Summer Road Trips: Las Vegas, 1989

Petrified Forest National Park

As we left Gallup, New Mexico, I saw signs for Petrified Forest National Park.

“Can we go there too?”

Mileage signs announced our approach. Might as well stop, but with Dad determined to get to Flagstaff, we’d likely glimpse it as a blur through the window. I explained what I learned about petrified wood in science. Mrs. Scribner, back in junior high, had a chunk of petrified wood she let us handle once in class. Looked like a rock, but you could see it once was wood.

Three kids sitting on a petrified wood log.

“It’s just on the side of the road, we can stop for a little while…” I wistfully mumbled. Cars in front of us turned into the park. Our car followed.

“We’ll drive through and take some pictures.”

Giddy with excitement to visit my first national park, I’d have a great “What did you do on summer vacation?” experience to share at school.

Young boy pointing to a rock with petroglyphs.

From one scenic overlook to another, we hopped out of the car, taking in the vast landscape. We took a short walk on a trail when Anthony discovered some petroglyphs. We stood in front them, mesmerized with a reality that made us believe pictures we saw in National Geographic magazines.

Anthony started picking up and pocketing rocks. We did the same.

The visitor’s center was our last stop before our last stretch of road to Flagstaff. While we waited for everyone to get a drink and take care of business, I took a peek at an exhibit. Letters from all over the globe, along with chunks of petrified wood told stories of people pocketing pieces of the park. Guilty consciences penned letters accompanied with chunks of petrified forest returned to their rightful place.

“Anthony! We have to leave these pieces of petrified wood or we could get arrested!”

We all looked at one another.

“We’re not supposed to take anything,” I informed everyone.

Mom quipped, “No one will know you have those tiny little rocks.”

As we climbed back into the car, I reluctantly emptied my pocket, except for one little piece.

The sun set as we exited the park. I would’ve liked to have explored more. National parks take planning. Driving through and taking a look is better than nothing. I held my souvenir between my thumb and forefinger, feeling its smooth, weather worn sides. How much time did I hold in my hand?

Anthony once again sprawled his body across the seat, his two sisters conveniently cradling his head and feet. I don’t know how many road signs I read, but Holbrook, Arizona was next. Then Flagstaff.

As we approached Holbrook, a billboard announced a motel with tipis. This looks fun! It didn’t hurt to try.

“Dad, can we just stay in Holbrook instead, this motel is coming up…”

“We’re going to Flagstaff, it’s closer to the Grand Canyon. We’ll be there in an hour and a half.”

We drove past the motel with tipis. I looked through the back window as it got smaller, the sky darkened, and Anthony’s legs got heavy on mine.

When we got into Flagstaff, a large banner welcomed us to an annual southwestern art festival. Dad stopped at a motel to check us in. We waited in the car.

“Well?” Mom asked.

“We’ll go to another one. They didn’t have any rooms.”

On to the next one. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. We were sticky, hot, and tired. No vacancy. The other hotels, motels, no-tels told us the same thing in neon: NO VACANCY.

One last ounce of hope. Dad stops the car. He tries to check us in.

“They said they’re having to send people all the way back to Holbrook. There’s an art festival.”

The tipis? We could’ve stayed in the tipis!

“We’ll go to Williams, it’s a short drive to the Grand Canyon. If we stay there, we can sleep a little later.”

By now, I’m tired of sitting in the car most of the day. Mom didn’t say much, but she wasn’t happy Dad didn’t make room reservations.

Williams is a small town. Once again, Dad stops at a hotel and gets out to check us in. It took him longer this time. Finally. We can get out, stretch out and get proper sleep.

He sits in the driver’s seat.

He drives to a parking space underneath a street light.

He looks at Mom and quietly says, “We can stay in the parking lot. They don’t have any rooms.”

We will sleep in the car.

Slice of Life log — Tuesday, July 21, 2026

Summer Road Trips: Las Vegas, 1989

Who takes their kids to Las Vegas?

My parents.

