Every summer, we piled into our white station wagon and journeyed to Fairburn, Georgia, for a two-week vacation to see my mother’s large family. I would look forward to it for a month ahead of time. Anticipation was half the fun. And those trips paved the way for my love of travel.

It took two 8-hour days to get there and two 8-hour days to get home. And for years there were no interstates, and we drove old Highway 80 through every little Podunk town in Louisiana, Alabama, and Mississippi, not to mention the ones in Texas and Georgia. Trust me, there were plenty. 

Before the days of seat belts, station wagons made sense for a big family like ours because on trips someone could sit in the back. Well, they couldn’t really sit; they could only lie down. It was uncomfortable in spite of the pads and quilts. By the end of the trip, the hapless child would grumble about having to be back there.

Someone small could sit in the front on Mom’s train case. Leigh Ann spent a lot of time there.

But first, we had to pack the car.

Daddy had a big white canvas bag that zipped all around and held all our suitcases. It sat in the rack on top of the car and was tied down every which way with harnesses and straps so that it wouldn’t flap in the wind. We might not have been very aerodynamic with a big box on top, but we were tidy.

Mother took charge of our sustenance on the road. The first day she packed lunch (in a round plaid cooler, then later in an ice chest with a little white tray inside). Sandwiches, chips, cookies, and cut-up fruit were wrapped in waxed paper and foil, along with a cloth, a paring knife, and extra tea towels. A carton of milk and some Cokes were iced down. Sweet rolls were included for breakfast the next day in the motel. There wasn’t much snacking going on in the car. We were very disciplined.

We always traveled on the weekends and would stop for lunch at a school or church because they didn’t have germs and bugs like a roadside rest area. This caused me no end of grief. I was terrified that someone would find us there and run us off. After all, that was private property, and we were trespassing.

I always wanted us to eat as fast as possible and make a quick getaway. But it didn’t happen that way. Mother would take her sweet time spreading the feast out on the tailgate. Everyone ate leisurely, ignorant of my mounting panic.  Daddy walked around nonchalantly, glad to stretch his legs. My siblings wanted to play on swings or slides in the yard.

Someone else’s swings and slides! NOT OURS! We hadn’t asked permission. Surely we would be arrested! What was everyone thinking?  Hurry!  Get back in the car before we’re caught. No! Not the teeter totter!

At last we piled back into the car and took off down the road. As we traveled, we played car games. Car bingo was the favorite. As long as we were going through towns it was easy to get everything on the card. But when the interstate kicked in, it became virtually impossible to see a dog or bicycle any more.

About 2 p.m. that first day we reached our destination, the Holiday Inn or Flamingo Motel in Jackson, Mississippi, right after we crossed the Mississippi River. That was always a highlight of the trip.

Daddy made us unload the car before we could swim, a move designed to torture Ted. He couldn’t tear his clothes off fast enough and it seems one year, he actually had his swimsuit on under his clothes so he could save steps getting to the pool.

We swam until dinner, then dressed and went to a nearby cafeteria. It was a way to feed our family of six on a vacation budget and fulfill a daily vegetable requirement. Later that night two of us slept in sleeping bags on the floor in the motel room.

The next morning Daddy awoke and dressed early so he could go to the motel dining room for a quiet breakfast before he had to spend eight hours on the road with four squirmy kids. We stayed behind with Mother and ate sweet rolls with tepid milk.  One year I decided I was old enough to go to the dining room with Daddy.  I dressed and tagged along with the poor man, unaware I had probably ruined his morning sabbatical. He never let on that he was anything but glad to have me along. I loved the eggs and bacon and toast and COFFEE! And I felt so grown up eating with Daddy.

At lunchtime we had to stop to replenish our sandwich-making supplies, and I was forced to endure another illegal picnic.  After countless are-we-there-yets, we pulled into the driveway at Aunt Myrt’s and Papa John’s about five that second day, in time for a big family dinner, the start of a two-week adventure. It was the best two weeks ever, spending time with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who would gather at the same time from as far away as Memphis and Orlando.

Then we’d pile back into the station wagon and head home, repeating the travel ritual in reverse.  We took other trips: to Florida, Mexico, Tennessee. But the ones to Georgia were special in their familiarity, their predictability, their warmth and sharing. Spending time with our nuclear family in the confines of the station wagon was a wonderful part of the process of getting to spend time with our extended family. 

If nothing else, it made us extremely grateful to get there, just so we could get out of the car. And somehow, coming home was sweeter. . . probably for the same reason.