On the road again -
Just can’t wait to get on the road again . . .
Goin’ places that I’ve never been.
Seein’ things that I may never see again . . .
— Willie Nelson
Travel Diary:
We’re ready to pack the car for a trip to Cape Cod. Our identical twin grandsons suggested that we share a beach house. What could be better than spending quality time with grandsons at the ocean? They’ll fly into Boston and take the train to Plymouth, but we love driving through our beautiful America.
Time folds back upon itself. We made many trips to visit Bill’s California relatives or camp at Bryce Canyon, Yellowstone, in the Rockies or the Tetons. We’d spend several days, setting out clothes, camping gear and food in the foyer. Then Bill would say, “You have to leave some of this stuff at home. There’s no way it’ll fit in the car.” “Not me,” Vicki would say. “I need all my stuff.” Her stuff filled the space between the seats so that she had to recline on the back seat like Queen Cleopatra. When she was little it included stuffed animals, books and games. Later, she insisted on all the accouterments of a teenaged girl. Next he’d start on me: “What’s this sack for?” “Maps.” “And this one?” “Reading material.” “And this one?” “Snacks.” “And this one?” “Empty sacks in case we need one.” “Rose Mary!”
Fast forward: We no longer have a teenaged girl, but we offered to take some of the boys’ things, such as their fins for scuba diving. Also, Bill and I have different philosophies about attire: When we travel my motto is, “These people are never going to see me again.” Thus, I travel light. He can’t make up his mind about what he’ll wear, so he takes everything.
I set out a 14 x 20 suitcase and a larger one on the spare room bed and said, “I figure that we’ll use the smaller one for what we need during the drive and pack our Cape Cod clothes in the big one. That way we won’t have to drag everything into motels.” The large suitcase was nearly full of his clothing, and a pile of colored polo shirts had to go in the smaller suitcase. He moaned, “I had my polo shirts and pants arranged so they’d go together.” I didn’t reply; There wasn’t enough room for his Cape Cod underwear in either suitcase. It filled a green carryon with a little room left for mine.
I saw him take my underwear out of the green carryon. “Why are you taking my underpants out of the green bag?” “You don’t want all of them in it because it goes in with us every night. Right?” “No. That’s for Cape Cod.” A few minutes later, he took them out again. Exasperated, I said, “Do not take my underpants out of the carryon again!” Next he started worrying that his travel undershorts weren’t in the motel suitcase. “I’m telling you, they are there! Look!”
At last, everything was ready. The mail was stopped, and arrangements had been made for my dear nephew and his wife to come in daily and take care of Pusscatkin. We had maps and a route laid out by AAA. However, south of Cleveland we changed our minds and drove through Pennsylvania’s lovely Pocono Mountains instead of going via Buffalo.
En route I worried: What if the car broke down? Tony and Chris were flying on different days. What if they didn’t connect in Boston? What if they missed the train to Plymouth? Cluck . . . cluck . . . cluck . . . But here we are at a charming house built right on the beach of the shining sea. More to come.
P.S. Bill read this and said, “I want a retraction: I unpacked the big suitcase, and you had as much in it as I did.” wclarke@comcast.net