One of the things I loved about my family's road trips was collecting all the maps and atlases Dad picked up to navigate us across the country to the opposite coast. Usually acquired from gas stations or rest areas, stacks of these would be jammed in the glove box, between the seats, and whatever cubby was available. After we'd stopped for the night at a hotel, cigarette in hand, he'd study the next day's route with the intensity of Eisenhower planning D-Day. He'd trace out our course, making note of critical exits, large towns where we could stop for meals, and even points of interest to break up the monotony of the drive.
When I got older, he promoted me to navigator. I took my place in the front passenger seat and carefully unfolded the requisite paper accordion that covered our route that day. Dutifully I called out alerts for upcoming course changes and miles remaining to our next waypoint. At days end, we'd chart our progress to see if we covered the necessary miles to stay on our schedule.
Every now and then, despite our best intentions, we'd get lost. Either someone missed an exit, took a right turn at Albuquerque, or maybe the map was just wrong. Once we realized our predicament, remediation was easy. First, we'd get our bearings. This usually consisted of asking a local where we were, and if possible, show us on our map. Next, we'd chart our corrective course. Again, this was usually asking a local how to get back to the Interstate. We never viewed getting lost as a mistake. It was merely a side trip, an extra little adventure that allowed us to explore more highway than we'd intended.
Navigating with a map is a basic skill that I'm glad I acquired from Dad. When I moved to Birmingham years ago, I bought a spiral-bound map book with hyper-accurate, large-scale street maps of Jefferson County. With those pages, I had no problems laying in a course from my apartment to destinations across town in a city where I was a complete stranger. Before we were married, I flew from Birmingham to DC to visit Andrea. One morning, Andrea hitched a ride to work with her roommate and left me her truck. After some sightseeing, I used a small road atlas she had in her glove box to successfully navigate across the DC metro area in rush hour traffic to her office. This impressed her greatly, and it's always a cool thing to impress the redhead.
Sometime after Dad died, I was going through the van that we'd taken on so many road trips. A lot of the maps were still there, packed into all the pockets and consoles, in easy reach for the next highway adventure. I chose one and carefully unfolded it. Now yellow and brittle with age, the paper accordion protested being opened. Protected from the South Mississippi sun, the colors of the inner map were still vibrant. Blue interstates stood out in bold contrast to the shades of green for land and the lighter blues for rivers and bodies of water. It made me a little sad, but I couldn't help but smile as I remembered past roads we'd traveled, and the awe inspired by the beauty of wide-open vistas we saw through the front windshield.
Andrea and I have taken to the habit of highlighting roads we've traveled together in a road atlas. It's an interesting and offbeat way to remember our past adventures. Hopefully, years and years down the road, all the highlighting in that atlas will attest to a long life of shared adventure and exploration of this country's highways and byways.
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