GREED, SELFISHNESS, INDIFFERENCE

A series of essays….

THE JAGGED EDGES OF MY PENCIL REMIND ME
OF AN ALLIGATOR READY TO STRIKE!

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

I broke my pencil today. Yes, snapped it right in two and the jagged edges surrounding the previously encased graphite and clay wand remind me of gator teeth exposed before the fatal bite. 

You see, there is a history here of my constantly breaking, at least, the point of a newly sharpened No.2. I was never a dainty writer. Guess I felt that the harder I pressed down on the paper, the more meaning my notes, story, report, outline, list of things to do, would take on. They would become so embedded within the fibers of each page, plain or lined, that my written thoughts would darken the pages and come alive.

As a kid growing-up in the fifties, many things were broken along the way. Finger nails, blackened and jagged from digging in the rich Indiana soil while making villages and trails for my Indian (Native American) plastic friends, was a biggie. Their spotted ponies would prance down the narrow trails, kicking-up a small cloud of dust on their way to the moveable hunting grounds.

Some toys were carelessly played with and, eventually, broken. Very much my bad… Crayons, all imaginable colors, would break in half from constant use. Putting them back into their box was difficult after that. Mom got a small shoebox out and told us to put all broken crayons inside. We would use them again, soon enough. I could never keep the black one whole even if I tried. I had to outline everything I colored in black before coloring inside the lines. It was like finding the straight edges of a puzzle first and then putting them together before any interior pieces. I guess I required stability and order in my life.

Should I even mention the if you stepped on a crack, you’d break your mother’s back phase? It became a private hell just walking down the few city blocks to the local drugstore to buy a popsicle treat during the hot summer months. The sidewalks were littered with all kinds of cracks!

We moved to Terre Haute, Indiana, when I was going on eleven. It was summertime and my brother and I were trying to impress the neighborhood kids. Perhaps I was showing off a bit, but—I broke my arm when I fell off my new bike. It wasn’t as simple as that. I’d decided that navigating my bike without hands and with my feet up on the handlebars was so cool. Ultimately, I was wrong. In the end, all of the kids signed my cast, though.

I broke a garage window of the rental house we lived in that same summer(before the bike debacle). It was a grand slam home run for my team, by the way. Even street ball has its glory moments!

Promises to a friend were never broken in my estimation. High School friends, male and female, were like the soldiers that guarded your life, your secrets, your raison d’être, never to be taken lightly or for granted. We were the glue that kept a very fragile and vulnerable world together for four years. We worked hard and played even harder and created memories to last a lifetime.

I broke my mother’s heart (at least) once. I yelled at her for not letting me have my way. If you knew my mom at all, raising my voice to her was the equivalent of committing a mortal sin. Hugging her later while apologizing could not erase my guilt.

I broke a favorite tea kettle of one of my apartment roommates while in college. Tried to compensate her with a new one—that didn’t go over very well. 

My husband wasn’t very happy with me when I decided to back the car around within our large driveway without realizing that our second vehicle was parked beside but just a bit behind me. Seeing the two broken rear lights and dented rear fenders of both cars will haunt me forever. 

Things do get broken along this journey we call life. Sometimes we are able to put them back together, somehow and in someway. Sometimes, we cannot. It’s always been my way of thinking that, at least, we should always give it our best shot and go for it.  At some point, what do we have to lose?

Today, when we hear that our country is broken, I think back to broken No.2’s, a wrist enveloped in a white cast, a broken pink fingernail before going out on a date, and broken pieces of plastic taillight covers resting on a paved driveway. It’s difficult to imagine a nation of fellow Americans living within a country that has broken ideals, laws, and elected officials who have not and never will have your safety and best interests in mind! It’s very clear that when we stop helping each other and stop watching one another’s back, we become broken. When greed, selfishness, and indifference take precedence over our lives, we have stepped over to the dark side, forgetting the importance of all living beings around us, including ourselves.

