Historical November–December 2018 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
A question occurred to me while I was stuck on Highway 64 trying to cross the Poplar Street Bridge so I could access Highway 44, take a short cut through the park, sneak past construction, fight off periodic episodes of road rage, check my text messages, even though I know it’s wrong, and pick up my daughter from school on time. Whatever happened to the Sunday drive?
We all remember the carefree ritual of touring the back roads looking for trees.
The answer came to me as I was flipping the bird toward the car ahead of me, after he cut me off. Traffic sucks.
If I want to see trees, I’ll watch the Tree Channel.
My wife and I took a road trip to Chicago to celebrate my parent’s 60th wedding anniversary.
I let her drive because it’s easier on my ears.
It was a beautiful day as we drove north on Highway 55. Traffic was light, construction was minimal, and the mood was relaxed.
We talked, laughed and sang carpool karaoke.
I remember reaching across the seat and holding her hand.
As we neared Chicago, she took back her hand and assumed the 10 o’clock- 2 o’clock position.
It was time for some serious driving.
I was on navigation duty. Do you remember the AAA TripTik? That seems so horse and buggy these days. One time I asked Google Maps directions from my house to the Sun.
It said to go straight through the Milky Way for 48 million miles until you hit Mercury.
Then take a left for another 45 million miles until you reach your destination; arrival time in 19 or 20 years, depending on your type of vehicle.
With possession of tools like this, how hard could it be to find our hotel in downtown Chicago?
All I have to say is it’s easier to get to the Sun than the InterContinental on the Magnificent Mile of Michigan Ave.
I always get us close, but not enough.
I blame the navigation system, my wife blames the navigator.
I looked over at her white knuckling the steering wheel and said, “Relax.
We made it.” She flashed me a glare like she was lawyering up. “You are a terrible navigator.” Wounded in pride, I hissed back, “You can’t handle traffic in the big city!” She pulled out the verbal dagger and plunged it into my excuses, “You couldn’t problem solve your way out of a trash can!” I’ve been thinking about it for awhile, and I’ve come up with three scenarios.
The first one is, I would use my body weight in an effort to tip the trash can over, and crawl out. Second, I would make myself small and get out through the swinging gate lid at the top. Or, I could yell and scream until someone heard me and let me out.
I arrived at Anne’s school in time to pick her up. I’m teaching her how to drive, so she takes over the driver’s seat.
I tell her to check her blind spots, and keep her left hand ready to flip off the guy who tries to cut in front of us. She’s almost ready to take the driving test.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, November–December 2018.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times2018_11.pdf, printed page(s) 4; PDF page(s) 4.
