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08/18/2022 12:00 AMWhen August begins its languid descent on the summer season, I think of my father. I think of my father every day, but there’s something about August that makes me think of him even more. Maybe it’s because when I was a kid, we always took an end-of-summer road trip.
As I drive on I-95 nowadays I’m amazed by the number of cars crowding the lanes every summer. They back up over the Baldwin Bridge going north on Saturdays and then going south on Sundays. Where are they going, I wonder? Are they going to the nearby beaches or are they on more of an epic drive like my family used to take?
“We’re leaving at seven,” Dad would announce firmly the night before every long-distance trek. One thing or another would prevent that. A cat would get loose and need to be corralled and brought back into the house. I’d forget to put on shoes. I’d forget to grab up a favorite doll and would need to go get it. Everyone would have to make one last pit-stop to the bathroom.
Dad would mutter in the driveway, and it would come out as one continuous word, “Gottagetouttahere. Gottagetouttahere.” We never left at seven.
As soon as we got on the road, all was good, though. The start of a road trip was always exciting. We’d pile into “Godzilla,” which would be loaded up with bags, pillows, blankets, and comic books. Godzilla was, of course, a station wagon with wood paneling on the sides. What else could it be? My road trip spot was always in the way back, and I can see myself nested in a pile of blankets with a stuffed Pink Panther doll and lots of reading material.
Godzilla needed to be fed on a regular basis. Again, what Dad said would come out as one continuous word when we pulled up alongside the pumps. “Fillitupwithregular!”
Gas stations in every state had attendants. Nobody pumped gas except gas station workers.
I was prone to motion sickness, so it wouldn’t be long before I would start to turn a little green. These were the days when all adults it seemed were smokers. Dad would light up and no one thought about the smoke wafting in the breeze to my way back nest. Second-hand smoke hadn’t been invented yet. So, we’d pull over and I’d yak in the grass, and then we’d get going again. No big deal.
A few dozen times a trip I’d moan, “How many more miles?”
“Oh, only a hundred,” Dad would always say.
And I’d give the same reply every time. “A hundred! Noooooooooooo!”
Road trips were fun even though I tossed my cookies and complained most of the way. We figured out how to amuse ourselves. Approaching toll booths was an opportunity for action if we kids weren’t asleep. “Let’s be brats!” one of us would say as we slowly crept up in a line of vehicles. As we got to the booth itself with the attendant having full view of our car, my brothers and I would have full-on temper tantrums by yelling, flailing our arms, and pretend-crying. Mom and Dad would also get in on the act.
“Quiet ya brats, I’m tryin’ a pay the toll!” Dad would yell in a fake Bronx accent as he flung a quarter into the basket. Mom would look horrified and roll her eyes as if embarrassed at our behavior.
Sometimes Dad would reach behind his seat during our act and swat at the air. “We’re goin’ home, ya brats! No ice cream for you!” he’d shout.
Once we were out of eyesight and earshot of the tolls, we would laugh hysterically. I wonder if any of the operators thought the act was real. I bet some did.
Now in the present day, I’m approaching the Baldwin Bridge on my way to visit Mom. Traffic is backed up with rows of cars crawling north. Dad has been gone for many years, but in the car on an August afternoon, it’s as if he’s here. Like he’s got a quarter in his palm for the toll.
Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.