courtesy of flickr.com

 When I was about thirteen and at the height of self absorbed and self conscious early teen dom, my father brought home a school bus.  It was the standard issue yellow forty eight passenger variety.  The year was 1965, a much simpler time regarding traveling amenities.  As yet, there were no recreational vehicles that had all the perks of a luxury ocean liner, no excursion vans complete with television and video gaming for the kiddies; one either hauled a camper trailer or roughed it when on the road.

 By this time my mother had had her share of roughing it.  We had tried camping, experiencing mosquitoes the size of Canada Geese, been bombarded with golf ball size hail, and with a kid still in diapers my mother was done. Sleeping on the ground and hauling water was not her idea of a good time. We were also poor as church mice so a nice camper trailer was not an option.  Which is the how and why it came about that my dad bought the bus which he parked conspicuously in our yard on our corner lot. (The corner of Macalester Street and St. Clair Avenue for anyone familiar with the geography of St. Paul, Minnesota)  This was a relatively high traffic area, so there was a good probability that everyone and his Aunt Hattie would see the bus, including all my junior high school peers. (Oh, the degradation!)

  Restoring the bus became my dad’s part time project.  It was repainted white with black trim; seats were torn out, a table bolted in.  Bunks were installed as was a small kitchen area.  Where my dad found all these treasures and pieces parts to create our motor home I am not sure as components were not so readily available as they are now and he had no money. It is also safe to assume that I didn’t care to know…the whole project was an embarrassment as far as I was concerned. I was the kid with the eccentric father and the bus in the yard. Every weekend as long as the weather was warm enough would find him out in the bus puttering away.

  After a year of renovations, the bus was ready to roll. Eat your heart out Partridge Family; you owe us royalties for the idea!

  It was determined that the maiden voyage of the bus would be to Texas, normally a three day drive.  Given that the bus’s cruising speed was around 45 miles per hour we could stretch that trip out for two weeks. Another given was that in reality we were a bunch of Irish Gypsies, to whom common sense was an oxymoron, so our route to Texas from Minnesota went by way of the Dakotas.  Head west to go south-made perfect sense to all of us.  The Black Hills are beautiful in late May or June and that’s a fact.

  Life in our cobbled together motor home was actually rather pleasant.  My brother and I sat at the table playing cards and board games as the miles rolled by-a huge improvement over arguing over whose stuff was on whose side of the back seat and who was touching who.  My sister who was five by this time spent her days with coloring and picture books and could get up and run down the aisle when she needed to blow off steam.  And no, there were no seat belts in the bus or airbags; no anti- lock brakes or electronic traction control.  We lived life on the edge.  But as my father liked to remind us-“if they are crazy enough to run into us, they deserve what they get.”

  As the bus was mid 1950’s vintage it broke down often so we spent quality time in many of the small towns en route, sometimes killing a full day playing in a park or exploring shops on the town square. I developed my love of milkshakes at small town drugstore counters; what fast food stores offer as milkshakes are garbage not fit for my dog, but it is hard to find the real thing these days. And as was the practice of my parents, we were turned loose to explore the area on our own.  I don’t know if they trusted that we had enough brains to turn up again eventually or that any potential kidnappers would take one look at us and run screaming in the opposite direction, but on these repair side trips we were left up to our own devices.

  My father always chose the state highways; a better way to see the countryside he would remind us. (Though the fact that we traveled at a snail’s pace may have had something to do with it.  You can only endure incessant honking for so long.)  My mother served as navigator and chose routes with interesting topography as well as hitting all the historical markers and sites of local color.

  It was in this fashion that we saw Mount Rushmore at twilight, the heads of the presidents beautifully backlit by the setting sun. (We also took up more than our allotted space in the parking lot, receiving quite  a few glares from fellow tourists.) I fell in love with Teddy Roosevelt’s ranch where we spent the better part of day.  That man knew how to pick his scenery.  On this trip we managed to visit the graves of the heroes of the Republic of Texas in Goliad and San Jacinto, a feat we had never accomplished in the years we actually lived in Texas.  The beauty of miles of Texas bluebonnets blooming just off a country lane is breath taking and worth a morning of travel time.

courtesy of www.mariott.com  

  As I recall that journey took us the better part of a month to complete.  And, it was the only trip we took in our bus.  Within a year and a half my father had accepted another job in a new place that required more of him professionally.  We did take two or three more trips by car while I was in high school but given my age the magic of family travel was wearing thin, not to be rekindled until well into my adult years.

  As this fall moves towards winter I am feeling that itch again-to hit the road to see what’s out there, but have to be content with planning for next summer; winter in the Midwest not being the best time to be seeing the countryside.  There is so much to see and experience in this country, much of it in little known and off the beaten trail places.  It is not an unpleasant prospect to spend the winter pouring over maps to learn what’s to see or do next.  I am open to suggestion.