I agree, our country is breaking apart every single day when lives are gunned down within institutions that are meant to make us feel safe. When young children are murdered while seated at their school desks alongside fellow classmates. The majority of us feel the pain of each parent who buries his/her child after losing them in such a hateful manner. 

And, after all of these needless gun related tragedies, our government has not banned assault guns from being sold to anyone who wants one. Our system, at least, is broken. When gun lobbyists, their pockets full of money, persuade legislators that a growing bank account is mightier than life itself—WE. ARE. BROKEN.

As a child, like most of us, I took comfort in the leadership of the adults around me; trusting in them to protect and sustain me from a scraped and bloody knee to placing food on the table when I was hungry. Childhood is a magical, almost mystical time with flying dragons and invisible friends comforting us along this brief journey called youth. To devalue this time by not protecting our children from ‘a bad person with an assault gun’ is sacrilegious in every respect. Shame on all of us.

Can broken things be repaired, made whole once again? As I said before, what do we have to lose? The answer is with lots of hard work, a unified way of thinking, and respect for our fellow human beings…I think we can fix this. But, we all have to want to fix it.

Now that my newly sharpened No.2 has graduated to a keyboard attached to an i-Pad, I still press down hard on each key as if I’m implanting my deepest thoughts and desires onto the small, white screen. In protest and solidarity I write what I feel in my heart and pass it on to you. Today I am asking all of us to do our part and snap the selfish attitude of all politicians with a giant chomp of the mighty gator and abolish the power of gun lobbyists for good! Make our voices heard from near and far. Stand up to the powerful by being, at least, as powerful, if not more so. We can do it..together!

Let’s not sit in our comfy chairs and say that this country we know and love is broken without adding that all things broken can and should be fixed once again. This should include healing our souls, as well. I refuse to believe it can’t be done because I know in my heart, as do you, that with the power invested in us as loving individuals, we can be and are stronger than those who seek to break this land we call…Home.

Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

LATE WINTER ON THE HEELS OF SPRING

 

A series of essays….

A CROSS-COUNTRY SKIER SKIMS ACROSS
THE LANDSCAPE OF THE GOLF COURSE WHILE
WALKING HER DOG

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Even though the sun is brightly shining and the wind has taken a break from blowing the layer of powdered snow from tree crotch and limbs, the lonely golfer of the day before sets aside his bag of clubs for another day. Having played his dimpled, white ball between crystalline patches of snow toward red flags snapping in the winter wind yesterday, today hails a different landscape; one conducive to multiple activities by various humans and animals, both domesticated and wild.

The space just beyond our backyard shimmers under a blue sky; no visible clouds. The pure joy one feels while observing a much loved original painting by one of their favorite artists is felt, at this very moment, within the frame of the French doors of the dining room. Snug and warm inside, outside the door is an entire system of nature, life itself, dancing before me like snippets of poetry blowing in from the north, hovering over the eighth fairway, and captured within the knotty alder framework of our doors.

Springtime is right around the corner and the landscape will be changing on a daily basis. Today, in particular, is a mix of sunshine, shadows, snowscapes, and all of the life and exuberance of every living thing.

Beginning with the wild: city Bambi, accompanied by a super cautious mom, have stopped to feed upon the small green patches of juicy, new grasses being exposed with the help of the late morning sun. We who call the inner city our home, have grown so accustomed to the deer population that it’s difficult to refer to them as ‘wild’ anymore. Our very own landscaping feeds them all year long. We watch hosta, peonie, lilac, rose, tulip, yew, and ivy plants become favored items on their Menu Du Jour.

Domesticated: unleashed dogs of many breeds romp and play as their loving humans exercise them within the wide open spaces of each fairway. Instinctively, they charge ahead of their humans or tag a distance behind looking like children following the melodious notes of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

As the morning sun shines down on the shimmering overnight accumulation of snow, cross-country skiers skim across the landscape between the door frame while cutting out their own fresh tracks along the eighteenth fairway. The many hills of the golf course provide an ample adrenaline rush for them as they bend knees and crouch low following the contours of the course, their ski poles tucked-in at their sides. 

