Road-Tripping to the Midwest in the American Station Wagon

Anyone familiar with the station wagons of the past remembers some pretty sweet road-tripping experiences across America in the “acres of steel and miles of chrome.” They came in two sizes, big and bigger, and they were “designed for families living it up on a budget.”

My parents owned a dark brown 1972 Chevrolet Impala station wagon when I was little. We traveled in that station wagon from Pennsylvania to Indiana to visit my grandparents. My parents took turns driving so we wouldn't have to break up the trip into multiple days.

When my dad announced the departure time the evening prior, we all knew that really meant we needed to be ready and in the car a good half hour beforehand. Okay, maybe it wasn't quite that extreme, but I remember thinking, Why bother setting a time!?

"Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable!" —Eric Jerome Dickey

We always departed from home while it was practically still nighttime. The rear floor of the wagon was completely flat; my brother and I put our sleeping bags there so we could crawl in and go back to sleep. Riding in the very back area felt like we were floating down the road in a world all our own, and at that time of day we mostly were.

As the dark hours turned into light, we found ways to pass the time. All passengers had the pleasure of listening to whatever the folks tuned the radio to. Auto Bingo with the sliding red plastic windows . . . that was fun . . . the first few rounds. Mad Libs, the World's Greatest Word Game, killed some time. (Bonus: it was a good way to learn what the heck a noun and verb and adjective were when I was barely school age.) Seatbelts weren't required, so we could move throughout the interior at will. When I attempted to move away from a pestering sibling, he followed me to my new spot; my brother was 100% pro at fulfilling his role as tormenter.

Mealtimes were a welcome opportunity to get out and stretch a bit. My mom packed all our meals for the journey. When we stopped along the way to eat lunch, all we had to do was pull over and flip down the tailgate . . . instant café. I think my parents felt lucky if we happened to stop where there was a wooden picnic table to eat at. I’ll be honest, I preferred sitting on that tailgate with my legs dangling. We baked in the sun eating our bologna sandwiches and drinking the Little Hugs plastic barrel "fruit" drinks . . . pure sugar water with some coloring for added appeal.

Introduced to the discerning consumer in 1974, Little Hugs infiltrated my childhood. I’m sure they were supposed to be a treat. They looked like a treat. I think I spent half the lunch stop attempting to open that foil lid that was crimped on for dear life, trying to peel it back just far enough to sip. When that technique failed, the next best option was to poke a finger through the top, making a hole big enough to suck the beverage through. I'd achieved success if I didn't spill the drink in the process, permanently staining anything nearby. The reward for my efforts . . . a sensation like I'd swallowed acid, some extra burn added in after they’d been warming in the car for hours. Pretty sure I’m better off not knowing what special ingredients created that effect.

In no time flat after we'd finished eating, my mom had everything returned to its designated spot and we were back on the road, cruising down the highway till one of the mandatory bathroom breaks.

I hoped with everything in me no one needed to stop while we passed through the state of Ohio. Rest stops in the 70s were definitely not the modern experience we're accustomed to now, and my childhood memories say Ohio's rest areas were the absolute worst of the worst. In my mind's eye, Ohio was a dump, a literal outhouse. Any bathroom stop we made in that state offered a building with a hole in the ground. The entire area reeked. I tried to pretend I was deep asleep, hoping my mom would let me skip those breaks. But "holding it" was not an option when we were traveling.

Sometimes I still catch myself thinking of Ohio as the state with no modern plumbing and an all-encompassing stench.

Eventually we reached our destination and moved our family unit from the confines of that wagon to those of my grandparents' living spaces. It must have been an enthralling spectacle when we arrived in that behemoth, bursting at the seams with people and paraphernalia.

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