Sunday Drives
Photo by Gerardo Ramones
My family didn’t go to church on Sundays. Instead, we went on Sunday drives.
Dad grew up Presbyterian, but as a teenager, he became agnostic. He always said he’d rather explore the Sierra Nevada foothills than sit in a church pew on a sunny Sunday.
Once Mom and Dad finished the Sunday paper, we’d pack a picnic, pile into our VW Bug, and leave Happy Acres for a day of adventure.
Mom always wore her black-and-beige Vera Neumann headscarf, tied under her chin. Her big dark sunglasses and bright coral lipstick made her look glamorous.
We never knew our destination until we arrived.
“Hold on, everyone,” Dad said as he pressed the gas pedal. We sped over the bumpy road, lifting off our seats and feeling weightless like astronauts.
“Do it again, do it again,” I begged.
We visited small towns with funny names like Woody and stopped at fruit stands so Dad could buy dried apricots and pistachios.
One time, we had a picnic by the Kern River under a Cottonwood tree. Mom gave Brother and me half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, some green grapes, and canteen water. We hurried through lunch so we could explore the riverbank.
Dad said I was great at finding bird feathers. He called me Annie Feather Finder. Hawk, blue jay, duck, sparrow, parakeet; I could spot a feather anywhere, even in the Mojave Desert. By the river, I found an almost perfect, jet-black raven feather.
Whenever I found rocks with shiny crystals, I put them in my pockets to show Dad.
“Look what I found!” I’d say, spilling them onto the picnic table.
Dad was a geologist. Sadly, every pretty rock I brought for his approval turned out to be just quartz.
Meanwhile, Mom crumbled blue cheese on thick slices of summer sausage. She set out hard-boiled eggs, a jar of tiny pickles, and green olives stuffed with pimento on a red-and-white checkered tablecloth, along with a box of imported water crackers. Our white styrofoam ice chest held two bottles of old-fashioned root beer. While Mom and Dad enjoyed their picnic, I could hear them talking and laughing nearby.
Not every Sunday drive was a perfect family outing.
Mom smoked cigarettes in the VW Bug with her window up. The thick smoke stung my eyes and swirled around the back seat even faster than Dad drove around mountain curves.
“Anyone care for a malted milk ball?” Mom always kept her favorite candy in the glove compartment, malted milk balls covered in cheap chocolate. She kept turning around, trying to get me to take one.
“No, thank you,” I said politely.
The truth was, I hated malted milk balls. I hated them because Mom always brought them on Sunday drives, and I had to sit in a cramped VW Bug Brother, surrounded by cigarette smoke, and feeling carsick.
Brother didn’t seem to mind any of it. He could read a book upside down and eat malted milk balls in a smoky car without a problem. What he couldn’t do was keep his hands to himself. When Mom wasn’t looking, he liked to thump my arm or poke me for no reason.
“Stop it,” I hissed.
“What? I didn’t touch you,” he shot back.
I punched him, but Mom looked back at just the wrong moment and caught me.
“How many times do I have to tell you, keep your hands to yourself, young lady,” she snapped. I moved as far away from Brother as my seatbelt allowed, which wasn’t far enough. Staring out the window, I tried not to cry. My arm throbbed.
Brother got his payback on our next Sunday drive.
The road to Pismo Beach was full of twists and turns.
“Let us know if you feel carsick, Petunia,” Mom said. “We can always pull over. Please don’t wait until it’s too late.”
Malted milk balls. Cigarette smoke. Winding two-lane roads.
Before I could warn anyone, chocolate Carnation Instant Breakfast Drink burst out of my mouth like water from a hose. Brother turned red, his eyes wide.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mom shouted. She put out her cigarette and grabbed napkins from the glove compartment.
Dad cursed and pulled the car off the road, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“What did you do that for?” Brother shouted. He looked at his splattered clothes and started gagging. He never could handle vomit, not even his own. Holding his breath, he jumped out of the car as fast as he could.
I sat alone in the backseat of our rancid VW Bug, drooling. I got the worst of it. Mom and Dad paced outside, arguing about me waiting too long and what to do next.
“Get out of the car and take your shorts off,” Mom ordered. “We’ll buy a new pair when we get to Pismo Beach.”
I stood by the road in my rosebud underpants while Mom wiped down the backseat and windows with our clean beach towels.
I never saw my favorite pink shorts again. I’m pretty sure Mom left them behind a bush. For the rest of the drive to Pismo Beach, I sat with a smelly beach towel over my lap. No one said a word.
Most stores were closed on Sundays; everyone knew that. But Dad kept looking, driving all over Pismo Beach until he found a hardware store with a Levi's sticker in the window. Mom went inside and came back with the ugliest, stiffest, oversized boys' jeans I’d ever seen. They were six inches too long.
“Sorry, but that’s the best I could do,” she said, rolling up the cuffs three times and finding a piece of string for a belt. I’d worn Brother’s hand-me-downs before and didn’t mind them for play, but I never thought I’d have to wear ugly boy pants in public.
I don’t remember much about Pismo Beach. Did I swim in the ocean? Did I collect sand dollars or build a sandcastle? Did I find a seagull feather or two? I’ll never know. But what I’ll never forget is throwing up on Brother.
He deserved it.
