Every year, my husband and I diligently pack up the kids and head east on Interstate 80 to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with our families. We return to the fair state of Nebraska like pioneers in reverse, hoping for the best.
We don’t consider skipping the holiday journey. But every year, driving the nine hours home after Thanksgiving, we vow never again. All this driving is crazy!
Then we turn around three weeks later and go back. It’s madness!
Thanksgiving travel, in particular, seems cursed. Last year, all four of us had the flu. (Here’s a tip: Wait at least 24 hours after the last incident before giving a 2-year-old chocolate milk.)
Two years ago, a blizzard stranded us halfway home in Ogallala, Neb. Could have been worse. If you have ever spent the night in a high school gym after a blizzard has shut down all highways, stopping at a nice hotel isn’t so bad. After all, isn’t that what Thanksgiving is all about? Being thankful for those past experiences that make today’s travesty pale in comparison?
The kids are pretty good travelers. They have learned to entertain themselves with books, toys and scattering cookie crumbs all over the van.
The car trip is an all-day, junk-food bonanza! The nutrition pyramid flies out the window. Mom and dad let them peruse the 7-Eleven candy aisle and choose whatever they want!
Back on the road, there are those dreaded words from the back seat. “I have to go!” Which means now, and usually coincides with the “No exits for three hours” sign.
The other dreaded words from behind? “We want the Hamster Dance CD!” Which means we must listen to hamsters with helium-induced voices sing to thumping techno music. I’ve heard the CD is a great favorite in Amsterdam discotheques where you can legally ingest hallucinogenic drugs.
Last Thanksgiving, I was watching the news on TV when a mom was giving helpful tips for traveling with small children. She gestured like Vanna White to her piles of educational books, craft items, crayons and markers she packed in brightly colored canvas bags. With labels.
“Showoff!” I mumbled from my in-laws’ Lazy Boy, brushing pumpkin pie crust off my sweater.
She went on. “Finally, for the last few hours, we pull out the portable DVD player … .” I gleefully pointed to the TV and yelled, “Amateur!” Because it takes a truly brave soul to attempt a car trip with two kids under 5 without videos. So far, we have been too cheap to spring for a DVD player, but our resolve may be cracking.
I just hope there isn’t a video version of Hamster Dance.
The truth is, I like driving. It’s a nice change of routine. I like moving across time zones and stopping at gas stations where the radio is tuned to the Cornhuskers game. Toward the end of our journey, we can stop for a Runza (another weird Nebraska thing). Known as “bierocks” in Kansas and Iowa, these hamburger-cabbage concoctions are a little taste of home. (I didn’t say heaven.)
And there’s another Nebraska institution we visit: Cabela’s, or “God’s house,” as I once heard a fellow pilgrim call it. He was stumbling out the door, seemingly awed to tears by the array of sporting goods, camouflage jackets and hunting paraphernalia. My husband practically sprints inside before our car has stopped moving.
Once in Cabela’s, the kids and I wander around the stuffed animals and aquariums while my husband sifts through the bargain section, and I debate curling up in one of the camouflage pup tents for a nap.
Cabela’s is full of fellow travelers from near and far. Maybe they decided to skip the family gathering and just head to Cabela’s. Who could blame them?
When we finally arrive at our destination, we unfold ourselves from the van and greet our relatives, who naturally make a big fuss. We are welcomed home like long-lost travelers, which validates the trip and makes every mile worth the trouble.
Though I sometimes suspect an ulterior motive: Perhaps they worry we will some day wise up and decide it’s time they travel the 300 miles.
Which means I would have to cook the Thanksgiving feast. No problem. We can stop at Cabela’s and pick up a turkey fryer on our way home. I hear you can crisp up a 20-pound bird in half and hour. Toss in those mysterious carcasses my hunter husband stuck in the freezer after the last duck hunting trip and we’re in business!
Everything said, there’s no place like home for the holidays. Happy Thanksgiving, all creatures great and small – techno hamsters included.
Gretchen Bergen is a freelance writer.
