Nov 14, 2006

This essay appeared in over 100 US newspapers in October, and was released March 1, 2007 in Chicken Soup for the Soul.

Ten Thousand Miles in Blue Streak

As a child, raised by a single mother, my experience in the 1970’s was different from that of my friends. I was a latchkey kid with more responsibilities than other children my age. But Mom worked hard, saved every penny, and made a comfortable life for us — one that included her passion for travel.

She purchased a 1973 Midas motor home and named it “Blue Streak”. During a ten-year span, we traveled to 47 states. In my late teens, we pulled a horse trailer and competed in shows throughout Wisconsin, and as far away as Ohio, Texas, and even Walla Walla, Washington. I’ll never forget the summer after I got my license. We crossed the Continental Divide with me sitting in the driver’s seat. I wondered how many 16-year-olds had ever done that.

Recently Mom was reminiscing about our earliest travels. “Remember when we visited Graceland and toured Elvis’ home?” she asked. “And wasn’t it great overlooking Niagara Falls?” My blank response frustrated her — the only destinations I remembered before age ten were those she kept in photo scrapbooks.

“I took you all those places and you don’t remember a thing,” she complained. I felt guilty —she was right. Then I contemplated my memory.

“No, Mom, I don’t remember all the places we went,” I said. “I don’t recall this statue, or that museum, or even the lobster we ate in Maine.”

“What I do remember, though, is that you were always there. It was just you and me for thousands of miles. I remember the orange shag carpet and the faded yellow curtains. I remember the RV water that smelled and the oven that didn’t work because mice made a nest in the insulation. I remember reading the map for you and figuring out how many miles before the next rest stop.”

“And I remember how you drove late into the night, while I fell asleep in the bunk above. You sang songs that started with each letter of the alphabet: Are You Lonesome Tonight, Band of Gold, Chances Are, Don’t be Cruel…”

“I remember listening to your ‘should-have-been-famous’ voice. That was my lullaby.”

Now, over thirty years after my first trip with my mom, I’ve started traveling with my own daughter. I ask her to pick the destination, but she doesn’t seem to care where we go.

“I just want us to go together,” she says.

Mom gave me many gifts: an appreciation for culture, a strong work ethic, and the confidence I can do whatever I put my mind to. But one of her greatest lessons was unintended:

Where you’re going doesn’t matter as much as who’s with you on the journey.

Pass the Torch Tuesday Guidelines: Every week, we share simple and stupendous times kids make us proud. Just write about catching a kid being good. Complete guidelines and former PTT links are >HERE< .

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