Camping in the Badlands in 1948 - Second Post

I was just thinking I need to tell my grandchildren about our trip out west in 1948 in a two door Ford named Daisy.

She was Daisy Mae because that was L'il Abner's girlfriend's name. The 1940 black 2 door Ford also had a name, but I can't remember it. We got the new car because we didn't think the old one was up to the mountains. To keep it from overheating going up the mountains, we would release the hood latch and the hood would then be up a bit and it would squeak in that position.

I was 8 and in 4th grade, my sister was 10. We camped, and even with no tent we had so much gear that there was a tower of stuff in the back seat between my sister and me. And we had stuff under our feet. Of course we were always arguing about who had less room. Mother said she did it that way so that we could not physically reach each other.

And no radio or other entertainment. And no air conditioner. Blistering hot through farm country.

Even with no AC, there were the triangle shaped side windows that we could strategically position to have a breeze, and the back seat windows could open (we could stick our feet out of them). When we came to a town, our first stop was the ice factory, to replenish our ice chest and pass around good-sized cubes of ice which we placed (again strategically, this time with anatomical strategy) on our pulse points. I can still remember how the ice felt on the back of my knees, elbows, and on the back of my head.

Though our mother used to decry all the AV available to children today, I reminded her that, before interstates, there was always something to look at or count. We had endless contests. Red barns. Cows. and of course colors of cars. See a white horse and you made a fist, licked it, kissed it, stamped it, and you would have good luck. All bridges and tunnels required holding your breath (perhaps a holdover from the Billy Goats Gruff?)

And maps - how could you forget the maps. Endless math problems figuring out how far to the next town.

My sister had the role of story teller. She spun endless yarns. The only one I remember was called "Rub Don't Blot," derived from a sign on the paper towel dispenser. . (BTW when you drive so many miles, how the rest rooms are becomes a big part of your life.)

The story: There were two children named Rub and Blot. One was good (Rub) and the other (Blot, of course) was always into mischief. I believe the gist of the story was that the mother was always saying "Good, Rub! Don't do that, Blot!" And to be sure her children behaved, she went around writing it on walls everywhere, shortened for efficiency, as in "Rub, Don't Blot!"

I remember begging and pleading and finally being said yes to, to buy a couple of comic books. My mother did not approve of comic books, but we did have a few, worn thin with rereading. I can recreate Archie and Veronica in my mind. Also some Classic comics, like Tale of Two Cities, hard to understand.

When we weren't counting things, we whiled away the long hot hours by singing, any song that anybody could remember, often in animal voices. Using the Old MacDonald pattern, we sang each song in animal talk, especially Oh Susannah! and You Are My Sunshine. Usually we stopped singing when we got to a town, but I would squeal with delight when -- at an intersection -- my father would stun the passersby with his Woody Woodpecker laugh. This trip is what I think of when I hear those songs, those words, whether in human talk or pig oinks or horse neighs or cat meows or ..

In rainy weather we slept in the car. If in the car, my father took out the cotter pins so the front seats would drop down. Being sure you did not lose the cotter pins was important. Every several days we would stay in a motel or, more likely, a tourist home. Motels weren't ubiquitous in those days.

We always started out at the crack of dawn, or before dawn, to do as many miles as possible before the heat. I did not like those breakfasts, sitting on the fender, eating sloppy cold cereal out of the box. I was expected to be cheerful, but if I managed to be that, it was under duress.

Lunches, however, were very satisfactory. We had a standard lunch. Mother loved milkshakes. We would find a Walgreens, and she would order thick chocolate milkshakes all round, and lecture the waitress on how we wanted them *very* thick. The milkshakes would arrive so thick you couldn't pull them through a straw. Delight. They were always accompanied by packages of peanut butter crackers. Chocolate milkshakes and peanut butter crackers were the unvarying lunch fare, and always in an ice cold drugstore.

After hitting the ice house again, we would be off for a couple hours of driving and then make camp. Remember, we didn't have a tent, but we each had a sleeping bag, an industrial strength Army surplus camouflage sleeping bag good for 30 degrees below and with a waterproof cover. We spread these out on a big canvas tarp, and we had pillows. We camped in farmyards and in parks;

We had a small green gasoline stove (Coleman), My father was a good cook on that stove. And we had a set of nesting pots. I guess we had hamburgers and hot dogs, I don't remember, but I do remember his cooking some fish that we caught and famously teaching me that the fried fish eye was a delicacy. And of course I still like to scandalize diners today by crunching on those eyes. They aren't that bad but they do taste better fried.

Mother made a point of taking us to see the state capitals .Whatever there was to see, we stopped to see. And mother was an inveterate pointer outer of sights. She truly loved adventuring, and noticing, and learning about nature. We marveled at clear blue skies with rainbows, and sunrises, and sunsets. Every sunrise and sunset had to be photographed by Daddy. Every road side historic sign had to be stopped for and read. Every continental divide had to be honored with a photo of our feet planted, one on each side. Every mountain was anticipated, as we drew nearer and nearer but never seemed to get closer to the foot.

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