She wanted desperately to give the 2% milk away.
“We’ll give it to Renee.”
I scoff, disgusted at the thought of her trying to pawn it off on the poor little girl who agreed to watch our pets for the week. “Mom, they only drink organic,” I vocalize in the direction of the kitchen. I am in the living room, sprawled like a towel thrown on the couch. There is a point before family trips during which I crumple in the most comfortable place possible and quietly await the storm. I overhear her on the phone with John, our paranoid neighbor across the street. He seems wary about the suggested dairy exchange. She is negotiating with him in the flimsiest way possible. They are discussing percentages of milk fat.
I sit up and look at the skyline of suitcases and trash bags stretched full of “just in case” items: tennis rackets, board games, Frisbees… my mother likes to pack for a family from an 80’s commercial. Not one of us actually plays tennis. It occurs to me that this City of Preparation will never fit into the tic-tac box that is the trunk of our tiny white Honda. Thus begins the blaming.
First to raise his voice is my dad, whose job it is to Tetris all of our luggage and baggage into impossibly compact dimensions. When I say “raise his voice,” I do not refer to the sound decibel, but rather the pitch. There is a directly proportional relationship between my father’s distress and how chipmunk-like his voice becomes. This is a family trait. It is both humorous and frightening. “Tennis rackets? Monopoly?! Why do we need to bring all this crap?”
My mother holds firm. “I want to play Monopoly.”
All the while, voices higher.
“We’re not going to play Monopoly!”
“Well, I want to have it in case we do!”
The squeal is threatening the glass in the room.
“Becca, why do you need to bring so many books?” It’s my sister’s turn to make sure the situation resolves itself in the optimum amount of finger pointing and bloodshed. “It’s only a 4 hour drive! What’s in this backpack?”
“Once we get to Columbus, we still have to drive to North Carolina. That’s 8 more hours.”
“Oh. Right.” A pause. “Can I borrow a couple books?”
“Yeh. I’ve never read this, but I’ve heard it’s good.” I hand her a book that hadn’t made the cut.
“Why aren’t we taking the station wagon?” I frantically interject our parents, who are chewing lightly on the back of each other’s heads.
My mother lets out a your father sigh. “Gas mileage,” she mumbles, spitting out some hair.
Frustrated that no one foresaw this mass vs. space conundrum, I cringe around the room. I am a silent billboard advertising my displeasure with the amount of realistic planning that has been employed here.
After jettisoning some extra towels, the board games, and shuffling what was in large luggage into smaller bite-sized duffel bags, my father begins to work his magic. Finally, he has negotiated with the natures of mass and space enough that we are able to close all of the car doors and still be inside the car.
“We’ll give it to Renee.”
I scoff, disgusted at the thought of her trying to pawn it off on the poor little girl who agreed to watch our pets for the week. “Mom, they only drink organic,” I vocalize in the direction of the kitchen. I am in the living room, sprawled like a towel thrown on the couch. There is a point before family trips during which I crumple in the most comfortable place possible and quietly await the storm. I overhear her on the phone with John, our paranoid neighbor across the street. He seems wary about the suggested dairy exchange. She is negotiating with him in the flimsiest way possible. They are discussing percentages of milk fat.
I sit up and look at the skyline of suitcases and trash bags stretched full of “just in case” items: tennis rackets, board games, Frisbees… my mother likes to pack for a family from an 80’s commercial. Not one of us actually plays tennis. It occurs to me that this City of Preparation will never fit into the tic-tac box that is the trunk of our tiny white Honda. Thus begins the blaming.
First to raise his voice is my dad, whose job it is to Tetris all of our luggage and baggage into impossibly compact dimensions. When I say “raise his voice,” I do not refer to the sound decibel, but rather the pitch. There is a directly proportional relationship between my father’s distress and how chipmunk-like his voice becomes. This is a family trait. It is both humorous and frightening. “Tennis rackets? Monopoly?! Why do we need to bring all this crap?”
My mother holds firm. “I want to play Monopoly.”
All the while, voices higher.
“We’re not going to play Monopoly!”
“Well, I want to have it in case we do!”
The squeal is threatening the glass in the room.
“Becca, why do you need to bring so many books?” It’s my sister’s turn to make sure the situation resolves itself in the optimum amount of finger pointing and bloodshed. “It’s only a 4 hour drive! What’s in this backpack?”
“Once we get to Columbus, we still have to drive to North Carolina. That’s 8 more hours.”
“Oh. Right.” A pause. “Can I borrow a couple books?”
“Yeh. I’ve never read this, but I’ve heard it’s good.” I hand her a book that hadn’t made the cut.
“Why aren’t we taking the station wagon?” I frantically interject our parents, who are chewing lightly on the back of each other’s heads.
My mother lets out a your father sigh. “Gas mileage,” she mumbles, spitting out some hair.
Frustrated that no one foresaw this mass vs. space conundrum, I cringe around the room. I am a silent billboard advertising my displeasure with the amount of realistic planning that has been employed here.
After jettisoning some extra towels, the board games, and shuffling what was in large luggage into smaller bite-sized duffel bags, my father begins to work his magic. Finally, he has negotiated with the natures of mass and space enough that we are able to close all of the car doors and still be inside the car.
My sister and I are squeezed so tightly beside each other that we could easily pass for Siamese twins. My dad is a quietly wounded puppy because he feels he is being blamed for wanting to save on gas money. Men are kings, but sometimes things happen that remind them they can only move as far as pawns. My mother is – gone. She has flitted from the car to remember some necessarily forgotten thing in the house. Now she is knocking on the door of our next door neighbor who is never home. I can’t see what is in her hand, but from her posture I can tell: it is the orphaned half-empty gallon of 2%. By miracle from heaven, Ms. Neverhome answers the door and accepts the offering.
As we pull away, my dad is still sulky in the driver’s seat. My sister’s organs are mingling with mine contentedly. This time, I’m the one to break the silence. “Dad, thanks for packing the car up. That was amazing.”
On we drive in silence, until the queen decides to have the last move.
“I fit Monopoly in the back.”
On we drive in silence, until the queen decides to have the last move.
“I fit Monopoly in the back.”
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I wrote this in the car on the way to North Carolina last summer. I'm pleased to offer you this snapshot of the hilarity and frustration that is inherent in a Jackson Family road trip.
