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Philosophies collide on a family vacation
By Sandy Sims
My husband and I just returned from a blissful driving vacation to Quebec. Well, blissful, isn't quite right. Maybe nice trip fits better. So OK, overall it was good, but we ran into our old problem--he's a puke head and I'm spiritually advanced.
Here's what I mean. Traveling for my husband means getting from point A to point B as fast as possible. Any little side trips along the way are utter frustration for him. For me, those little blue flowers along the Vermont roads might just be wild marguerites, and I really would love to stop and find out. Didn't Buddha say it's the journey that's important. That's what I mean by spiritual.
I honestly believe my husband would be just as happy driving from one side of the continent to the other on the interstate. You know, those black asphalt gazillion-lane highways, lined with whatever a particular state deems beautiful--trees, oleanders, tumble weed, trucks. Shoot, you could stop at those check-you-in-and-out-fast Holiday Inns, have dinner in the coffee shop, grab a breakfast bagel in the lobby and roll back on the interstate without missing more than a night's sleep.
My husband would love that.
He could avoid slowing down for annoying little New England towns with steeples and flowers or those pesky Amish horse-drawn buggies in Pennsylvania. He wouldn't have to drive the two-lane roads that wind through farm country with nothing but cows, grain silos and fields of waving corn stalks. He could completely bypass roads that twist along the Maine coast, through stinky little fishing towns.
OK, so he might drive into Washington, D.C., but he'd zip past the White House, slow a little to get a glimpse of the back of the Vietnam and Lincoln memorials. He could point to where the Jefferson memorial is. I mean, who wants to go and read all those stupid quotes inscribed on some dead guy's memorial? So why not just go back to the Holiday Inn for post cards?
We were barreling down some interstate in upstate New York when my husband said--and he said it sweetly, "I'm sorry, I know you wanted to take the scenic route."
But I'd been studying the map.
"Well," I said, "I have an idea." He looked at me like I was going to steal his favorite toy.
"Let's take Route 6," I said. "See (I held the map up for him to see) it goes right along the northern part of Pennsylvania. Which was the same direction we were heading."
Now, my husband would rather eat large pointy nails than leave the interstate.
I really do believe in compromise in marriage. But my spiritual condition was at stake. I couldn't stand to miss any more of those little towns and cows and blue marguerites. So I persisted.
"Look," I said. "If we keep on this interstate, we won't see a thing."
He knows I'm right. He knows we won't see a thing. But he would rather scrape his nails on a blackboard than turn off the interstate. He can't help himself. He gets mad. He sulks. He lets me drive.
But I did compromise. I didn't insist on the teensy side trip to Chautauqua, a place I've read about for years. Nor did I even ask to take the little jaunt off the road to the Baseball Hall of Fame. I would love to have seen the exhibit of the World War II women's team that the movie A League of Their Own portrayed. I couldn't insist because my husband had been a good sport on Route 6. He held my hand, pointed out things, basically hung in there till he could get back on the interstate.
Well, almost, because when he drove, his little weezly point A to point B mind took charge on Route 6, too. Instead of driving a few hours on this scenic drive and then stopping early to enjoy the evening and a B&B in a lovely town, he insisted we drive till we were too tired to breathe.
"We are way behind schedule," he insisted. Pond scum, I thought. I kept my mouth shut.
As it turned out, and I might add to my secret glee, we were a day ahead of schedule. He was chagrined. The rat.
By now, I didn't care about side trips.
But, ahead of schedule and on the Ohio interstate my husband relaxed. He caught sight of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. "Shall we go?" he said.
I said, "OK." How could I not? It was a side trip. I need to encourage this in him. Besides he would owe me. After a five-hour trip down Rock & Roll memory lane, we crawled back into our car and headed back down the interstate.
We're home now, the interstate is behind us, and those weren't blue marguerites. Overall, the trip was good, but there's this one thing that stands out. On the morning of our anniversary, we were in a Chicago hotel. My husband brought out three lovely cards and a gift for me. I had nothing for him. I'd forgotten. I'm a puke head.
Sandy Sims is a Silicon Valley Community Newspapers staff writer.
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
