Road Trips with Nor Anderson

I can't say I've taken many adult road trips with my father; in fact I've only taken one. It is a miracle I agreed to even that (it was a glorious trip to Chicago to see the Hawks) considering my childhood on any trip with that man.

Nor Anderson has a knack for single handedly dismantling any trip (see The Thing About Salads). Aside from the accelerated speed and weaving my father tended (tends) to do on the road, and the burning desire he had to "make good time" which translated into "just hold it a bit longer"; came the ability to say the wrong things at the worst possible moment.

It was a typical car ride with the family back in the late 80's. The family was on a ten hour trek home after spending some time in Maine. My sister had drawn the usual unfair and unequal line down the middle of the backseat and told me to stay on my side, my mother was occasionally gripping the dashboard while yelling out my fathers name in fear, and I was sitting quietly in the back seat, minding my own business.

I tend to escape a lot into my mind, and I did it very well on long road trips with my family.  It was a survival tactic really, to avoid as much of the crazy as I could. I also tended to use my imagination to entertain myself on Sunday drives back in those days (what kid wants to sit in a car on a Sunday with their family and drive around especially after being dragged to Church - no kid, that's who)

On really long road trips like the one I was on, my mind could only amuse me to a certain degree, but I had a back up plan. I decided to colour as we made our way home from a family vacation to pass the time.

This is when I learned that art can bring you into a world of delight, whisp you away to far off places and distract your mind. This is also when I learned that looking down while in a moving vehicle will cause you to vomit in said vehicle. 

Taking a step back, I need to explain the love that my father has always had for any vehicle he has ever owned. My dad made us stop before any final destination on a road trip to have the car cleaned.

When we drove "up north" (aka to central Ontario) to the cottage we rented in the summer, he would wash the car upon arrival - and several more times throughout the course of the week. He said it relaxed him.

Not only does he wash the car more in the summer than he cuts the grass, he washes any other car that happens to be parked at my parents house (and one time, even waxed my friends car. Mind you, he only waxed half of the front hood, on purpose...cause he can be a real dick sometimes). The man even washes the driveway in the spring, despite my consistent lecture on the waste of a valuable natural resource.

The bottom line: You don't fuck with Nor Anderson's car, you just don't. This is a lesson I had always known. Perhaps it's why, when I felt myself about to toss it in the backseat, I put my head down, moved the crayons and paper, and let it happen right on my pillow.

My mother and sister immediately turned to look at me, and almost simultaneously shouted out "are you ok?!"

It was nice to know my older sister (who was also a kid at this time and had a general dislike for me) and mother were concerned for my well being, as their reaction was caring and instant.

My father had an instant reaction as well, and just as my mother and sister asked if I was ok, my father shouted "Did you get it on the seat?!"

Thanks a lot Dad, love you too.