Our “vacations” consisted of piling into the car to leave no later than 5:00 a.m. for the twelve hour drive from the top of Texas to the bottom. That’s how we explained it to one another. A long, boring, hot drive to Dad’s hometown to visit his side of the family. If we were lucky, we’d squeeze in a trip to the beach at Corpus Christi.

The summer of 1989, we ventured out on another twelve hour drive. Long, hot, and boring, but this time to Las Vegas.

Why?

I was 17 about to begin senior year. I had an attitude I kept to myself because backtalk wasn’t allowed and I didn’t push buttons. At least not those belonging to my parents. Siblings were fair game.

Mom and Dad visited Las Vegas a few times with their friends. This summer they decided to take us along on The Great American Road Trip along Route 66. Dad gave me a quick overview about the history of the Mother Road. A road is a road and twelve hours on it wasn’t my idea of fun nor a good history lesson.

I’d share the backseat with one of my two sisters, Angie and seven year old brother Anthony. Aida got to stay with Nana and fly in with Uncle Danny later, to give us a little extra room in the back seat. Lucky.

Still, that meant sweaty bodies, body odor, burping, elbows to the ribs, Dad’s Tejano music, our bickering, and Anthony’s head, but mostly his entire body eventually rolling all over us girls for the road trip nap. For whatever reason, we left well past 5:00 a.m. because the sun was bright that morning. I stayed awake to scope out the scenery.

Flat and treeless. Because we went west instead of south, I hoped for something other than cotton and cornfields. I thought once we passed Texas into New Mexico, I’d see a drastic change. Nope. More of the same. This is going to be a long day.

Road signs announced our route, but they didn’t mean much. How many more hours made more sense.

Two hours later, we stopped in Ft. Sumner, New Mexico. “This is where Billy the Kid is buried,” Dad announced.

“Let’s go to his grave so I can spit on it!” seven-year-old smart-alek brother quipped.

“Shut up!” us girls started.

We eyed souvenirs, but Mom reminded us we have a long way to go. If we get something here, we won’t get anything in Las Vegas. We piled back into the car and headed west. Unfamiliar towns came and went.

Approaching Arizona, Dad announced a surprise. We’d stop in Flagstaff for the night and visit the Grand Canyon the next day. This was the highlight of the day. Las Vegas wasn’t my idea of a great family trip, but the Grand Canyon? Movies and TV shows were the only way we’d ever seen the Grand Canyon. The Brady Bunch road trip was a favorite.

Our ears perked up and besides the excitement of seeing–and not spitting on–Billy the Kid’s grave, we were now on the lookout for proper ghost towns. But before the Grand Canyon, there was Petrified Forest National Park…

Sips

Celebrating our twenty fifth anniversary, we made it to dinner half an hour before our reservation. On a Thursday night, it wasn’t as busy as we expected. We have only been to Mattie’s a few times as guests to an occasional wedding or other event, but never for dinner. Formerly known as Green Pastures, it’s well known for its pea fowl roaming the early 1900s southern farm home surrounded by stately live oak trees.

We head to the bar for a pre-dinner drink. The last time I was there, it was one of several dining areas. Pale, mint-green walls made for a cozy atmosphere. Votive candles nestled among the liquor bottles along the wall cast a lovely dance of light throughout the room. Bar tenders wore the speakeasy look and asked what we’d like to sip. My husband ordered the Old Fashioned, I had the Rosabella, pink and fancy in a chilled coupe glass. I’m a sucker for fancy drinks.

We took two of the velvet lounge chairs in front of the windows overlooking the quiet porch. Hot, sticky, summer nights haven’t begun yet, but we decided to stay inside. A couple sat at one of two tables, bar empty, save for the bartenders mixing up drinks for those dining. An empty table sat to my left. We leaned in to chat, sipping our drinks. I asked my husband if he preferred to sit at the empty table even though it was larger than what we needed. No one else would use it; we were the only people there.

He declined and we continued with our conversation. We took deep breaths contemplating what all has happened in twenty five years. A long time, yet not so long.

I set my drink on the cocktail table in front of me. Arranging the small bud vase with fresh flowers and votive next to my drink, I pulled out my phone to snap the mood. I am that person. I shouldn’t be, but I wanted a souvenir photo and who knows when we’ll go back? Hopefully sooner than twenty five years.

