The trip took over nine hours. Eight of those were driving. Two were getting out of Los Angeles. The boys slept for one of them.
The music shifted from Matt Duncan to assorted kid favorites by They Might Be Giants and Ella Fitzgerald before settling on Willie Nelson serenades along a dark and lonely highway. We didn’t see another car for hours.
Our car had a new battery, new tires, and new windshield wipers — the latter yet to convince me that they are attached correctly. Luckily they never had to prove it. The highway had shed itself of its pre-winter coat of snow and ice, and lay bare and open beneath 20 degrees of Thanksgiving promise.
Every small town was decorated in small town fashion with Victorian memories and twinkling holiday lights. The speed limit ebbed and flowed between gas stations and waiting policemen. The pickings were slim and we would not add to them.
We had packed water, healthy snacks, and the rest of the Halloween candy. We stopped for coffee and the releasing of it.
There was conversation and lingering spots of silence.
It was a family road trip, filled with anticipation, and our destination promised all the thanks we could give, and some we would be taking.
You could smell the pies baking from miles away.
Image: W. Honea
Whit Honea is the author of The Parents’ Phrase Book (January, 2014/Adams Media). Read more at his site Honea Express. You can follow Whit on the Twitter, Instagram, Google+, and Pinterest (his opinions are his own and do not reflect those of Babble or most rational people).