This is all my father's fault.
He was the one who piled all of us into the Country Squire station wagon and hit the highway every summer. It was his agenda of KOA campgrounds, his schedule of perfectly timed roadside table stops, his dream of leading our family into the great outdoors. Oh sure, my mother was a willing accomplice, but the force behind the steering wheel was always my Dad.
Even though he lived most of his life within a 30 mile radius of his birthplace in Chicago, my Dad had the travel bug. He was a school teacher and eventually a principal, so we had long stretches of summer vacation to fill. Money was tight and, in order to travel for weeks at a time, we needed to be creatively frugal. Many of our meals were picnic affairs, served on the tailgate of the car. Our accommodations followed us wherever we went in the form of our pop-up Apache trailer. It was spartan and simple, and it was glorious.
Dad was a history teacher and it was his mission to educate his five children on the historical significance of every stop along the road. We visited sod houses and cemeteries and what seemed like every civil war battlefield from Illinois to Florida. We stopped at every monument and read every historic marker. And even though we would groan and complain from the backseat, I learned a lot from those summer trips. I saw for myself why the Great Smokey Mountains got their name. I tasted sweet Georgia peaches and freshly squeezed Florida orange juice. And I know the difference between a stalactite and a stalagmite. Important stuff like that.
My father was a wonderful storyteller. He didn't just recite dusty names and ancient dates, he made history come alive. When he showed us the spot where Indian scouts were perched on a rock while military regiments passed in the valley below, we could almost see it. Suddenly, we weren't looking at an empty, boring field anymore. We could imagine history happening right in front of us.
I am my father's daughter.
Now, when I find myself craving a day of adventure, or when I drag my own family into an old Mission church or some roadside mystery spot, I know why. Every compulsion to learn of the past, to visit places where something important happened, and to share what I've just experienced, comes from him.
I blame it on my Dad.
