2023 Short Story & Essay Contest: Second Place, Adult Essay Contest
Mom and Dad packed us three girls in the back of our golden brown four-door ’72 Chevy Impala for a trip to visit our grandparents in Massachusetts and Connecticut many summers when we were little. Armed with Shasta Root Beer and Pillsbury Food Sticks, we departed our sleepy Los Angeles suburb at sunrise, destined to make it to Las Vegas for breakfast. Dad always loved the bargain breakfast buffet at the Golden Nugget hotel (and maybe a quick stop at the blackjack table).
Kim, Maureen and I sat for hours in the back of that car—sweaty bare legs sticking to the brown faux-leather seats. Arguing, pushing each other, napping, giggling, and making home movies on the Kodak video camera our grandparents had given us. We passed hours and hours attempting harmony singing silly songs our mom had taught us (Rose, Ro-ose, Rose, Rose, will I ever see thee wed?) as Dad guided the great Impala along thousands of miles of interstate. We stayed at Howard Johnson’s, ate hot dogs at Friendly’s, swam in hotel pools, bought sterling silver spoons and wooden nickel boxes, and learned all about America.
We usually arrived at Grandma Norris’s house in Grafton, Massachusetts, on the fifth day of driving. I will always remember the smell of the summer nights after the evening thunderstorm had passed through and washed the grass clean. It was especially luxurious at Grandma’s house—she baked us gigantic molasses cookies and we were each treated to our own cans of ginger ale. I would climb up on my grandpa’s lap and fall asleep on his big round tummy as he lounged in his pillowy soft king-size green lounging chair. We played dress-up in Grandma’s old gowns, ran by the stream in the backyard, got eaten alive by blood-thirsty mosquitoes, walked to Dairy Queen for soft serve ice cream, sorted through my grandpa’s old book collections, and put on nightly dramatic performances for our live audience.
Arriving in Connecticut to visit my dad’s parents, we were welcomed by a brigade of Slovak-Americans aunts, uncles and cousins. My dad has six sisters and brothers, all of whom have gobs of children. We went swimming at Aunt Agnes’s house, played pool at Aunt Rosemary’s house, went on motorcycle rides with Uncle Nicky, ate Kentucky Fried Chicken, bought Juicy Fruit gum, concocted a zillion combinations of fruit-flavored soda, and stayed up late listening to the grown-ups play poker while they sipped on Slivovica and beer.
After two weeks of nonstop craziness, we loaded up our trusty steed for the four-day drive-athon back to Los Angeles. Tears streaming down our faces, we fussed and kicked as Mom and Dad stowed the last suitcase in that mammoth trunk. We made the trip across country four or five times in that great American gas-guzzler. The 1972 Chevrolet Impala showed us the world when we were small and in it, we shared some of our finest summertime adventures.
