Last summer, I embarked on a solo road trip from Pennsylvania to Texas, accompanied by my two children. Surprisingly, I cherished every single moment of the 48 hours we spent together in the car. When people ask why I decided to undertake this adventure alone, I attribute it to my father. It’s his influence that sparks a longing in me to pack my bags and hit the road as the days grow longer and the weather warms up. The scent of warm asphalt instantly transports me back to our family road trips during my childhood, and each time I step into a convenience store on a scorching day and feel the rush of cold air mixed with fresh coffee, I smile, knowing it’s my dad nudging me to revisit those memories.
Some of my fondest childhood memories involve sitting in the middle seat between my two towering brothers, with the sounds of classic hits wafting through the open windows. Every summer, my dad would take the wheel of our compact blue station wagon and lead us on epic two-week vacations that allowed us to explore the entirety of the Lower 48 states. I had the privilege of celebrating the Fourth of July in a different city for over a decade, all thanks to my father’s meticulous six-month planning sessions, often while seated on the toilet with his trusty Rand McNally.
I yearned for my children to have similar memories. When I first proposed the idea of an extended road trip, my husband was doubtful. Since he couldn’t join us due to work commitments, I would be traveling solo with our kids, aged 9 and 12. I had been contemplating the drive from Pennsylvania to my mother’s home in Texas for several years, and last summer felt like the perfect opportunity. I was familiar with the route, having made the journey multiple times with my father as my co-pilot before he passed away in October 2012. The memories we shared along the route provided me the courage to undertake this adventure.
I anticipated that this trip would help me honor my father’s memory while soothing the lingering grief I felt since his passing. I desired that time on the road to reminisce and to revisit the places we had once shared together. I wanted my children to witness the beauty of the country, to instill in them a wanderlust akin to what my dad had cultivated in me.
As the departure date approached, I prepared in earnest. I packed travel games and snacks along with my father’s vintage Rand McNally. I mapped out our route, made hotel reservations, and prayed I wasn’t making a mistake. The night before our departure, as anxiety washed over me and I began to doubt my ability to manage the 1,600-mile journey, I recalled my father’s reassuring advice from the passenger seat: “Just keep your hands at 10 and 2, be courteous to truckers, and don’t get caught speeding.” With those words echoing in my mind and my hands firmly gripping the steering wheel, we set off early on a dewy summer morning.
As we turned onto the local highway, we spotted an Idaho license plate, oddly out of place in our small Pennsylvania town. My son grinned and remarked, “Poppy is with us…” thus igniting our license plate game. Over our four days on the road, we spotted plates from 38 states.
The picturesque rolling hills of western Pennsylvania and the majestic mountains of Virginia and Tennessee sped by our windows. We shared laughter, exchanged stories, counted license plates, and immersed ourselves in Harry Potter audiobooks. Those three-hour segments between bathroom breaks forced me to be fully engaged with my children—no texting, no emails, no phone calls. As I embraced the miles ahead, I found joy in every moment, realizing that my father must have experienced the same delight while listening to our chatter in the backseat. I could almost visualize him beside me, offering tips on long-distance driving.
Throughout our journey, we marveled at the breathtaking beauty of our country, and the kids were astonished to discover that states aren’t divided by fences or dotted lines. Each hotel and rest stop featured friendly staff eager to assist a traveling mother, reinforcing the notion that my dad was still guiding my journey from afar. I will always cherish the kind restaurant manager in Nashville who treated us to dessert upon learning we were headed to his hometown—my dad would have found that coincidence delightful.
As we finally rolled into my mother’s driveway, tired yet exhilarated, I couldn’t help but feel the absence of my dad waiting at the door with a proud smile and the words, “1,595 miles in 23 hours and 17 minutes. You did good, kid.” We did, indeed, Dad.
In summary, the trip was not just a physical journey but a heartfelt homage to my father’s adventurous spirit, creating cherished memories for my children and keeping his legacy alive.