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

The Summer of Why the Hell Not?

It was there embedded in my own words-from my last post-and it took you all to find it for me. I’m grateful; thank you!

I’ve been why-the-hell-notting for a while. Getting “older” and (sometimes) wiser, finally has done it, along with advice from my brother-in-law. “Might as well enjoy all you can. If you’ve gotta pay for something, why the hell not? You can’t take it with ya!” There have also been too situations hitting too close that make you rethink why you do certain things.

Certain thing number one: being overly cautious. Relax, live, and have fun! I’m a natural worry-er which competes with being a warrior and chasing thrills. My kind of thrills don’t sucker punch you with adrenaline like bungee jumping or sky diving. It means not overthinking details. Just roll with it and see what happens.

Certain thing number two: I work hard and do my best to live below my means. However, if I want something, I save for it and do my best to stay out of debt. We’re now able to afford some activities that would’ve been impossible years ago. Might as well use some and enjoy it.

I’m not a huge country music fan, but come on, George Strait? I grew up in small town Texas, his songs on repeat in the back of the bus on our way to Friday night football games. I checked for tickets on concert day, finding reasonably priced floor tickets. I checked in with hubby and asked if he wanted to go. If not, I’d go solo.

Why the hell not?

We didn’t have Friday night plans. S. spent quality sibling time with E at his apartment.

Great concert!

Certain thing number three: Try it, you might like it. A friend invited me to play pickleball with her, her boys (who were patient with my lack of skills), and another close friend. Despite almost melting in the sun, we had a great time.

I don’t like FOMO, but I’ve also learned to enjoy JOMO (the joy of missing out), but often I miss out too much in favor of keeping up with household tasks. Uggg…

When hubby found tickets to a UT baseball game a couple of weeks ago, he pulled the same trick. Sunday night 8:00 start time. Ooh, that’s late.

My self-talk consisted of Nope. Just go. It’s summer break. No Sunday scaries. No waking up early for work on Monday.

We went. They won. I had a great time. We got home well after midnight.

There isn’t a big vacation planned this summer. However, I’ll see where why the hell not? takes us.

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!

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.

Cicadas

drone off and on
off and on
their outer selves hold
tight to a blade of grass
tree trunk
iris leaves we don't remember planting
the front door frame
under the porch
as if they've been invited
they were time tellers 
before I could read time
signaling a long hot day
hanging back on my favorite swing
long hair dangling in the dirt
rocking myself into a bright summer haze
eyes closed
big toe digging into the ground
giving myself a little push
nothing to do inside
nothing to do outside
too hot
too boring
all I could do was swing
back and forth
back and forth
if I were a cicada
I'd sing with them
droning off and on
off and on
complaining about the heat
the sun
summer
almost wishing for cooler weather 
then realizing 
I'd have to stop swinging
I leave the shell of my former self
on the swing
pull myself up and head indoors
for a drink of water
the cicadas continue their songs
reminding us 
this summer heat 
is temporary

Summer Initiation

I must have been born with a magnetic plate in my head that attracts flying objects, magnetic or not. If I believed in alien abductions, I’d blame it on that too, but I save that one for my pinkie toe and other stories. Stay tuned. Ever since I can remember, anything launched into or sticking out of the air, finds me. The top of my head. My ear. My face.

The last day of eighth grade, brothers in our friend group, the only ones with access to a pick-up truck, invited us to their house to fill water balloons after our end of school year celebration. Officially, even though it’s summer break, we’re Freshmen. Fish. Stinky Fish. Why do they even call it that? Not wanting to be left out, I tagged along. I wore my favorite jams shorts printed with tropical fruits and a tank top. My new summer outfit.

I was supposed to go home right after school to watch my younger siblings, but I convinced them to stay put and not tell Mom where I ventured. “I won’t be gone long and I’ll be home way before she gets home. Don’t tell!” I took off with a friend and made it to the party house.

The plan was to fill the balloons, load them-and ourselves-into the the bed of the pick-up and drive around town catching the new unarmed sophomores unaware. My bestie had a crush on one of them and on one of the drivers, so this was more of a flirting opportunity for her than anything else. Summer teen romance with a side of a third wheel.

We filled buckets with water and loaded them with water filled balloons. The brothers got inside the truck cab while the rest of us climbed up the back and sides to find our places. We drove around, our pent-up and hopeful for high school energy oozing out of us hollering “Ninety! Ninety! We’re the Class of Ninety!” No one heard and no one cared. Except for us. And those sophomores.

We made our way to the only park in town. That’s where we found them. They walked toward us and then, “Fire!” We all scrambled for water balloons and began to aim. Mine didn’t ever go far. Not only do I not throw like a girl, I can’t hold on to any type of sports equipment and water balloons weren’t any different. The others, faster and with better aim launched balloon after ballon at our opponents. They didn’t need my help throwing them, so I started grabbing as many as I could hold and distributed them to the others.

