Travelin': AKA Little Pitchers With Big Ears

When I was a kid we lived about 180 miles west of where my grandparents lived, and where my parents grew up. Before the interstate was built in the late sixties/early seventies, cutting our travel time almost in half, we had to take US highway 64. It made for a long trip; Mom, Dad, and usually me in the front seat of that enormous (at least to me) Plymouth, and my sister and brothers in the back.

On one occasion, we were heading toward Grandma's, I can't remember what season, but I seem to remember it being hot and muggy outside. You'd think it was summer, but sometimes it's like that in Oklahoma, regardless of the season...We were, all six of us, packed in the old Plymouth, only this time, I was in the back with the other three kids. It was hot, sweaty, and tight. at some point along the way, I'm sure Dad stopped and let us all get a drink at some roadside gas station, most likely a Phillips 66. We all piled back in.

I was about three or four, and I was happy; I had my very own bottle of Grapette, just for me, and all was right in the world. Dad pulled out onto the blacktop, and away we went. I was drinking my pop (We called it pop, not soda, and not Coke. And sometimes my Dad would call it 'bellywash'.) and trying to look out the windows, not a care in the world, just along for the ride.

Now, I had a habit of swinging my legs on benches, and wiggling my feet around while sitting still, especially when there wasn't anything else to do. On a three-four hour trip, stuffed in the back seat with two adolescent boys and an older sister who didn't seem to like me much, there wasn't a whole lot to do but stay quiet and mind my own business. I thought that's what I was doing.

Then, out of the blue, Dad pulled over to the shoulder, turned around in his seat, and, red-faced with veins bulging, bellowed at me, "If you don't stop WIGGLIN'. YOUR. FEET. under my seat, I'm gonna whup you!"

I was stunned for a moment, but at no loss for words. I answered back, "It won't do no good, Daddy, 'cause I'd jus' cry an' you'd jus' pet me." (I had overheard Momma tell him this before, regarding whether he should spank me or not. She was right, you know. it broke Dad's heart to spank us, and he always wound up comforting us and apologizing.)

Dad's mouth snapped shut, and his face started turning a new shade of red, sort of a purplish color, really. All the while, the other kids were hooting with laughter. Mom sat in the passenger seat, with her hand over her mouth, but still unable to disguise her mirthful eyes and shaking shoulders.

After a moment or two, Dad laughingly admitted defeat, and we were back on the road. I made particular effort not to wiggle my feet under his seat the whole rest of the trip. No reason to take chances.

I paid for that little remark, and, no doubt, many others, later on, after I had my own kids. Momma would say I'm "payin' for my raisin'". But...that's another story.