Last week was road-trip time for my family and I'll get into the details tomorrow. Just let me say that they involve history, ghosts, waitresses, mountains, a brother-in-law, various odors and George Costanza. That's all I'm saying for now. But, sitting on the driver's side of the van for hours on end, got me thinking a little about the trips I took as a passenger.

When I was a kid, we took two main, long-ish family vacations. Of course, there were the more frequent trips "up north." No matter how far north you live in Wisconsin, you almost always take your weekend jaunts or extended summer vacations "up north." We would go to Chetek, Wisconsin and see family, fish, swim, go for boat rides. Mostly, things we did back at home. Sometimes our neighbors would go with us. I remember being out in a boat with one of the other kids and singing Afternoon Delight at the top of our lungs just because we thought it was such a racy song. It was there, in Chetek, that I first saw my father in a Speedo. I've been tragically scarred ever since. He was a thin guy with what he described as "chicken legs." If you took two toothpicks, painted them snow-white, added about six little pieces of black thread to each and, then, whittled away a little more of the wood, you'd have a good idea of what the legs looked like. To this day, I am haunted by a recurring nightmare in which my father chases me around a lake...wearing the baby-blue Speedo and clucking.

Another time, my mom's back went out and we spent some time driving around looking for a good chiropractor. We found one in Colfax, Wisconsin. He was able to relieve some of her discomfort and some of our guilt for still going fishing that morning before loading her into the back seat and finding the doctor's office. We weren't entirely heartless...she had urged us to "go ahead and have fun...don't worry about me.... I'll just be here...flat on my back...in some pain...but you go ahead and have a good time...don't worry about me." I don't think the bad back and scary Speedo incidents happened on the same trip but they sure could have been an example of cause and effect: cause=Dad in Speedo/effect=Mom in pain and needing therapy.

Anyway, the two main trips actually involved leaving the state of Wisconsin. That is not an easy thing to do. You just never know what you may encounter out there on the road. For example, some parts of the country are extremely friendly...people hug when they greet you. While most studies indicate we all need about a two-foot area of "personal space," in my town one really needed about 10 feet to feel completely at ease. Unless you were playing cards...but then you were at least separated by a card-table and a pile of bridge mix and cheese curds. Also, I always worried we wouldn't be allowed back in the state if we left. It is a little known fact that there is a changing password that you need to get across the state-line. It usually involved the name Lombardi...as in "The Lombardi has landed!" Well, we put all those fears aside, twice.

For both of our long, family vacations, we drove out to Connecticut to see Aunt Helen and Uncle Bud and assorted cousins. They had a pool. That put them in the neighborhood of the Rockefellers for us. We always felt right at home...you couldn't have asked for more hospitable people. Everyone should have an Aunt Helen. She was always in a funny frame of mind and ready for anything. She still is! Once, we went to a store and she bought me a cool suit: navy blue pants, a white and blue zig-zag pattern sport coat, a pink shirt, a blue tie and white shoes! I wish I still had that outfit now...then I would at least leave a lasting impression on people.

My dad enjoyed the driving. Especially at night. For a trip, he would rouse us around 3:00 a.m. (Fine if you had 1300 miles ahead of you but made no sense whatsoever for just going to the grocery store.) Those were the days before seat-belts and air-conditioning. My memory of travel includes being stretched out in the back seat, half-asleep, watching the cigarette smoke drift out the open driver's side window. We rarely stopped. Always trying to make good time. I don't know how my skinny little dad drank as much coffee as he did on the highway and not have to stop. Maybe those tubular legs were hollow. One thing we knew, you had better get your bladder and kidneys on the same clock as the car's gas tank.

I only remember stopping at a motel once on the road. It is memorable for that reason and because my brothers, believing I was not a strong enough swimmer, threw me in the deep end of the motel's pool. They taught me to ride a bike in similar fashion by placing me on the seat and giving a down-hill shove. From the pool, all of us also noticed an adorably cute little toddler playing behind the curtain of the sliding glass doors to one of the pool-side rooms. She was acting out some great scene all by herself and we were the unnoticed but enthralled audience. Today, that little girl is Sandra Bullock! Well, that's not true. I can't back that up. But, it would make for a great finish to this otherwise pointless memory.

It is interesting what you remember: horse-drawn carriages on the cobblestones of Mackinaw Island... the muggy, mossy smell of Mount Vernon...what seemed, to a kid from a small town, like the constant sound of sirens in DC...the candy kiss streetlights of Hershey PA....the ghostly haze of Gettysburg...and, more than anything else, a spindly dad in a baby-blue Speedo.