A glass shatters.

“Ooh, did you hear that?”

“What?”

I look toward the bar, but it didn’t come from the bar.

“Creepy…”

I look to my left.

Gasp.

“Ghost!” I say.

I look at the bartender, half expecting him to pick up a broken glass, but he looks towards us.

At the table where we considered sitting, a piece of the broken votive rocks back and forth. The candle flame flickers a bit before it goes out.

“Maybe the glass had a hairline crack and the heat made it burst,” my rational brain says aloud, dismissing my ghost theory when the bartender says, “It’s the ghost! Really, it is.”

But it sounded like it was dropped…

He makes his way to the table with a bar towel, methodically picking up glass shards and the spent candle as if it isn’t the first time it has happened.

“Well, maybe they or whatever ghost got a little upset because we didn’t join them,” I mutter, taking another sip. The hostess walks in as the bartender walks behind the bar and relays the story again. Ghost.

“Yeah, probably a hairline fracture in the glass…”

I check my watch. We pick up our drinks and make it back to the hostess station.

“Whatever you do, don’t follow us home,” I say to the empty looking table. “We’re going to dinner. It’s been nice meeting you and next time, maybe we’ll sit with you, just don’t break any more candle holders.”

A Quarter

A quarter of a century. How is it that many years already? A quarter of a century of my life spent teaching, mostly. Slightly less than half of my life. Half! Twenty five years of packing up classrooms and now a library. Shoving things in drawers, closets, cabinets, storage closets. The garbage because..can I just go home already?

I pack my car with high hopes. Planning over the summer so it won’t be so much work. I still can’t manage to do it though. Laptop. I’ll need it for my first day back.

A bag-o-books, this fall’s Lone Stars, the best reads for middle schoolers. I packed a stack instead of all thirty and will probably read two. Maybe three since one is more than half finished only because it’s an audiobook and these days listening is easier than reading. I have my own TBR tower at home I’d like to read.

A pink Keurig needs a deep clean (and a break). I dug out a broken down box from the recycling bin to carry it out. Somehow it’s dripping residual coffee from yesterday’s second cup.

The Wonder Woman spiral notebook with a pile of papers jammed in its middle gets stuffed inside the box too. Good thing the cover is plastic and I don’t care if the papers get coffee all over them. I’ll go through each one to figure out what to do with them. Keeping things fresh so I don’t forget-when days start blurring together-about what it was that needed doing but could wait until fall.

These days, years, I bring less home. Twenty five years and I’m still the last one out. You’d think I’d have this moving out thing figured out. Everything that needed doing got done. Another wave of a spiraling timeline makes me dizzy. Some day I’ll pack it up for good. I look over the clean space, uncluttered counters (mostly), tables, desks, and unplugged computers. Desk supplies hibernate in dark drawers along with framed photos.

I turn in my badge and keys. My much younger self winks back at me. Have a good summer, she says. We’ll catch up again soon!

Inspiration

She disappeared for most of summer break and I think she’s back, jet-lagged, holed up in her room, sleeping. It’s been hotter than usual this summer, and for central Texas, that’s saying a lot. I’m a summer girl. It’s my favorite season and I can handle the heat. I never said anything about hell. Anyhow, Inspiration left me here to shrivel up with the trees, grass, ponds. On the plus side, the mosquitoes didn’t feast on me. Didn’t miss them one bit.

Inspiration on the other hand, I missed her. It was summer break, we could hang out. All day, every day. I don’t know if I upset her because I started spending time with painting walls and notebook pages. I save notebooks for words and I think she got upset. Share the page, Chica, but you don’t have to leave. Was she jealous or did she disappear to give me some space?

I did set up a room for her. I filled it with books and a comfy daybed for when she wants to nap, stick around, read. Paint. Attempt to draw. (Shhh, I won’t tell anyone I can’t figure out what’s on the page. The point is to try). The closet is empty for her to unpack her luggage. Am I ready to see what she brought home? Did she bring me something? Did she travel across the world? Universe?

