Slim Whitman yodeled on the eight track, and my sister sipped Beep Juice. I was the youngest of three kids, relegated to the middle seat of our orange Buick my dad called Bessie.
Every summer my family of five squished into the car and drove from Florida to Ohio—the land of children’s heavenly dreams, of rivers and corn and forgotten barns and ride-on tractors bigger than houses.
We drove up I-75, through downtown Atlanta, and right before we entered South Carolina, my mother, an inexplicably dramatic South Carolina hater, would say, “Wake me up when we get to North Carolina.” My mom’s prejudice against South Carolina soured our mood as we careened (rather, drove at my dad’s patience-wrecking 55 mile-an-hour crawl) up its interstate. When we reached North Carolina, we all breathed a little easier, and always noticed the flowers dotting the state’s medians.
Although it was infuriating that my mom insisted on packing our lunch—we kids would stare forlornly out the window at McDonald’s golden arches, always out of reach—there is something to be said for the atmosphere of rest stops. It was a lowbrow picnic for families-on-the-go and a chance to see what grass looks like when it grows from red clay instead of sand. We stomached our tuna sandwiches and enjoyed the scenery as much as we could.
Each summer, on the journey north, we spent the night at a Holiday Inn in the mountains of North Carolina. We all acquiesced to endure the long day so that we could get to the Buckeye State as early as possible the next day. The nights in the Holiday Inn were incredible. Maybe I was young, or maybe it was simply a different era, but the giddy jumping from bed to bed, the nighttime dips in the hotel pool, and the cot they rolled in just for me is one of my fondest memories.
It was always the next morning, as we traversed Virginia, when the elbows started flying. As the youngest, I’ve always like being around people. But I’ve also always needed my space. Slowly my brother’s wide-limbed stance would start to bother me. Then it would consume all of my thoughts. Then I would make sure that he didn’t think he could take up more room just because he was a boy, and just because he was older than me. So little by little I would push my elbows farther out, starting a silent war. And then my sister would notice, tell on me, and I would give her a little elbow shove just because I could.
One infamous trip to Ohio, my parents moved my brother into the middle seat to see whether that would calm nerves. It didn’t. Then they moved my sister into the middle. That didn’t help either. So my mom moved into the back seat as “peace keeper,” allowing my sister, the oldest, to move into the front. Within five minutes my mom and I were elbowing each other, arguing about who was encroaching on who. She denies elbowing me to this day, but I know it’s true.
By the time we reached West Virginia, the backseat wars had usually settled, and we all focused on the treacherous, yet beautiful scenery. We passed semi-trucks chug-chugging up the steep mountains, and occasionally saw truck drivers turn off the road and steer onto unpaved uphill paths because they worried their brakes wouldn’t take the descents. It seemed like a different world as we passed tiny houses sitting on million-dollar views.
We usually arrived in Delaware, Ohio, a small town thirty miles north of Columbus, some time between 1–2 p.m. It was the start of a fun week romping on my grandparents’ ten acres, eating fresh tomatoes, corn, and blackberry pies for dinner, and swimming in their freezing cold pool. I never really remembered the drive home—possibly because I was too tired, or less excited, or just spoiled by the uninterrupted time I’d already had with my family.
