With great awe I would watch my mom pack up the hardtop Buick Electra as we prepared for the traditional Thanksgiving Day trek. I knew enough to stay out of her way when she was in the midst of shoving things here and there. She never said it specifically; however, her face said it all. Her mind focused with great determination, her eyes fixed on the task at hand and her brow seriously flexed for the added “Oomph” to get things where they needed to go. Yep, I knew not to go anywhere near her or that car. I just sat back and took it all in. My dad also seemed to instinctively know not to offer any advice, nor question the placement of a packed item, lest a piece of uncooperative luggage come flying his way.
I love to recall how many people, pieces of luggage, lovely desserts and on more than one occasion, an oversized dog, a lone woman could creatively cram in the family vehicle. Especially, when I remind myself that she did it years before the advent of the now common mini-van. Nope. She did it seventies-style. No car seats or seat belts to hinder her ingenuity. Sometimes I wonder how we all survived those early road trips precariously perched atop all our belongings. But we did. We survived. And we did it in grand-style packed to the gills; bickering, teasing, singing and complaining all the way. With the car packed and all passengers in place, we’d depart. Destination: Gramma & Papa’s house.
