On the Road Again

The path of parenting is never clear ­ except on a road trip.

Only the largest of cars will do. Thus, there were no road trips during the energy crisis of the '70s. Before and after that, however, for better and worse, my father and I got to know each other during long drives in his 1971 Impala. No matter how rocky a familial relationship may be, the path becomes clear while parenting by road trip.

Miles of asphalt have a way of tying to gether the different generations. I have never questioned this truth.

At the moment, I drive a Honda Odyssey, a van that is anything but mini. My ten-year-old daughter, Coco, and I are seventeen miles into a 350-mile trip.

Michael Longstaff

"How many arguments do you think we'll have?" she asks.

"An average of one every thirty miles," I reply. "Which means you'd better start getting pissy about something if you want to stay on track."

"Cool," she says, looking out the window. There are cows out there, most of them lying down, but a few, in a phenomenon we have discussed at length since Coco was four, are walking quickly somewhere, for no immediately obvious reason. What are they -- rogue heifers? Rebel steers?

In another hour, I may become the antsy, raw-nerves Mom we both know so well, but right now I tend to agree with this daughter. This journey may be cool, after all. What could be cooler than a mother-daughter road trip punctuated by comfy old girlfights?

"Did you remember to pack any underpants?" I ask, trying to get something going.

"Did YOU bring a hairbrush?" she counters.

The next hour is occupied with laying down a scrupulous set of radio rules. Dr. Dre is permissible; `N Sync is not. No one may sing aloud without prior approval from her car-mate. "Freebird" and "Miss Lucy Had a Steamboat" are expressly prohibited. By the time we have hashed out a settlement on AM talk radio, weather and news, we have driven into a territory where no station comes in clearly anyway, except for the pork-belly-futures report.

We stop for gas and other distractions. In the rest room, my daughter, who is wearing her uniform of huge summer-camp T-shirt, baseball hat, zebra-striped Victoria's Secret sneakers and slinky jazz pants, primps in the mirror. This is new to me. Or is she fiddling with her just-installed orthodontia? What can I find out without appearing to be snooping?

I just know that this ten-year-old bubble is about to pop. In a matter of weeks, she'll be wearing eye shadow. In a matter of months, our arguments will be urgent, as opposed to entertaining. The statute of limitations for long trips in cars with your mother is running out.

"I want Sun Chips," she says, bracing for the old nutrition-between-meals wrangle.

I just shrug. "Whatever."

"Whatever? Then I want Pop-Tarts."

"They have blueberry and brown sugar cinnamon."

"Blueberry, and what's WITH you Mom? Does this mean I can have pop?"

"No. Pop is nothing but sugar," I say, reflexively.

As we pass into South Park I fall into a state of rapture -- the orange stands of cottonwood, the brilliant sky, the ribbon of road, the authentic goddamn cowboys herding cattle on their ATVs.

"Do you have any idea how lucky you are to be growing up here?" I ask.

"Yeah, yeah," she says distractedly, because she's trying to hook one bare foot through the sun visor. That, or rip it from its hinges.

"Quit fiddling with that thing," I snap. "And don't stick your foot out the window. And don't tickle the driver."


"Do you want me to drive into a tree?"

"What tree?"

In fact, Fairplay sits, as it always has, on a treeless plain.

"Hey. Hey, Mom. If you're pregnant, do you need to be fertilized all the time till the baby's born, or just once?"


"Oh, never mind. Tell me a story. Tell me a story about your childhood, okay? Not when you were some weird twenty-year-old."

Weekends with my father involved a lot of car time. First of all, he had to get my sister and me from the city to the boatyard where he lived, and with Long Island traffic that seventy-mile drive could take hours. And my father was, and is, the diverting side-trip type. Most outings consisted of getting into the Impala, and then -- oh, we'd go to visit some folksy old fart who dealt in electronics or internal combustibles, and my Dad would settle in to a chat. One of those guys was called Generator Jack. He sold used generators and prided himself on an audiotape collection featuring the sounds of various trains arriving at various stations.

"There you go," Generator Jack would say, "the old B&O arriving at Atlantic City."

Hanging around these places always inspired in me a curious mix of boredom and the sense that I was finding out everything about everything. I don't think that was what my dad was trying to teach me, but he certainly kept busy laying out the parameters of life as he knew it, mile after mile. You eat light rye with hard crusts, not Wonder Bread. You say "sofa," not "couch." It may seem like woolgathering to imagine that you are about to pick up a hitchhiker who turns out to be the Sultan of Brunei's daughter, and the Sultan is grateful to you and buys you a red brick house whose fridge is crammed with smoked salmon and prosciutto, but it is not. If you think this way regularly, you may get lucky.

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