“Drinking drivers/Nothing worse/They put the quart/before the hearse/
Burma-Shave” Series of roadside signs by Burma Shave, 1950s

In the driveway sat the 1950 Buick Roadmaster Estate Station Wagon, its toothy grille like an angry steel smile, proud of its dynaflow automatic transmission, and wooden body side panels. The back of the car was packed with suitcases for a trip to my grandmother’s funeral five-hundred miles away. Dad was intent on making the trip there in one day, go to the service, and return home the following morning, so we could, as he put it, “get it over with.” When it was time to get in the car, my mother and father sat on the front bench seat and my little sister, older brother and I sat in back. There was always a battle over who got to sit next to a window, and it wasn’t just because the scenery was better. If you didn’t get a window seat, you were a second-class citizen, relegated to sitting with your feet on the transmission hump, knees bouncing against your chin at every pothole. There were no seat belts, so we caromed from side to side as dad sped through corners and curves. That day, he was driving like a madman. My mother was in the passenger seat, staring at a map from Triple A, black polka dots running across her skirt, her hair a wheatfield blowing in the breeze. One time she started to talk to dad about his mother and he told her to shut up. He held the giant steering wheel, hands at ten and two o’clock as he was taught, his hair slicked down with Vitalis, a Lucky Strike sticking to his lower lip. In my cherished window seat, I watched my palm dance against the wind through the open car window of the hurtling Buick. Later, we entertained ourselves by playing the license plate game, alphabet game and reading comic books. Suddenly, dad, who had been sipping on a pint of Old Crow, started singing John Jacob Jingle heimer schmidt at the top of his lungs, encouraging us to join in. It was the first time in days we had seen him smile, but it faded as quickly as it appeared. We passed many restaurants and motor courts and around midday we were getting restless. We began to chant “Are we there yet” and dad snapped, “Don’t make me pull over and give you a whippin.” Finally, we stopped for lunch at Howard Johnsons, where we refueled on hamburgers and chocolate sundaes. Dad only had a cup of coffee. And when we were on the road again, we begged him to stop at every tacky attraction that advertised alligator wrestling, dinosaurs, aquariums or snake farms. We screamed as he passed Rock City, Roadside America, Frontier Town, the Mystery Spot and Ripley’s Believe it or Not. But the more we begged, the more my dad became withdrawn, like he didn’t hear us. And as my siblings continued to whine, I paused, looking into the front seat, where my mother had reached over to hold his hand.

– William Haynes