With nothing in their defense, the sophomores devised a clever plan. Evenings had been rainy. The unpaved parking area where we sat in the truck bed was…muddy. They picked up handfuls of mud. Sticky, clay-like mud that holds its shape when cupped into the palm of a hand and shaped into a ball.

“D-u-u-u-ck!” One of the guys yelled.

I sat near one of the buckets, so I didn’t see the commotion. I kept handing out water grenades. “D-u-u-u-ck!”

The girl in front of me ducked. I didn’t.

WHACK!

Everything went black for a split second. I reached for my glasses, but almost couldn’t find them. “My glasses, where are my glasses?” Still unable to see because I kept my eyes closed, I felt around for them. I took them off and noticed mud where the lenses were supposed to be. My face throbbed. Chunks of mud decorated my new outfit.

I’m not crying. I’m not crying. I’m NOT crying.

The truck peeled out and we were back on the street, pitched mud balls hitting the side of the pick-up. Most of the other kids laughed and pointed while I tried to figure out if the lenses to my glasses popped out or broke.

“You look like a raccoon!”

One of the girls, in between laughs, asked “Why didn’t you duck down?” I didn’t think I needed to. They aimed for her, not me.

“I’m going to get in so much trouble,” I managed to choke out. I pulled chunks of mud off my glasses and found the lenses. Mud clung to my hair. When I almost figured out what happened, a bucket of water came at me.

“Why did you do that?” one of the girls fussed at one of the boys.

“I was just trying to help her get the mud off,” he explained.

“You didn’t have to dump the whole bucket of water on her!”

Some of the mud washed off. Still intact, I wiped the lenses with the bottom of my tank top. I held my composure, but throat tightened. “Just take me home now. I’m going to get in so much trouble.”

I climbed out of the truck and walked up the driveway. One of my sisters ran outside when she saw I was home as I headed to the water faucet in the backyard. I gave her a look and put my finger up to my lips. I turned it on and hosed down my hair. I was already drenched. I put my outfit in the washer, cleaned myself up, and put on my responsibility cloak.

I heard about high school freshman initiations. I watched them in movies and read about them in books. I didn’t know they existed for summer breaks. Later, I managed to laugh about it, but I still have that taste of mud in my mouth.

They Hate Road Trips-2021

This is the first of my summer road trip musings, in reverse order to my childhood.

I grew up in the Texas panhandle, New Mexico nearby, but we never went there when I was a kid. No snow skiing or summer hikes for us. Our summer vacations, if we had one, were usually to south Texas to visit my dad’s side of the family. If we were lucky, we’d get to visit the beach, but we mostly stayed at my grandma’s and visited family.

The past two years, summer vacation plans fell through. We always go back home to visit our family, but now we travel north. Last week we spent the first half of our vacation with family and then invited my mom to tag along with us for a few days in New Mexico. Six years before, almost to the day, we attended the U.F.O. Festival in Roswell, spent a day at Carlsbad Caverns, slid down the dunes in White Sands, and did a tiny bit of hiking in Ruidoso.

Albuquerque and Santa Fe were our destinations this year and I wanted to stop at as many roadside attractions as possible. In reality, we didn’t stop as often as I anticipated. I had a grand plan to map out everything, but the beginning of summer break had us busy with day long projects for two weeks straight. Not much time for planning. As I got lost in the depths of Pinterest and the web, I decided we’d play it by ear. I started my sightseeing list, asked the kids to do their own research and give me suggestions (they didn’t), and quickly realized we’d need more than three days to do everything. Plan B: do what we can with the time we have.

We stayed at a beautiful home in Albuquerque via Vrbo. We bought enough groceries to prepare breakfast and dinner. When we arrived, I almost didn’t want to leave the house. I spent the mornings on the front porch of the courtyard sipping my coffee while watching hummingbirds and other birds I couldn’t identify stop by the fountain for their morning sips of water. My mom joined me and we took our time catching up. It had been almost a year since I’d seen her.

The kiddos, right before they ditched us. I’ll take what I can get.

In Santa Fe, we went to Meow Wolf, the immersive art exhibit in a remodeled bowling alley. The kids ditched us. We went on our own and had a great time anyway. Parents with younger kids wrangled and steered them in the direction they needed to go. Some hollered at them to figure out where they had wandered off–there are lots of nooks, crannies, and secret passages. I don’t miss those days. But here I am, without my own kids. I didn’t experience their wonder or joy, but they did show me their pictures. Sigh…

We headed out for lunch then for some shopping. Even if they’re older, they still get tired. I didn’t get to pop in to as many shops as I would’ve liked. They aren’t much into shopping unless it’s for candy or ice cream. Kids have a way of telling you things without telling you things. It was hot and they were done with the walking even though they’d been fed. It doesn’t stop at toddlerhood.

