Lima, Not Peru

I woke up this morning, looked at the clock, and realized that, if it had been a Saturday in my childhood, I might have been packed in a station wagon with my family heading to Lima, Ohio to visit my grandparents.

Paul with "Big Blue"

 As I recall (although I admit to the timing being fuzzy), we would make the trip once every six weeks or so when the weather was decent. Also, when I was very small, we went down on Friday nights. Since we only had one car, this required my mom to pack us and our stuff in the car and pick up Dad at work. They decided at some point this was too much. So instead, we would leave very early Saturday morning (6:00 a.m.).

Mom made sure we were packed the night before. Departure time was non-negotiable. Your butt had better be planted in your assigned seat, or you would face the wrath of Dad. And no one wanted that.

Seating was determined by seniority. Dad drove, Mom was in the passenger seat. My two older brothers sat in the very rear seat, facing backwards. (Later, they were allowed to put the seat down and recline in the back.) My two sisters and I sat in the middle section. As the youngest of the three, I had to sit on the hump. And my younger brother sat between my parents in a "car seat" that would have passed no safety regulations today. It hooked over the back of the seat and had a little steering wheel on it for the occupant to turn. The only "safety feature" involved was my mom's arm, which would reflexively reach out across Paul when Dad made a hard stop.

Thus, seated in our respective places, the adventure began. It was a 3 1/2 hour adventure.

There were several rules that came into play. Aside from staying in your seat, the most important rule was, "No reading of ANY kind." All six of us were prone to getting carsick. And when one of us did, it was likely the rest of us would follow. How many times did we hear, "Open the window, breathe the air, think about something else." One of the things that was a must on any trip was a box of small green garbage bags, which would get passed around when the barfing started. In early days, there was also a small pink potty that was used for this purpose, but the dark green bags (contents unseen) were better for the job.

So, what to do to pass the time? We tried the free games provided by a local gas station. Like Car Bingo -- see who can find one of each of the items on their card to make a bingo. We had to be very careful about some of these games, however. (See previous paragraph.)

My brothers had transistor radios to listen to. My sisters could look out their respective windows. I would crane to see over the back of the front seat. Mostly, I stared at the back of Paul's head.

"Are we there yet?"

Mom devised a system whereby we would track our progress by each of the towns we went through. Bellevue, Tiffin, Findlay, then Lima. The trouble was, there were several tiny towns we traversed, like "Republic." Mom would get grumpy having to explain (every trip) that, no, this was not a big enough town to put on the list. "Why not?" Because it only had one traffic light and you would be through it before you blinked four times.

Boredom also produced a desire to eat. Invariably, we would hit the road, and half an hour later, someone would say, "I'm hungry." My mother would deny this was the case, and advise the would-be snacker to wait until the proscribed time. At some point in the trip, she would cave and agree to feed the beasts. Travel fare included bologna or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And store-bought cookies. You know the kind, the "variety" pack that included those swirly cookies with a red piece of hard jellied something stuck in the middle. We only got these cookies when we traveled, so we saw them as a delicacy.

On one fateful trip, my mom failed to bring a knife to spread the peanut butter, and was forced to do the job with her finger. I don't think my father, who excelled in guerilla germ warfare, ever recovered. We kids didn't care. As I recall, he detoured to try to find a store that would sell us one knife.

As for liquid beverages, if you were smart, you didn't. There was exactly one rest stop on the way, and it was of the outdoor variety. At a young age, I was taught the art of lining the seat with TP and holding my breath and never, ever, looking down the hole. But if you had to go, it was still a godsend. Invariably, my mom would tell the story from her childhood about her fear of using the outhouse at a relative's house because she got chased and bitten by a goose. (I sometimes stop and look heavenward and give thanks for indoor plumbing.)

Honestly, I don't know how my parents managed to keep it together through all those years of travel. Looking back, it must have been exhausting for my mom to organize and manage us and our shenanigans through hundreds of road trips over the years.

And it was always so hard to say goodbye to my grandparents at the end of the trip. My dad and all of us would sit with the car idling, waiting to go, while my mom would continue yacking, saying, "I'm coming" for the hundredth time. My folks weren't predisposed to spend money on long-distance calls just to chat, so letters were the only means of communicating with my grandparents in between visits.

I'd love to go back in time and visit them all again.

But I think I'd skip the part in the car.