Just the two of us
(Making the most out of your parent's eccentricities)
By Marissa Stephenson, Jayplay writer
"Deeeeeeeeeee Q!" It's the first thing my Dad has said in an hour, but I'm not surprised. After all, we've passed another Dairy Queen sign. "A chocolate-chip cookie dough Blizzard sure sounds good," he says, giving me the half-raised eyebrow that pretends he hasn't said this for the five other DQ signs we've passed. I play along, one more time. "Well," I try to draw a hopeful tone. "Why don't we stop?" He scans the road and squints at the horizon. "Nah. We'll stop at the next one."
Dad and I are on the road, headed to Arizona for three weeks of rafting. It's just us, a 22-hour drive, the 1990 Ford Ranger and Dad's bizarre travel behavior. I love rafting the rivers, but it's taken years to fully appreciate the ride there with my father. To start, there's no talking in this truck. It’s miles and miles of just miles and miles, until Dad's city-christening bellow:
"Denver! Two-hundred and forty-five miles." Then silence. He's got his hands right there at the 10 and the two, patiently waiting for the next sign to pop up.
There's no breaking the quiet with my own music either. I've tried before to slide a CD into the classic rock rotation, but once Ben Folds slipped an expletive in, he was out. Interrupting with "HMMmmm," Dad set his chin and shook his head at the CD player. He frowned and grumbled a few more HHMmmms and then said, "Think we should put Chicago back in." It wasn't a question. Once Chicago, Boston, Kansas or any other geographic-sounding band started to play, he was back to tapping the steering wheel and crooning the occasional line, "You're the meaning in my life, you're the insir-aaaation..." followed by, "Grand Junction! Three-hundred and twenty-two miles."
Not that we'd be there any time soon. Dad sets his cruise at a strict 63 mph. Cars speeding by at a reckless 65 mph get the same reaction poor Ben does: "HMMmmm" and a headshake. I snack on dried mangos that we bought before we left. Dad takes one and nibbles on the edge. He savors it for a solid five minutes, then puts the remnants back down on the console. Ten miles later he picks it back up for another bite. Knowing better, I still try an icebreaker.
"You know, we've been talking about the whole abortion debate in class lately," He squishes down farther in his seat. "I guess I've never asked what you think about it." Silence. "So...what do you think?" My voice is sadly pleading for a response. "Oh, hmm. Well. Yeah. That." He trails off, and that's it. He's done.
There is one subject Dad will expand on: rafting. I can fill the time between Colorado and Arizona by asking him about that crazy Rio Grande trip through Mexico. But once we hit the gas station, it's all economics. Dad pulls down his 1980s MacGyver sunglasses, takes another nibble of mango and hustles over to my window. He's a vision in faded orange pants and a green Grand Canyon T-shirt. He motions to roll down the window and says enthusiastically, "You get the numbers, Marissa!"
Dad is obsessed with calculating the amount of gas he can get out of the Ranger. Every trip, he has me log the city we're in, the gallons of gas, the price and the odometer reading. If I forget and run to the bathroom instead, it will be a silent and tense ride until the next station. "Hey," he'll gripe. "How 'bout we don't forget the numbers this time?"
This thrift-thinking carries over to hotels too. Driving along a pitch-black highway at 2 a.m., he shuns Best Western and Days Inn. "Forty a night? HMMmmm. Keep your eyes peeled for the next KOA." It's KOA camping all the way with Dad. Shivering in our tent, I wonder how much money I have in my bag.
When I was younger, hours in the car with Dad were less than appreciated. I wanted to obliviously pass road signs. I wanted to actually get a Blizzard. I wanted engaging road-trip conversation. But I was missing the true charm of the drive. The continuous classic rock, the mile marking, the gas-mileage log book. Even nights outside, bitterly cold at a KOA — I love them. Because it's just him and me, the only ones who enjoy these trips. And getting there, in just the way we do, wouldn't be half as memorable, if not for the indispensable:
"Deeeeeeeeeee Q!"
— Marissa Stephenson can be reached at mstephenson@kansan.com.
Illustration: Scott Drummond
3.11.04 Jayplay
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