Yesterday, during cafecito with my mom via Facetime, she mentioned my writing. “I miss reading your posts every week.”

“Yeah, I kinda shriveled up this summer. I got busy doing other things. Tuesdays would sneak up on me and by the time I knew it, I missed my post. But no one says I can only post on Tuesdays though.”

“I like reading your writing.”

Okay, well, maybe tomorrow I think as I grin and sip the last of my coffee. Mom is one of my biggest fans.

This afternoon, an unexpected package arrived. I thought it was an order that shipped last week, so I checked the tracking. It couldn’t have arrived so quickly. Sure enough, it’s still in transit. Perplexed, I double checked the label. Sometimes packages are delivered to the wrong address, but this one had my name on it.

A surprise! I found a lovely box holding a literary inspired cocktail recipe book, a sticker, and fingerless gloves. I had a hunch who sent it and sent a message. A dear friend confirmed to be the sender of the package. The gloves she selected were specifically to inspire my writing. If that’s not a sign to get back on track, I don’t know what is.

This summer, Inspiration couldn’t stand the heat.

Things harden.  Wither.  Weaken.  Die.
Others go dormant
take a break
rest
find ways to cope,
stretching for every ounce of
hydration to sustain the soul
while taking a beating on the outside
cracking
struggling
looking for relief 
anywhere
staying where its cool(-ish), 
shady
coming out for what's necessary and
retreating back to safety
resilient like cactus
but even cacti need water

She came back. We won’t argue about her leaving me alone. I won’t ask about where she went. If she needed a break from the heat, I don’t blame her. Perhaps she needed a break from me. I should’ve tagged along, but I wasn’t invited. I’ll let her recuperate from jet-lag. We have a lot of catching up to do.

The Summer of…

I used to name my summers, give them a theme in hopes of having something to do. I suppose I was setting an intention before setting intentions became a thing.

One year, it was The Summer of Learning. I taught myself to knit and made scarves in the comfort of an air conditioned home while sweltering triple digit temperatures fried the yard. I had a guitar and tinkered with it for a while, but I didn’t get far. I had a three year old and it mainly revolved more about his learning than mine. A summer with a three year old certainly counts for something though. After several summers, I lost track, had another child, and got too busy to even think about naming them.

As the end of the school year became a reality, a friend asked what I’d name this summer. I hadn’t thought of it. Great question. I contemplated.

The Summer of Breaking Free.

My life is good, but there are things I still hold back on. One of them is following through on projects here and there. The fun ones I long to do, but don’t seem to make time for while I’m working because I’m flat out tired. I have a fresh fourteen year old, so I’m now the resident Uber driver. Then there are the necessary projects that best lend themselves to be done during the long stretch of summer break. Look at flooring samples. (Probably best to budget for it first). All the paperwork in case something happens to us. Repaint bedrooms. Might as well paint the bathrooms while we’re at it. And don’t the cabinets need to be replaced too? Yeah, breaking free seems to be more of a long term commitment I didn’t want.

I signed up for a virtual craft and art workshop earlier this month. It’s free, within my price point. I also participated last year and completed some projects. Regrettably, I didn’t purchase access to the courses. This year, I allowed myself to purchase access because the instructors were fantastic, down to earth, and encouraging. For a full week, I connected with thousands of people from around the world and followed along for watercolor orange slices, planner doodling, mandalas, making a stamp from an eraser, sketch noting, block lettered paper collage, illustrated and cut bursts of happiness with sticky notes, and mixed media florals.

This led to cracking open a new notebook, not for writing, but for playing around. For a week I put my work in there and I’m popping in to view the sessions I didn’t have time to complete. I’m not out to become an artist, but it sure has helped me do something beyond my comfort zone. My medium of choice is words. Doing something I’m not great at is a way to stretch myself. I intended for my notebook to be a wordless journal, but some sessions involved journaling, a change I didn’t expect.

One big idea instructors continued to remind everyone was that of embracing what’s on the page (or canvas). If you make a mistake, it just becomes a part of the piece. Keep going and let it be what it wants to be.

