The Legacy of the Sunday Drive

This morning my husband came to me and said “let’s go for a ride.” It is a bright, beautiful and clear Sunday morn in the brilliant Bitterroots of Western Montana. Still, in late May, you can see frost on the tender spring grass, a hint of nip in the air, but the sun rising in the cerulean blue sky holds the promise of an earth warming breeze.

As we packed up water, pups, and a few snacks, I was reminded of the days of long ago, when a Sunday wheeled adventure was the norm, not the exception. As a child, it was a family ritual to load the car on Sunday to take our “Sunday Drive.”

In New York, that drive took on different hues, depending on the season. In summer, it meant heading to Jones beach with a blanket, watching the sea and stopping to grab an orange Nehi and a Coney Island. In spring we’d head to Connecticut to visit my grandparents, who ran a cottage motel. In the fall, the Catskills were alive with autumn splendor.

And my favorite ride, in winter months, with ice skates and a broom packed in, was a trip to an iced pond – either nearby, or if we had time and funds for fuel, to Westchester county. My Dad would spend considerable time and energy brooming snow off the frozen surface to make way for a day of skating, followed by an afternoon of hot cocoa at a nearby coffee shop.

When we moved west, to the mile high city, I fondly recall visiting the Rockies for the golden glow of autumn aspens. Or my most cherished place to visit, Tiny Town. Tiny Town is now a park, with train ride and admission charged, having been rebuilt after a disasterous flood destroyed the town in 1969. But back in the 1959 Tiny Town was a hidden place of magic and wonder, a place to spur the imagination of the 6 year old I was back then. A complete pint-sized town created in the foothills just west of Denver, we’d ride through the streets admiring the intricately crafted homes and businesses, and I would imagine what fairies and elves inhabited the buildings.

Once we landed in San Diego, my mother’s favorite Sunday Drive was La Jolla. A new navy wife by then, she would take careful note of the stunning homes, jotting down her ideas, and snapping photos on her Kodak Instamatic for future reference.

When the folks finally settled into the desert of eastern California to forge their forever home, the Sunday Drive became less frequent, with more babies and bills, swim meets and school projects, life and responsibilities taking its place.

Years later, when I moved home to help Mom when she fell ill, she’d look at me on Sundays and say “let’s take a drive.” Into her Buick we’d go, driving the streets of her desert town, looking for new housing developments, “scary” roads, stranges structures, and trying to get lost and found again. A faded memory revived, and looking at the glean in Mom’s eye, a memory that perhaps she missed as much as I did.

As we drive through the ‘Roots this fine Sunday morn, watching the river run, water rushing down sides of mountains and hillsides, feeling the sun on my face, crisp scent of pines and firs, I can’t help but feel that this lock down has taught us something important. It’s not the grand gestures that make life special. It’s the little, inconsequential things that, once you look back on them, you remember how grand they truly are.

So turn off the TV, stop streaming, posting and tweeting, and take a Sunday drive. Be free and make memories. Revive the Sunday Drive.

Every Day is a Winding Road

So, it done happened again.

One minute we are milking goats, collecting eggs, making soap. The next minute we are loading up boxes and storage containers to move to yet another “forever home.”

Everything was running stunningly. Until it wasn’t. To make a long story shorter and less complicated, our investment and retirement that would not quite allow us to live in the lap of luxury, but would at least allow us to shower daily, fell through. Kaput. Splat. A sale that happened, but on paper only. A change of government that suddenly decided Americans were not their friends. But American money was. Good friends. Such good friends that they would not let the said Americans part with their money. They’d keep it safe. For a long time. Like, forever.

Money? What money?

Goats and rabbits and chickens all found new homes. Our house found a new owner. And we found ourselves on the road in an RV looking for the next great adventure.

Sounds exciting, yes? A 33 foot trailer, towed to bright new horizons. Count me in! On the road again. The road less taken. Take me home, country roads. Down the yellow brick road. We’re hitting the road, Jack. The long and winding road. Why don’t we do it … ok, maybe not that one.

My husband was optimistic. “It will be fun” he said and we loaded up the essentials to get by for a few weeks – enough until we found something that suited both our fancy, and our wallets. Those essentials also included two rather large Labrador retrievers.

Me, the big guy (6’4″ and all beef) and two large animals. As a friend coined it “that’s a heck of a lot of flesh.” In a space that seemed to get more crowded as the days turned to weeks, turned into a month.

Labs are wonderful dogs. Until you spend a month stepping over them, smelling them, trying to keep them quiet in an RV park that has “quiet hours.”

Tui, our chocolate lab, has issues with potty time. He can’t go if he’s on a leash. Or if you are looking at him. Or if the stars are not aligned. So we have to suss out a place where he can run free, but be contained, and be secluded enough so nobody sees him do his business.

You’re not looking at me, are you?

Barley, our yellow lab, has issues with everything else. He barks at whatever sound is “unusual.” He eats anything that’s on the ground. And he has digestive issues that makes the RV smell like bad salami and rotted vegetables.

Yes, I’m stinky. But I’m your stinky.

All in all, life is not a highway, and as it turns out, I have no desire to ride it all night long. I wasn’t born a ramblin’ man. And, shameful as it may seem, I wasn’t even born to be wild.

Officially, we are out of the evergreen state. We thought, for a New York minute, that we’d settle in the central/northeastern part of the state. Towns are too small, land too dry, in no close proximity of anything I was looking for, and I was sure I saw the Alaska Bush People howling on the side of the road.

So east we go, to the Big Sky Country, which has been one of Brad’s dreams for as long as we’ve been married. We’ve got at least 30 possibles from Zillow, about 10 cans of my homemade pasta sauce, 4 old, dusty CDs in case the radio doesn’t work, a bag of salt and vinegar chips and a Keurig in the RV. What possibly could go wrong?