We slept in the car. Mom didn’t. She’s the type who needs a morning and evening shower. There wan’t anything else to do but fall asleep leaning against the car door, Anthony stretched out across the back seat bookended between his two sisters.
In the morning, we pulled out of the parking lot and into a service station. We’d drive to the Grand Canyon and do another national park drive through. Someone at the service station informed Dad about the showers.
Hungry, stinky, and bleary-eyed, it was hard to be excited.
And then we saw the views.
On the way to find the campground showers, we made a few stops at scenic overlooks.
You’d think the most memorable part of the trip was the magnificent view, but it was the showers. Dad split some quarters with Mom. He took off with Anthony in one direction and we took off with her in another. Not only were there few shower stalls, Mom put Angie and me in one stall and she took another.
“You’ll need to be quick and you’ll have to share. While one of you scrubs down, one of you stands under the water. When it runs out, it runs out.”
You have got to be kidding me.
We stood back to back because two teen sisters in the same space, in a shower, is mortifying.
“You’re hogging the water, MOVE so I can rinse my hair!”
It didn’t work. Midway through, the water stops.
“Go get more quarters,” I snapped.
Squeaky clean, Angie gets dressed and leaves me, drip drying, my eyes closed to block soap from running into my eyes.
“She ran out!” she announces when she returns. “You need to hurry so we can leave.”
Typical.
I get dressed, my hair half rinsed with soapy film.
We didn’t ride donkeys down to the bottom of the canyon like the kids on The Brady Bunch. No helicopter ride. No real camping, just a quick drive through with a pit stop for a shower. The canyon’s grandeur did take our breath away, but we weren’t there long enough to take it in the way such places deserve.
On this never ending road trip, our next stop is at Hoover Dam. I don’t want to see a damn dam.
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.
“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.
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.”
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…
Nerds Beget Nerds 