Last week my body ached from painting. Walls. My daughter moved into my son’s ex-bedroom and she went in all interior decorator mode with a fierce vision of how she wanted to make it hers. (She is an artist). It took her all of ten minutes to choose her paint color. Dark Ash.

I’ve renamed it Teen Goth.

Her room will become my craft and writing room-at least that’s the plan. I’ve narrowed down my color choices to three. I’m indecisive, but I’m ready to have my own room. Our kitchen table is tired of having me perched at one end with a hot mess of whatever project I happen to be working on. My husband is tired of it too. Soon we’ll be able to eat at our kitchen table without having to shove everything to one side. But first, there’s the paint color. Maybe I’ll close my eyes, spin around three times and point at one. Otherwise it might wait until next summer. I can always repaint if I don’t like the color.

This seems to be The Summer of Painting. Should I rename it? I think I’ll hold on to my original title because painting and doing something other has helped me break free from the walls I put up around myself. On to the next project!

Crammed

Summer break is like packing for a road trip. First, there’s a list of things to do. One for projects around the house. Declutter. Re-paint E’s now empty room and make it my own. Plant those seeds I picked up from the library, yes, the library. Clean all of the things that need deep cleaning: the fridge, windows, oven, the exterior of the house. Get into a routine, which I say every summer. But my routine consists of sleeping in and staying up late, honoring my night-owl nature that takes a backseat for ten months.

Great for a summer potluck. This will be lunch the rest of the week. Fortunately, it’s tasty.

The next list is eating well, hydrating (not with mid-day mimosas), adding more workouts to my regular ones, trying new recipes. Today I made a pasta salad with peas, asparagus, and a ricotta-lemon-basil dressing I’ll be eating the rest of the week. I keep forgetting to cut our recipes in half. There’s a watermelon my husband brought home this afternoon added to the one already sliced and chilled in the fridge. No worries though, if we don’t eat it, we’ll drink it. Watermelon limeade for the teen and watermelon mojitos or margs for us.

Then there’s the reading list. By default of my profession, my 2023 reading list is announced every fall and chock-full of thirty middle grade titles. I’ve only read three so far, but I managed to bring too many home for summer break. I need options. That’s in addition to the books on my TBR list. Sometimes I buy the books instead because I’m a slow reader or the wait is long at the library. Currently, I’m reading The Hacienda by Isabel Cañas. I don’t read it right before bed though, because I’m chicken and horror isn’t my go-to genre.

It’s birthday season in our family. Teen turns fourteen on Saturday and I’ve already managed to mess up one of the gifts. Sigh. I’m making those (mental) gift buying lists and will myself to at least get them sent during the birthday month. I’m a late gift giver. However, I’ve never had anyone turn down a belated birthday gift. I delivered one to a friend just last week. Her birthday was in March. I think the gift knew it would wait for June since we had a carefree, impromptu lunch date.

Next time I’ll just use a Sharpie. Drawing with a paintbrush isn’t easy.

My list seems to get shoved way in the back. Sometimes it’s forgotten. I’m working it in. I signed up for a virtual crafting class this week. I treated myself to purchasing it. Last year I participated and didn’t buy it and I regretted it. I get access to the replays indefinitely as opposed to 24 hours. This allows me to attend to the musts. I managed to get play with two projects. I’m a perfectionist, so this one is hard for me. Instructors remind us not to worry about the finished project. Enjoy the process. Be patient. Take your time. Play.

Next time, use watercolor paper. And use a compass that works to draw circles. Oh, and be patient.

And that’s what summer is about. You pack up your car and cram it with everything you need to get to your destination. But I have to remind myself to take a detour. Enjoy the ride. There’s no rush to get through summer. Sip on some water, sip on some watermelon concoction. Make mistakes and cover it up if need be. Or let it shine in all it’s beautiful glory.

	Anita Ferreri on Summer Road Trips: Las Vegas,…
	cmargocs on Summer Road Trips: Las Vegas,…
	Juliette Awua-Kyerem… on Summer Road Trips: Las Vegas,…
	Denise Krebs on Summer Road Trips: Las Vegas,…
	Debbie Lynn on The Summer of Why the Hell…