We spent the following day in Albuquerque. The oldest didn’t want to join us and I didn’t prod. This is probably our last full-family road trip. Heading back to Texas, we stopped at a large souvenir shop I remember from my own last full-family road trip to Las Vegas before my senior year of high school. It’s funny, no matter how old the kids get, there’s still the allure of filling up a little bag of polished rocks. Although they had their own spending money, I bought them both said little bags full of rocks, the youngest correcting me, “They’re crystals, Mom, not rocks.”

As we got back onto the highway, my mom announced she bought me a little something. I turned around and she handed me a small plastic rectangle. I flipped it over and discovered my name printed on it. I squealed like a twelve year old on a road trip. There’s still the allure of getting a little license plate souvenir keychain with your name on it, no matter how old you get.

The Summer of Who Knows What

Years ago I started naming my summers as a declaration of my goals. I didn’t write them out in a fancy planner and vision boards weren’t a thing back then. Or maybe they were, but I didn’t know about them. Too busy with a toddler at the time.

The first one I remember was The Summer of Learning. I bought a guitar with the determination to continue plucking away at it throughout the summer. I hung out with kids at an after school enrichment class for students wanting to learn guitar. The choir teacher led it and welcomed me. Instead of signing up to teach an enrichment class, I joined one. I like to think I was modeling the love of learning something new. And hard. Summer break started and the guitar moved into my closet. It’s still there, awaiting new strings that haven’t been replaced. In years. I think it wants to play.

In the mornings, I sponsored kids who wanted to learn to knit and crochet. I knew how to make a basic chain, single, and double crochet stitches from my childhood. My mom taught me how to make these swirly worm bookmarks, complete with googly eyes. I made a few and abandoned the fiber arts, or rather, crafts. Knitting intrigued me. I found an old book from our library that had not made it to the weeding cart. I checked it out and taught myself the basics. Other kids were interested, so the group was born. I took it into summer break and learned to make cute little baby hats. Those were my projects that summer. Along with scarves I gifted people. Some wore them, some didn’t, but I made them and people gladly accepted them.

I read eight books that summer, too. This was back in the day when my kid was still young enough to nap once or twice a week. Yes, once or twice a week. My kids didn’t nap much. Ever. But I’d get my down time in the evenings and I’d stay up late only to groggily wake up early the next morning. I picked my books up in between toddler TV shows or play sessions over a makeshift cardboard box kitchen and Play-Doh. It was worth the mess.

One summer I named The Summer of Getting Stuff Done. The stuff to get done was fresh coats of interior wall paint, trying-unsuccessfully-to tend a bountiful garden, decluttering (always decluttering), freezer meal prep, exercising every morning at 5:30 a.m. Seriously? The early morning exercise sessions didn’t make it to the next summer. How did I do that though? And the freezer meal prep to toss into the Crock-Pot? They all hated the meals.

I don’t remember what I named other summers. I might have written them in a journal somewhere. Eventually I stopped because they flat out stopped working. Or I got tired. Or they stopped working and I got tired. I know one was The Summer of Baby #2 (who will soon be 12). I lost track after that. However, I started marking them with vacations.

My 40th Birthday BBF Bash to Las Vegas was one of my favorite summers. And the one to Mexico sans kids. And the one to Mexico with kids and Grandma the following summer. The less expensive one to New Mexico for Alien Fest on Fourth of July Weekend right before grad school. And the horrid one to Colorado after I finished grad school. Colorado was fine. The kids, not so much. They were at the age where their bickering was next level annoying. At least some of the pictures were good. And that’s been it.

I suppose last summer would be The Summer of…I’m over it. We all know how that summer went. Here we are…here I am, trying to figure it out. Maybe this time I’ll name my summer after I experience it. Find a name to fit after I get to know it. Let it play out and follow it where it wants to go. Our family has experienced many milestones this year. One kid composing a piece of music and graduating high school. Another starting middle school and experiencing all that comes with it. My husband’s semi-retirement. My move back to middle school in August. Planning a road trip; nothing fancy, but at least something.

Rather than take control, I’ll let this one take the lead. I’ll putter around my summer and do what I can without fretting. Get that guitar restrung and either learn to play it or give it to someone who will love it. Climb out of my comfort zone and join a writing group. Learn to play pickle ball because sports are not my thing. You know, push myself to do something hard. And read. Always reading. Hang out with my kids who no longer want to hang out. Maybe I’ll nap. Once or twice a week.

	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…