I hate road trips. I guess I could blame my parents for not taking us on enough of them when we were kids, but I have the suspicion that I have always hated them. (Particularly because of the story about me crying when my parents put me back in the car when I was two on a trip to California.)
For a long time our annual road trip consisted of the one and a half hour drive to Wellsville, outside of Logan, every memorial day. That, I thought was long and horrible. Then my aunt and uncle moved to Idaho Falls and so we began the tradition of visiting them every summer. Then the 3 and a half hour drive was torture. (For more than just me and my sister, I suspect.)
When they moved to Utah and were only 20 minutes away, my parents decided we were ready to try the big trip: The 12 hour drive to Southern California to visit another aunt and uncle. We barely survived. I remember coming around Calhoun Pass singing show tunes and giggling uncontrollably because the other option was to break down into tears.
After that my parents decided to get more and more ambitious. I think the longest trip we managed was to South Dakota to see Mt. Rushmore. But between the rain storms and my mother's insistent reading aloud of every. single. billboard. I think that was the last straw. I'm pretty sure my parent's (at least my dad's) sanity just couldn't take it any more. Oh, we still went on road trips, but never quite as far as South Dakota again.
And here I am, in the car again, on the way to California. And once again, my choice is between giggles or tears. I hoping, amid the tears that surround me, that I can dredge up the show tunes at least one more time. . .