The Passage

Prompt:  A fictional story about Travel
Written for:

SURVEY

Journey Through Genres: Official Contest  (E) Write a short story in the given genre to win big prizes! #1803133 by Writing.Com Support

Nothing sparks the imagination of a young boy like a trip.  And not just any trip, but a real journey, a passage, if you will.  One that began a real love affair with history and things new.  I also met my dad along the way.

I was young then ... eight.  Well, almost.  My birthday would be celebrated on the road.  We lived in San Antonio, Texas.  The home of the Alamo.  I'd visited it several times over the four years we lived there.  I loved to hear the story of the small band pitted against overwhelming odds.  I gained a couple things from those experiences--a true love of history, and a passion for the underdog.  Both have continued to shape my life forty years later.

Dad was in the Air Force, stationed as a Drill Instructor at Lackland Air Force Base.  We lived in a small three-bedroom tract home in one of the many cookie-cutter developments springing up all around San Antonio in the early 60's.  I remember the huge spotlights weaving across the sky as if trying to focus on some particular point in the heavens but never quite succeeding.  They marked the entrance to the development beckoning us to come in and buy into the Great American Dream.  Which my folks did. Cookie-cutter.  Except for the furnishings, my friends' houses looked exactly like ours.  Even our bedrooms were laid out the same.

Dad was gone a lot.  He was up before we rose for school and often didn't get home until well after dinner.  Mom always made sure we ate on time though.  He was a very hard worker, she said.  I didn't doubt that as we always had what we needed.  To be honest, I didn't need much.  The times when Dad was able to play catch with my brothers and I were pure joy.  We never wanted it to end with darkness having the final say.

It wasn't until much later that I discovered my dad worked two jobs.  As a young sergeant, Dad had precious little money to take care of a family with four kids.  My folks were frugal--Mom could find a bargain anywhere--but were able to save for the things they wanted.  One of those things was a summer trip to visit Dad's parents in Maine. 

My younger siblings and I were the envy of the neighborhood.  None of our friends had gone on more than a two-day trip to visit some place or another.  We'd be gone for three weeks. 

We traveled in style too.  We had a Ford Country Squire station wagon.  The luggage went on top; kids went in the back.  With the rear seat down, four kids aged four to almost eight, six big blankets, at least a dozen pillows, and a few games fit quite comfortably.  The middle seat was reserved for kids who misbehaved.  It was not a choice seat as anyone sitting there was well within range of Mom's backhand.  I remember waking from a nap in that seat and got up to see where we were ... just in time to get smacked upside the head by a hand meant for my sister.  For the most part, we behaved.

We had a flat tire driving through northern Mississippi.  Of course, we had to move all the blankets and pillows to get the spare and jack.  Dad let me help change the tire.  Well, I held the lugnuts; we didn't have a hubcap on that tire.  The old jack was what they now call a farm jack.  It was a big honker of a thing.  A notched bar with a metal cup that fit under the bumper that moved up or down with the tire iron.  You really had to be sure it was seated correctly and you kept a tight grip on the iron or you could really get creamed.  We followed Dad's advice to keep clear.

As we headed toward Tennessee, Mom said if we were very good, we might get a surprise.  I saw a sign for Lookout Mountain, and looked at Mom.  She winked and put a finger to her lips.  I just smiled.  The other kids started pestering mom to find out what the surprise was.  She just told them they'd have to wait.  My smile got bigger.  Finally we were there.  We rode a railcar up the mountain and spent an hour running off all that pent up energy that kids store when confined.  One sign stated you could see seven states from the top.  I was disappointed that I couldn't tell where one state ended and another began. 

There weren't a lot of interstate highways back then; it took us six days to make the 2500 mile journey.  I mentioned we didn't have a lot of money so we often slept in the car at rest areas.  Dad would sleep a couple hours and then get back on the road while the rest of us slept. Fact is, I don't remember Mom ever driving.  The real treat came on the evening of the third day.  We spent the night in a motel.  I suspect Mom wouldn't put up with another night of washing up at the rest stop.  Whatever the reason, we had beds. Yippee!  And baths.  Boo!

The next morning we watched through the car windows as the sun rose over the Blue Ridge mountains.  Dad was never much for late starts.  We have a long way to go yet, Dad told us.  I was amazed at the views I saw as we drove along the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia.  I wanted Dad to stop at every scenic outlook to take pictures.  That was also the day I learned about the Appalachian Trail, beginning a life-long love affair with nature and hiking. 

During one of our stops, I talked him into buying a short guidebook about the trail, which I read cover to cover in about an hour.  While I've hiked some sections of the Trail over the years, I've not had the opportunity to hike the entire route.  That remains at the top of my bucket list.

Dad noticed my interest in the route we were taking, and spent several hours as we drove north through Pennsylvania and New York telling me about the various sights we passed--Revolutionary and Civil War battlefields, and such.  He knew a lot about the Civil War.  I couldn't get enough of those stories. It just strengthened my interest in History.  I have my dad to thank for that.

Somewhere in Connecticut a big pothole in a very bumpy parking lot woke me.  It was dark (four in the morning, he'd said) and Dad was stopping to get some coffee.  Everyone else was fast asleep.  So I got to go in with him.  We shared a donut while Dad had coffee and I had chocolate milk.  I didn't think the trip could have gotten any better until we stopped at that truck stop.  Just me and Dad, and a dialogue that continued until the day he passed.

I wanted the trip to last forever.  Oh, I loved my grandparents, and we had a great visit  But the magic of that passage from Texas to Maine was more than just the geographical distance.  It was the passage of a young boy into a man he would become. Okay, I wasn't ready to be on my own yet.  But I learned a lot about myself and about my dad on that six-day journey.  I embraced the passions I discovered on that trip, passions that have shaped my life and my own relationship with my son.

Thanks, Dad.

Word Count: 1281