I know that the lonely golfer will return here, soon. And, he will be bringing back with him many more just like himself; golf bags with clubs slung on their backs walking solemnly back and forth, back and forth. There will be four-wheel chariots, golf bags strapped in back with golfers seated under a simple canopy of protection. Multiple golfers pushing, pulling, or remote controlling their club-filled bags over the carefully groomed grass. Like a choreographed religious parade, they will answer the call of build it and they will come!

The wild deer, and brown, black, and red squirrels darting across the landscape, and families walking dogs and toddlers in order to pass the early evening together, will return to the scene. Spring heralds the distinct activities of humans and beasts, alike. Passing into summer and autumn, the constant flow of energy and activity exists between the many mature trees, their leaves giving sporadic respite from the hot sun, as well as physical challenges as golfer’s dimpled balls ricochet off fat trunks and sound like gunshots in the distance.

All too quickly, after the first few snowfalls of late autumn and early winter, the cross-country skiers will return in all of their athletic glory. The cycle will be repeated, completing a full circle. All is agreeable and whole, once again, within the framework of the French doors at the back of our house.

Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

EARLY NOVEMBER, 2016: “SO IT GOES!”

 

A series of essays….

SUNSET AT 36,000 FEET

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Attempting to snuggle comfortably into the middle seat, a position I woefully dislike finding myself in, I began claiming my justifiable real estate before my row mates arrived. Half of an armrest on one side and with just a slight bit of my elbow resting on the inside portion of the opposite one. That should do it for my two-hour and twenty minute flight from Grand Rapids, Michigan, back home to Orlando, Florida.

When flying up to Michigan to visit with my children, their children, and our good friends, I always considered this direct flight from Orlando to Grand Rapids (Grand Rapids back down to Orlando) as a convenient bus trip. It was short, direct, and, for the most part, uneventful. I would pick-up my rental car in G.R. and be on my way to Kalamazoo in no time at all.

Allegiant Airlines, Flight 62, was carrying a full load that day so, my desire to  claim the window seat next to me due to a ‘no show’ appeared hopeless. Right on cue, Mr. Twenty Something peers over at his window seat and squeezes by me, ear buds installed, stashing his backpack under the lucky window seat holder in front of him. (Sadly, he closed the window shade early on and proceeded to sleep against it for the duration of the flight. What a waste!) So it goes…

She staggered down the narrow aisle, nearly the last passenger to board, and gingerly plunked down beside me after stowing her carry-on luggage only one overhead cubicle away from our row. I recall thinking how fortunate she was to have found an available slot nearby.

As the plane was secured and the flight attendants stretched oxygen masks and clicked disembodied seat belts while pointing out exit paths, I was looking forward to opening up my current book and reading for the better part of the flight. I don’t mind engaging in short conversations with fellow passengers. I would much rather read, if possible. Having just celebrated my birthday on Friday with friends, enjoyed most of the week with the grandkids, and now, looking forward to casting my presidential vote in two days for the right candidate, Hillary Clinton, I did not want to have to think too much on my ‘bus trip’ home. 

Conversations between strangers can begin in many unlikely ways. She let her magazine slide off her lap and bent down to retrieve it. In doing so, she inadvertently nudged my book and apologized on her way back up. We smiled, exchanged first names, and began to talk. Since Mr. Windowseat had taken away my opportunity to marvel at the glorious orange sun setting to the west of our flight, as well as being able to see the twinkling lights of Central Florida from my little window as we approached our final destination, I found myself fully engaged with Ms. Aisleseat for the better part of an hour. So it goes…

She was jovial and kind. We established that we lived on opposite sides of the Orlando area but enjoyed many of the same things that this amazing place to live had to offer in the way of entertainment, eating, and shopping. We spoke about our husbands and children while sharing engaging anecdotes about our family life. Even though she was a few years younger than myself, we definitely clicked and found ourselves laughing our way through space and time. It was all good.

