Summer Road Trip

One of the most mem­o­rable sum­mers I spent hap­pened in 1947, when my par­ents loaded me, (age 9) my twin sis­ter and old­er broth­er (by two years) on a road trip that went from New York City to Los Ange­les and back—in my father’s Buick—the only kind of car he would dri­ve. Con­sid­er: A two month trip. My moth­er did not dri­ve. Sum­mer. No air con­di­tion­ing. No inter­state high­ways. Par­ents up front. Three kids in the back.

We went from NY to Philadel­phia, and then on to Chica­go, through the Dako­tas, Yel­low­stone Nation­al Park, the Grand Canyon, Taos, New Mex­i­co, the Paint­ed Desert­ed, Los Ange­les, (which includ­ed a Hol­ly­wood film stu­dio mak­ing a cow­boy movie) then back, through the South, where I recall being hor­ri­fied to see a chain gang. And much, much more.

I can still recall see­ing the carved faces of the pres­i­dents in Dako­ta. Old Faith­ful sprout­ing. My first sight of real cow­boys some­where. The oil fields of Okla­homa. A sign that read “Wel­come to Los Ange­les” in the mid­dle of an emp­ty world

After almost six­ty years, my sib­lings and I can recount almost every­thing we did and saw. That in fact hap­pened because my moth­er said we must keep a jour­nal of the trip and each day one mem­ber of the fam­i­ly wrote about the day’s events and what we saw. The jour­nal still exists.

We fol­lowed maps close­ly, con­stant­ly played games from “silence con­tests” to “license plate pok­er,” to end­less “twen­ty ques­tion” contests.

Did we read? Not in the car. It made my sis­ter and me car sick. But at night, in end­less motels, we all had books. Do I remem­ber what I read? No. But I learned how big and var­ied Amer­i­ca was, and that has nev­er left me.