Lessons From The Road

This is an old post, reworked and then republished
in various article submissions places in an attempt to
get my name out there as a writer. I post it here as
family drama surrounds me. My sister (Moons, Mom) is
currently in recovery after an 8 hour operation to do a
quadruple heart by-pass. She is overweight and had a
brain aneurysm two years ago. It was extremely dangerous
for her to undergo this today. For all her faults…
she is my sister.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Lessons From The Road

As a golden haired child, I lived in California.
Long before it became the Silicon Valley, it was
my home. Our extended family lived in Michigan.
My first memory of my grandmother is encased in
a warm feeling. Her home was the destination of
each great adventure we took as a family. She was
the gift that we received after our three-day journey
from our home to hers in Pullman Michigan. We made
this trek every few years. Five children and my mother
piled into her beloved Bonneville.

We traveled night and day; stopping at rest areas
or truck stops to let my mother get some sleep.
We slept as well as we could with three or four
sets of legs struggling for space. During the day, rest
areas were our playground as we were set free while
mom slept on a blanket under a tree. Motels were
not an option financially. We were occasionally excited
to be treated to restaurant food. More often than not
we ate from a cooler in the trunk filled with apples,
bologna sandwiches and Kool-aid. I never remember wishing
for it to be any different. It was just the way it was.
We were thrilled to be on a trip. We played
the license plate game and listened to music. We were
the family you still occasionally see stopping at each
state sign for a picture, or just slowing down
to honk. I still honk today as I mark those moments
with my own family.

My mother was impressive in her ability to wrangle five
children across America. It was the sixties, other women
were afraid to travel alone. She showed no fear.
I can’t imagine driving all that way alone with five children
today. As an adult I grew to appreciate how much it took
out of her to do this. She made sure that we saw amazing
sites as we traveled each road. We learned how wide
each state was, how to read a map and watch for that
next town. I’m sure that we were naughty at times,
although I remember only joyful moments. Our excitement
to be traveling to see the relatives we so rarely saw remained
constant throughout the trip. We were impossibly giddy when
we entered my grandmother’s small town.

We invariably arrived in the middle of the night. Gram would
come to the door partially awake, but somehow dressed, her
hair in place. She pulled each of us into an embrace that
was impressively solid despite her small frame. Her home was
warm and cozy with an ever-flowing coffee pot. As my mother
and grandmother sat down to share news of the road, relatives
and life I too settled in to listen. Soon she would rise and prepare
a massive feast. Grandpa Phil lived there as well. He was Gram’s
second husband and not my mother’s “real” dad, but he was real
to her and to us. He made shotgun shells in the garage for hunting.
Being the child of a single mother, I had never witnessed such
a thing. I was impressed and intrigued. When I was allowed to,
I was honored to help pull the lever on the shell machine.
To my grandmother’s dismay, my grandfather drove a motorcycle.
Mom allowed him to take us for rides. I became his riding buddy
often when he needed to get away. Pullman was a small town,
with one stoplight, one store and a local tavern. We traveled to
the local tavern and he introduced me to his friends. I was given
10 cents to get a cold bottle of Coke out of the machine. It was
my introduction to coke machines. I was in heaven. Grandpa Phil
became an important man in my life. He is my first remembered
father figure. Other men would be weighed by his example.

Our time was spent visiting relatives and getting to know new
cousins. Usually these visits evolved into impromptu family
reunions. My aunts would all get together and plan menus and
events. Often these reunions were more formally planned as
major events. We would meet at a local park near Lake Michigan
or a church community center. Each mother would prepare dishes
to pass; while children ran wild or played a game of baseball
together. We learned who our family members were; they came
to know us as well. After our day, we would go back to gram’s
house to collapse on the carefully made rollaway beds and sleeper
sofas. I always chose the bed that was tucked into an alcove at
the rear of the kitchen. I could listen to Mom and Gram talking
and sipping coffee into the night. Soothed into slumber by their
familiar voices.

Snow was an added bonus if we were lucky enough to arrive
during winter. Icicles three feet long and several inches in diameter
hung from the eaves begging to be broken off. We savored each
lick until it was too cold to do so. Snowball fights and all the goodness
that snow brings to small children highlighted our days. It was during
one such visit that the phone rang as I came in from playing in the
snow. I answered it and heard the person on the other end ask me
if Evelyn was there. I didn’t know whom they wanted and thought
perhaps it was a wrong number. I held the phone out and asked my
mother if she knew anyone named Evelyn. I was told that it was my
grandmother’s name. She had always just been Gram to me. I felt
ashamed not to know. A few years later, when my mom decided to
move us from California to Michigan she stated that I was one of the
reasons why. I had not known my grandmother’s name which had
disturbed her. She wanted us to know our grandparents.

They are all gone now; my grandfather went first, Gram died a
few months later. Mom fought hard against cancer but lost in
2003. How my world has changed. The lessons they taught
remain. I adored my grandmother and grandfather beyond words.
Those trips across the country are some of the most profound
moments in my life. Both because of what I learned and what I
saw. Learning who my grandparents are and loving them so
completely filled me with warmth I had not known previously.
As the child of a single mother living hundreds of miles
away from her family, meeting my extended family meant
everything. My own children repeated the journey many times
with me in their childhood. Perhaps someday they too will travel
home to visit me, bringing grandchildren that I will envelope in
a gentle hug.

(Thank you to wordpress for electing this post as featured
family post of the day. 7/7/06)
http://wordpress.com/tag/family/