The only time we mentioned religion was for her to tell me that she and her husband had taken several trips to other countries to serve people in need, give them hope through God’s work, and were planning another trip very soon. The only time we talked politics was after a short conversation about how strong women can be while being by their husband’s side in every way. So, as I was telling her how excited I was to go home and physically vote for Hillary on Tuesday—suddenly, a small smile began to grow larger and larger until a puff of air revealed a stifled giggle that grew into an open laugh. So it goes… (Thank you, Kurt Vonnegut, for allowing me, in three small words, to express my feelings so clearly.)

My new friend, Ms. Aisleseat, bless her little heart, stared at me as if I were from another planet. She asked me if I truly believed that Donald Trump had a chance in hell of losing, especially to Hillary Clinton: a Democrat, a cheat, and a woman!! Three strikes and she’s out!

Wow! Wow! Wow!

What seemed to be such a normal chance conversation between strangers on a plane quickly turned into shock and awe, at least on my part. I can’t recall telling her she had to vote for Hillary on Tuesday. As a matter of fact, my assumptions about who she might be voting for were sparked by her verbalized faith in the strength of women and how women help to shape the world. So I took a chance by expressing my hopes in the power of womanhood and mentioned voting for Hillary. 

The signs were all there. I just didn’t want to see them, I suppose. It was eye opening to be sitting next to The Trumpster Lady/Ms. Aisleseat on the plane who was in no way humble about her choice for president and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was crazy to believe otherwise. 

And, you know what? She turned out to be absolutely right. A bit over two days later, I, among millions of other souls, experienced one of the worst shocks of our lives, politically speaking. Personally, my body went numb on the morning of November the ninth. Then, I began to shake uncontrollably and feel as lonely and broken and hopeless as anyone could be. The tears would not be stifled all day long and there wasn’t anything anyone could say or do to make me feel better. 

Hillary losing was very sad for so many reasons and that glass ceiling was cracked quite extensively—I just knew it! But, it still remained in place along with all of our fears of what was now going to come out of all this. I knew we had four years of hell to pay because this clueless, incompetent man now wielded extreme power and, virtually, had no idea what to do with it. It would take a humble sense of loyalty and discipline on his part in order to aid the people of this nation and help to maintain a sense of cohesiveness and strength that was so expertly projected by President Barack Obama for eight years.

Since that flight to Orlando I will admit to speaking with others on a plane. But, my conversations are kept short and innocent. I will never be placed in such a vulnerable position with a stranger, again. I take pride in being my own thinking person with original thoughts and ideals and not brainwashed or manipulated by anyone else. To this day it amazes me how many people have been caught up in this game of lack of self-worth that helped contribute to placing such a despicable man in office in the first place. Even more astounding is that he still reaches out to the weak and vulnerable to this day. 

Over six years later—So it goes…!

Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

“MSU SHADOWS”

 

A series of essays….

BERKEY HALL ON THE CAMPUS OF MSU

MICHIGAN STATE UNIVERSITY STUDENT UNION 

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

The girl walks the beaten path to her 8 o’clock class with hands freezing in her purple knit gloves and her stockinged feet numb even after they’ve been stuffed into calf-high, leather boots. She’s thinking how winter term is often brutal, weather-wise, but to have scheduled an early morning French class across campus was absolutely unwise, practically verging on insane. 

She looks up from her strained cadence to see other students marching to the same, slow beat, making their way to classes scheduled far too early in the morning. Snow begins to fall softly, brushing her exposed face with its delicate chill and directing her to pick-up the pace. 

One more turn to the right and the building she’s seeking will pop into view. The young grad-student, Ms. Hamlin, teaching this class, has seen the girl arrive late for class way too often this term but is kind enough to understand the logistics involved. However, today the girl pulls open one of the large, wooden doors of Berkey Hall two minutes before the stroke of eight and briskly clomps her way down the marbled hall to her classroom, three doors down on the left. 

Little did she know then that several decades later, the dark, unimaginable fate of two students attending evening classes in this very same hall would lead to their cruel, unjustifiable deaths. Why would she believe that such a horrific act would even be possible? 

