On the road with dad

Ah, the family road trip. Is there any more defining occasion for the sort of father a man is? Or the sort of man a father is, if you prefer?

Some are tough-minded schedule enforcers. Lincoln, Neb., this morning; Indianapolis by nightfall; lunch in Hannibal, for precisely 15 minutes. A mid-morning bathroom stop -- let's plan on St. Joseph -- and one in the afternoon, too; mark it Urbana. A motel with a pool, but get to bed at a decent time 'cause we're up and out the door by 6 a.m. the next day, mini-donuts and juice in the car -- but watch you don't spill. You can stay in your pajamas until the morning bathroom stop in Columbus.

Other dads are free-spirited travelers. They may start the day with a schedule, but they'll chuck it at the slightest distraction. Historical roadside plaques or, if they're old farm boys, farmsteads with tractors they can't quite identify without getting closer draw them like flames draw moths. A cheesy billboard can take them hundreds of miles out of the way to see, say, the world’s largest ball of twine – to groans of dismay from the backseat. And if at day's end, you've only traveled 30 linear miles, well, so be it. It’s about the journey, not the destination, and he doesn't even like mom’s cousin whose wedding you’re supposed to be traveling to.

Of course, one shouldn’t overgeneralize. Some dads have a little of both the road warrior and road wanderer in them. My dad, for example. A couple of road-trip memories linger:

-- One summer vacation – I believe we were bound from Pennsylvania to Minnesota -- my dad decided he wanted to shoot photos of as many state capitol buildings as possible. None of us understood why, but it became his quest, no matter how far out of the way we needed to go. I don't know how many he got or whether they survive, but I hope they're still somewhere in a slide carousel and, if so, consider this my request to inherit them, dad.

-- When we reached our destination for the evening, my dad was a great believer in getting through town before we stopped. It just wouldn't do to settle for the first motel one encountered. Besides, if we got on the other side of town, we'd be that much farther along, beating the morning rush hour traffic, never mind that we were on the road by 6. Inevitably, of course, we'd get to the other side of town and find nowhere to stay. And so on to the next town, where this scenario might play out again, and perhaps yet once more, by which time mom was ready to lead the mutiny, so he grudgingly stopped. It occurred to me only years later, when I was at the helm of my own family road trips, this was dad’s way of sneaking an extra hundred miles or so onto the day. Well played, dad.

In any case, the road trip tests a father's and family's mettle like nothing else. Everyone's crammed into a few square feet of space, merrily pushing each other's buttons, fighting, crying, arguing. After a couple of miles, the mere act of one child “looking at” another can provoke near civil war, and after a couple hundred, the mere act of mom “looking at” dad, or vice versa, can provoke near divorce. Pre-GPS, the Rand McNally Road Atlas, stained with peanut butter, coffee, tears and what may be a little blood, got passed around the car, teaching young children their first lessons about scale. “Only six inches to go; that’s pretty close,” says youngest. “That’s, like, 500 miles, jerkwad. God, you’re dumb,” an older child helpfully points out.

Dad is tempted to warn, “Don’t make me stop this car,” but worries his bluff will be called. And then what? I’ll tell you what: Pull the car onto the shoulder of the road, unhook the safety belt, open the door and just light out over the field next to the interstate as fast as your legs can carry you, the family watching you get smaller and smaller in the distance. That’ll teach ‘em – ‘cause you’re the only one who has the schedule for bathroom and meal stops. Ha!

But really there’s no escaping, for anyone, that metal tube hurtling down the road, short of opening the door and rolling out and onto the shoulder at 70 mph, or maybe making your break at one of those rare stops. Hide in a rest-area bathroom stall 'til everyone gives up and leaves without you? (I tried that once but realized, too late, I had the only car keys, so the family was still there when I snuck out an hour later.) Insist to a state trooper you’ve been abducted, that this is not your family. Again, been there, done that; more trouble than it’s worth. Kids might consider sneaking into the car of another family – how about those people parked in the next stall, feasting on fast food while you’re choking down dry bologna sandwiches mom made six hours ago with already stale bread and questionable mayo?

But no. The family tested by road trips together becomes closer, provided no one ends up in a body bag. And one day -- believe this, children -- the most annoying, even horrifying experiences of life on the road become fond memories. This is key to the survival of the species; why would anyone willingly have children if they couldn't remember certain things through a soft-focus lens covered with rose-colored gauze?

So, I’m tempted to suggest the six of us – dad, mom, me and my annoying younger siblings – celebrate Father’s Day by finding an old station wagon to pile into one more time and head out to shoot some state capitols.

But no one better look at me.