I have lived on the East Coast of the U.S. my entire life. In upstate New York as a child and in northern New Jersey for now almost 40 years. Aside from a cross-country expedition with my family in a pop-up trailer when I was fifteen, I have seen little west of the Mississippi River. But I have inherited from my Dad a certain wanderlust. Although he was a model of stability, a meticulous record keeper, and good provider, there was nothing he loved more than riding in the car - it didn't matter where he was going, just that he was en route to somewhere.
Sunday rides were always a welcome interruption of the family routine. After church and lunch, Dad, Mom, Grandmother, my brothers and I would pile in the car, taking along an extra sweater, a picnic if the weather were nice, and maybe the Sunday paper for the grown-ups to read. We headed out of the driveway to ... well, not exactly "parts unknown" since we often traveled the same roads time after time ... but on each trip, they seemed somehow different from the times before. The light, the weather, the season - all were ever-changing. Dad's child-like delight in all that made it an adventure for us, too.
During the summers, we might stop alongside a country stream. Before the appearance of the ubiquitous yellow "No Trespassing" signs, we were allowed to take off our shoes and socks and wade in the cold water. If it were hot enough, we could even strip down to our underwear and splash around in the rocky pools. When I grew older, Mom and Grandmother and I would stroll among the tombstones and flowering shrubs in the old country cemeteries. They seemed to know the all of the wildflowers - names that even today jump into my mind when I see them growing along the road.
Six decades later, when Dad and Mom grew too old to have a car, I would drive the three hours from New Jersey to upstate New York, settle them in their favorite spots - Dad in the front seat, Mom in the back - and we'd go for long rides over the same roads I traveled with them as a child. There was little left that gave them joy in the senior living center where they lived. Rides in the car were something that re-introduced them to the world, let them breathe the fresh upstate air, see blue sky, clouds, cows, the change of seasons. I became reacquainted with the beauty of upstate New York, too. At the end of the afternoon, Dad would often remark, "Mary always takes us on such interesting rides."
It wasn't until after my father died two years ago that I came to understand that driving through the countryside was really only Dad's joy, not Mom's. My mother just liked being with Dad, no matter where he went. He was her center, her merry-maker, her socializer. Without him, her reason to go for a ride in the car was gone.
In the year after he died, I used to take Mom for rides with my brother. But, except for a rare remark about how beautiful the clouds were, she always ended the ride asking where Dad was and becoming more frantic with each mile that we had left him [somewhere]. It was heartbreaking. I don't take her for long rides any more. She seems perfectly happy to sit and read magazines with me. Reading - that was really always Mom's joy. I don't know why I didn't see it clearly before now.
In any event, I have inherited my father's love for traveling by car. Not to disparage trains, airplanes, or cruises, but there is nothing quite as .... well, grounded ... as riding in a car. You get a sense of the distance you have gone, of the gradual change in weather, in the shifting topography and the colors of the landscape. There's just nothing like it. I can't wait to begin this new adventure.
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