Heading west down E. Circle Drive to W. Circle Drive, the fourth building down from Berkey Hall, the MSU Union welcomes her students with open arms offering a respite from the elements with comfortable sitting areas, bookstore, food court, and so much more. Not a place you would expect to come face-to-face with a shooter bent on extinguishing young lives. Yet, one such life was snuffed out by this gunman on the cold, winter’s evening of February 13, 2023.

These older buildings that make-up the brick and mortar history of one of the largest and most beautiful self-contained college campuses in the United States are treasures to behold. From their classic stone-arched doorways, brick facades draped with green ivy, and varied peaks adorned with cozy looking dormers decorating the rooflines, their architecture rivals the beauty of anything we see today! 

I have always loved my time on campus. Our wedding photographers held a photo shoot with me at Beal Botanical Gardens next to the main campus library. These photos became my engagement pictures from nearly fifty years ago. Lots of history there. 

Having both attended MSU as undergraduate students, Dan and I have invested a good deal of time walking the sidewalks and small pathways that crisscross the entire campus. My favorite area being old campus with Beaumont Tower, the circle of older residence halls off Beal Street and Abbott Road, and the MSU museum where Dan donated his grandfather’s MAC (Michigan Agricultural College) baseball uniform from his time on campus back in the early 1900’s when he was an engineering student who graduated in the Class of 1913.

That same young lady who chastised herself for having to take such an early French Language class in Berkey Hall years ago certainly passed through the shadows of her future husband’s grandfather many times. Lancie W. Dunn’s campus spirit may have given her an encouraging push every now and then in order to get her to class on time. I’d like to think so, anyway. 

After the years progressed, Dan and I would find ourselves enjoying picnic lunches along the grounds surrounding Beaumont Tower as we watched our two young daughters play within the shadows of this inspiring structure. Blink—and we are tailgating with them before attending football games in Spartan Stadium or walking together, hand-in-hand towards Munn Ice Arena to watch the Spartans slide into yet another victory on the ice. 

I remember the Red Cedar River meandered along in my backyard while living in W. Shaw Hall for the first two years of my MSU career. How fortunate I was to live in such a centrally located dormitory on campus. It wasn’t until I moved out to Twyckingham Apartments located on S. Hagadorn Road on the extreme eastern edge of campus that I experienced class scheduling difficulties. An eight o’clock French class was the only time slot that happened to work with my class load that term! 

Following all of the time we spent on campus with our girls and all of the stories and good times we created throughout the years, it was inevitable that both girls attended and graduated from Michigan State University, their blood running green as it continues to do so today.

We are among the people who shiver in disbelief from the actions of this one man. Leaving five more students shot and in critical condition during his rampage through Berkey Hall and the Student Union, this coward of a man decides to walk off campus in the direction of Lansing. If it is true that he ended his own life when confronted by the authorities, his cowardliness reached its peak and so many now must suffer for it. 

Eight families, an entire campus of students, MSU faculty and administration, law enforcement and first responders, the City of East Lansing, the State of Michigan, the United States, the entire world…..suffer from this callous, horrendous act of violence.

I wish the past would invite me back to rectify a thing or two; disallow the existence of those who believe in the utter destructiveness of gun-power and how it is so necessary, in their feeble minds, to use it against their fellow humans. Sick. How important it is to make the changes necessary through legislation and to never misinterpret the words of the Second Amendment, again. 

In the meantime, may these student’s deaths help to serve a greater purpose and never be forgotten in the interim. DO NOT FORGET THEIR SACRIFICE!!! The news media has already shifted to many new stories about George Santos, a liar and unabashed cheater, with only a blip dedicated to the massacre on State’s campus this past Monday night. We cannot forget them and how this senseless act has effected all of us! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!! We must keep our focus on why these young lives were taken away from us and the changes we need to make in order to never repeat this heinous act.

