kansas.
I don’t know how my mother did it. My dad was a naval officer and was assigned to a new base every two years or so. Dad flew in. Mom loaded up the car with the dog and the three of us children and drove across the country: from California to Florida; from Florida to Rhode Island; from Rhode Island back to California. These were the pre-interstate/pre-air conditioned car days. Squirt, our black cocker spaniel, rode in the front seat with Mom. Tomi, Ben, and I rode in the back seat and squabbled. “Ben’s on my side!” “Tomi’s touching me!” “Mom! How many more miles?” “Are we there yet?” “I gotta go, bad!”
To fully appreciate this scene, you must picture my mother. She was barely five feet tall, very petite, and quite beautiful, inside and out. Even when we made these long cross-country treks, she wore a dress—usually a full-skirted shirt-waist waist, three inch heels, earrings, lipstick, and mascara. We all adored her, as did everyone who knew her, but she had a no-nonsense way about her when vexed that could stop us cold every time. As children, we suspected her of being Rubber Woman because she could reach into the back seat and swat any of us while driving. That arm could fly out of nowhere!
From time to time, Mom pulled to a screeching halt, threw open her car door, ripped open ours, and commanded. “Get out of this car. Right this minute!” We all did, looking as sheepish as we could manage, and she read us the riot act. And that little lady was not one to be trifled with. She had a glare that could freeze a grown man in his tracks.
Once, as we drove through a sleepy little town in Georgia, the three of us were being especially rambunctious. Mom had already swatted us several times and told us more than once, “Knock it off!” But we felt pretty secure at that time. We were in a town full of people. There was no place to pull off, and so we continued to bicker. Oh, how we had deluded ourselves with this false sense of security. We had foolishly underestimated Mom once again.
She slammed on the brakes right smack dab in front of a courthouse where three old men sat, talking on a park bench. This was not a parking place but the middle of the street. Her door flew open and out she came. Our door opened, and out we tumbled onto the pavement. (We’d been wrestling on the floor.) “I’ve had all the nonsense I’m going to take from you all,” she said through clenched teeth but in a frighteningly firm tone. The tone and the look left us no doubt about the trouble we were in. “Turn around,” she said, and we did. She gave each of us a swat on the bottom, then said, “Get back in that car, and I don’t want to hear another peep. Do you understand?” As we nodded obediently, the men on the bench applauded, whistled and said something like, “Way to go.” The three of us didn’t utter a sound until we reached the motel that afternoon and remained subdued until we hit the swimming pool.
The farthest I ever drove my children was from Kentucky to Florida. I drove on a multi-lane interstate in an air-conditioned car, but I wasn’t even out of Kentucky before I was ready to turn around and go home. “Gavin’s on my side!” “Samantha’s touching me!” “Gavin’s making a face at me. Make him stop!” Cartier, the teenager, fell asleep before we left the driveway, and John, the youngest, just tried to maintain his status as Switzerland. On the Tennessee border, I pulled into the rest area. While the kids were in the restrooms, I took out a ballpoint pen and drew lines on my back seat. (Yes, I know. That reeks of Mommy madness, but I was a little nuts by then. We weren’t even halfway to Orlando, and I was already cracking). When the kids returned, I assigned places and dared them to move any part of their bodies beyond their spot. It worked for a while, but not long enough.
The next day, we drove the rest of the way, but I was soon weary of the backseat war that had resumed. As I sped along the interstate, from time to time, when the noise level had reached a deafening level, I reached into the back seat and swatted whomever I could reach. Then I heard Gavin whisper, “Next time we stop, I want another seat. I mean it. She can’t miss me in this swat seat.” I then laughed, and we made it the rest of the way.
When we reached the condo, I had but one more ordeal to undergo. I’d rented a big car-top carrier in which I’d packed all the clothes except the overnight bags. This was one of the many things I’ve done in my life that seemed like a good idea at the time. (I have told my best friend that my epitaph should read, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”) My vision had been the ease of packing all of the clothes into the big carrier from which we could easily unpack. Plus, it wouldn’t take up so much room in my station wagon. However, I had to get it down, which was much more difficult than it had been to heft up since a neighbor had helped me to do that. Cartier was about five feet tall at the time, and I am just a bit taller. Cartier and I tried to ease it off, but first I was slightly wounded by a snapping bungee cord that left a big gash on my thumb. We almost had it, but then it slipped and fell to the ground, spilling the contents everywhere. Cartier, a teenager somewhat appalled by traveling with this little circus, said, in a voice dripping with adolescent sarcasm: “Great. Another Beverly Hillbillies moment.”
I had wanted to cry, to scream, but then I remembered my mother’s fortitude. At that moment, I thought about what Cartier had said and began to laugh. The five of us scooped up the clothes in our arms, and entered the elevator looking like hapless vagabonds. A nice looking couple already in the elevator looked at us somewhat aghast, and I started to giggle—one of those giggle-in-church kinds of giggles, when you don’t want to laugh and then do laugh all the harder. Cartier was further disgusted with her mother. The younger three weren’t too sure how to react. When I walked into the condo, I threw the load of clothes I had in my arms high into the air and laughed aloud. Finally, everyone else laughed. The good times had begun.
But trust me, I never would have made it over the Rockies—you can take that to the bank. I am not made of the same mettle as Mom. Never was. Never will be.
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