Last summer, I embarked on a memorable road trip from Pennsylvania to Texas, solo with my two kids. To my surprise, I cherished every minute of the 48 hours we spent on the road together. When asked what inspired this adventure, I often point the finger at my dad. It’s his fault that every summer, as the days lengthen and the temperatures rise, I feel compelled to pack our bags and hit the open road. The scent of warm asphalt instantly transports me back to our family road trips from my childhood. Each time I step into a convenience store on a hot day, greeted by a rush of cold air and the aroma of fresh coffee, I smile, knowing my dad is there in spirit, nudging me to relive those nostalgic memories.
Some of my most cherished childhood memories involve sitting in the middle seat, sandwiched between my two towering brothers, while the sound of Oldies music filled the air. Every summer, with my dad driving our trusty blue station wagon, we embarked on epic two-week adventures that allowed us to explore the entire Lower 48 states. My dad meticulously planned these trips for six months, often while sitting on the toilet, armed with his trusty Rand McNally. I want my children to have similar experiences.
When I first proposed the idea of a long road trip, my husband was doubtful. Since he couldn’t join us due to work commitments, I would be taking our children, aged 9 and 12, on this journey solo. For years, I had contemplated the drive from Pennsylvania to my mother’s home in Texas, and last summer felt like the perfect time. I was familiar with the route, having made the journey many times with my dad by my side. After my father passed away in October 2012, the thought of retracing our steps gave me the courage to take on this trip.
This journey was more than just a road trip; it was a way for me to connect with my dad and ease the grief that still lingered in my heart. I wanted to share with my kids the same sense of wonder that my dad had instilled in me. I hoped to ignite a passion for travel in them, just as he had done for me.
As the departure date approached, I prepared meticulously. I packed travel games and snacks alongside my dad’s vintage Rand McNally. I planned our route, secured hotel reservations, and hoped for the best. The night before we set off, doubt crept in as I questioned whether I could handle the 1,600-mile journey. Then, I heard my dad’s familiar voice from the past: “Keep your hands at 10 and 2, be courteous to truckers, and watch your speed.” With those words echoing in my mind and my hands firmly gripping the wheel, we pulled out of our driveway on a dew-kissed summer morning.
As we merged onto the highway, we spotted an Idaho license plate—oddly out of place in our small Pennsylvania town. My son grinned and said, “Poppy is with us…” thus igniting our license plate game. Over our four days on the road, we spotted plates from 38 different states.
The picturesque rolling hills of western Pennsylvania and the stunning mountains of Virginia and Tennessee whizzed by our windows. We laughed, shared stories, counted license plates, and lost ourselves in Harry Potter audiobooks. The hours on the road forced me to be fully present with my kids—no texting, no emails, no distractions. I embraced the journey, realizing that my dad must have felt the same joy listening to our chatter from the backseat. I could almost visualize him in the passenger seat, offering guidance on long-distance driving.
Along the way, we witnessed the breathtaking beauty of our country, and my kids marveled at how fences and dashed lines didn’t actually separate states. Everywhere we stopped, from hotels to rest areas, there were friendly faces eager to help, making this mother’s journey a bit easier—a sign that my dad was watching over us. I’ll always remember the kind manager at a Nashville restaurant who treated us to dessert, delighted to hear we were headed to his hometown. My dad would have relished that coincidence.
Finally, we arrived at my mother’s home, tired yet exhilarated. The only thing missing was my dad standing at the door, proudly stating, “1,595 miles in 23 hours and 17 minutes. You did great, kid.” We truly did, Dad.
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In summary, my road trip with my kids was not just a journey across miles but a heartfelt nod to my dad’s memory—a way to share the love of travel and adventure that he instilled in me.
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