Our hearts bleed green today…

In 1928, Bernard Traynor, a line coach for the football team, composed the music and lyrics, to MSU’s Alma Mater, MSU Shadows. On April 21, 1949, the students of MSC (Michigan State College, at that time) voted to adopt this song as their  Alma Mater.

MSU Shadows, Arranged by Joshua Davis

Lyrics: 

Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

LITTLE MIRACLES

 

A series of essays….

STORIES CONNECT US WITH OUR PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Stories are like miracles.

When you write a story, or a poem,

it’s like putting a message in a bottle

and throwing it into the ocean,

or throwing a life raft out to someone

you might never meet.  

You don’t know if your words will be read,

but when they travel into the heart of the right person,

at the right moment in time –  

that’s the miracle.   —Laura Lentz

Beautiful… Yes, it’s exactly like that. 

Each one of us is filled with collections of stories or poems to tell, recite, write down, and share with others. Each story is a small miracle caught in time and space with its own purpose to fulfill while rendering a personal journey into a vast world presented to us as the ultimate gift to ourselves; a breath of fresh ideas consciously created, honed in on, and then handed out to others to be shared, compared, and analyzed. And, for good reason.

Humans, although connected in mind and spirit in one way or another, are still prone to underestimate these little miracles gifted to us by others. How often do we finish reading a good book, note to self that we liked it very much, but then wait for something, anything, to trigger its memory enough to discuss it with others? The story becomes the message in a bottle thrown out to sea. Secretly hoping that it is found, read, and appreciated by someone else as time goes by. 

This is why books, poems, short stories (little miracles), can become the life raft thrown out to someone we might never meet. If we are fortunate enough to be able to write our own stories and have them connect with others who, at any particular moment, needed them as they touched their heart or led them in a stable, positive direction in life…our job becomes apparent even if we haven’t a clue about what just happened. 

Perhaps our stories remind someone of their own childhood. Good memories, long forgotten, become refreshed and nearly tangible, once again. That’s a small miracle. Or, wanting to know more details about our people, places, and times that helped shape our own lives might be found in listening to stories of our elders; those only too happy to pass these stories down to a generation who is willing to listen. What a great miracle of life this would be for everyone. Poetry is a form of storytelling that bleeds from the storyteller’s heart. It is meant to open up a new way of thinking that washes over us and fills our being until nothing but truth courses through our veins like the indispensable lifeblood giving us strength and vitality to carry-on. This can be a life changing miracle; a poet’s gift to others.

The author, poet, life coach, and educator, Laura Lentz, strikes a chord in all of us when she attributes storytelling to being miracles. Like Cupid’s arrow that may or may not hit its mark, with all good intentions applied, even if we don’t know if our words will ever be read, “…when they travel into the heart of the right person, at the right moment in time - that’s the miracle.”

This is the encouragement required to keep people writing the stories; composing their poetry. Should they happen to strike home and earn a place in your heart, always be grateful for these little miracles. Learn all you can from them. Pass them along to others. Even though they may never know it, you will be making storytellers all over the world happy about what they do. Writers keep writing and readers, enjoy and continue to read!!

Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

AND SO THE STORY GOES…

A series of essays….

THE SIMPLISTIC JOY OF MOTEL ACCOMMODATIONS IN THE 1950’S

     Courtesy of Pinterest

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Who doesn’t like a good road trip? These past two years have taken the art of travel back into the middle of the past century for me as the act of being a small family unit provided interactive road trips that offered uniquely memorable, yet slightly frustrating and uncomfortable family vacations.

We were just on the outskirts of the beginning of the Interstate Highway System in my early lifetime. From the day President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956, the Interstate System has been a part of our culture as construction projects, as transportation in our daily lives, and as an integral part of the American way of life.

Before 1956, our trips were planned out to the extent of distance in mind, never lasting more than five days (probably less), and the typical long and winding, two-lane roads were negotiated by means of the family vehicle. My Dad was ‘the man’ at the helm, seated in the driver’s seat, mesmerized by the allure of the open road, he navigated from behind the steering wheel of his pride and joy, our American made car.  

