When I was ten, my mother put my grandmother, my sister, and me into the family car and set out on a thousand mile journey. It was 1948, a time before ‘golden arches,’ smart phones, efficient interstate highways, and most of all, independent wives.

Mom was ahead of her time. Her sister Cornelia, who had married and moved all the way to Omaha, needed a family visit. That was all there was to it!

Dad had gone over ‘Old Bessie’ from bumper to bumper, and when he was satisfied that she was road-worthy, checked our map one last time, kissed us good-bye, and went into the house to get ready for work — and pray.

I was too busy dreaming of cowboys and Indians that year to consider the challenges of such a trip. The only driver in the car, my mother was responsible for an elderly woman and two children as she made her way halfway across the country on strange roads — in an old car.

It was a leisurely trip by any standard, creeping through dozens of small towns while my 14-year-old sister, Janet, traced our route on the map and calculated distances between stops. We shopped at grocery stores along the way, and had the occasional meal at a Woolworth lunch counter.

The day Mom drove off the road and onto a deeply-rutted parking lot (at a pretty good clip) my grandmother bounced off the back seat and onto the floor. When she realized the car had survived, she laughed harder than anyone, then launched into her favorite story about her run-away sulky horse. Read More...