My Mom, firmly holding on to the purse strings, found enticing Mom & Pop restaurants, would point out an abundance of farm animals grazing in a pasture, or read out loud the multiple Burma Shave road signs that whizzed by our windows. These signs amused all of us and we’d look long and hard for the next series to be seen along the shifting fence posts.

Between tussling in the backseat for prime window positions (mandatory seat belts a thing of the future), entertaining our sixty pound German Shepherd named Queenie, and contending with the wind stream of the opened front windows as Dad chain smoked, his left arm tanning in the sun, we’d play games. Yelling out (after all, we were competing with the wind) the letters of the alphabet from A to Z from words we’d see on billboards, road signs, and barn advertisements was, definitely, the most popular. 

The map of any given state we’d be passing through was good for ‘find the small village’ as one of us would choose a town’s name and the other would have to find it on the map. Then there was the color game. Our eyes were peeled to everything passing by us in order to find the colors suggested by someone in the car. No wires, earbuds, or devices to be found (including the safety of seatbelts!). But we did find these games provided amusing ways to pass the time as we traveled through the cornfields and small towns of the U.S.A.!

Secretly, our parents hoped that by occupying our minds we would quit kicking the back of their car seats and annoying them throughout the trip.

Ah, yes… Occasionally my older brother and I would appease the road trip gods (as well as our parents) and chill for periods of time. These quiet moments were very special and allowed us to listen to the swish of the tires on the pavement, the gentle banter between Mom and Dad, and the beating of our own hearts. I wouldn’t trade this time, this memory, for anything else in this world.

Some of our destinations included the Ozark Mountains State Park of Missouri and Arkansas, driving out to Pike’s Peak, the highest summit of the southern Front Range of the Rocky Mountains in North America (not climbing it, rather observing it from down below), traveling up to the Mighty Mackinac Bridge soon after its opening (not crossing it, just looking at it), and visiting Aunt Hattie on the farm in Central Illinois. The month of August, several weeks before the beginning of the school year, was my parent’s preferred vacation time. It was something we looked forward to each summer.

Sadly, not one National Park was included in any of our itineraries.

Reservations! I don’t believe I even knew what that word meant until much later in life. Mom had three criteria for our night’s stay on the road: the place must look clean and neat, there should be a family restaurant nearby, and a swimming pool for us kids was always the added bonus. And we’d swim by the light of dusk in square, kidney shaped, and rectangular pools, the water so cold our lips turned blue after only a few minutes. Small motels in America were the heart of our trips, especially when most of them accepted pets no matter what and provided a cot (for an extra charge) if required.

I recall trying to untangle the knots in my long, blond hair whenever we’d stop for a meal, sightsee, or purchase gas when one of us would exercise and feed our dog. How we managed to survive the swirling of dog hair, keep items from flying out of the windows, and try to hear one another talk, remains a mystery to me. AC in cars was a godsend and comfortably abridged the negative atmosphere of subsequent family road trips.

COVID-19 has resurrected the simple act of car and travel trailer vacations these past few years. Replacing planes and trains with their passengers in such close proximity to one another, the spike in sales of recreational trailers has greatly appeased an industry that is dependent upon the whim of their popularity in order to survive. COVID did its best to reinvent and promote this nomadic lifestyle.

The wave of travel modes is changing once again. Even though the past few years have increased the nostalgia of traveling the open roads and taking family trips by car, these trips will never totally replace the speed and versatility of flying. Airplanes bridge the gap between continents and allow us to see places we could, previously, only dream about. Or, have seen before and desire to revisit.

Nostalgia can be a beautiful thing. It keeps us humble as we travel back into our youth and remember the simplicity we cherished and never knew we could miss as the years rolled along. Swigging pop from ice-encrusted, long-necked bottles purchased at a gas station/grocery store in rural Arkansas to eating pork & bean sandwiches on the front porch of the farm in Illinois, I know I will savor these memories, forever—no matter how many airplane adventures I collect in my lifetime.

Note: Happy Birthday, Ronnie!

Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved