Friday, July 22, 2016


When Craig and I were young, both of our families would travel the same highway to visit relatives in Utah.  I remember these road trips well with my family.  I was usually in the back of the station wagon, squished and uncomfortable.  The two lane highway always scared me, especially when it came to passing a slow car or a big semi.  My Dad would keep us busy by telling us to find a place to stop for ice cream. That was our job and I took it seriously. My sister and I would keep an eye out for any roadside stop with a spinning ice cream cone sign in front of it.  My Dad would always stop, sometimes multiple times per trip. I remember being anxious to get out, stretch my legs and enjoy an ice cream cone.  It was always soft serve and Foster’s Freeze was the favorite. 

A couple of weeks ago Craig and I went on a road trip.  We traveled up that same two lane highway. It was fun to reminisce about family trips and some old sights.  Then we past an old house. A really, really old house.  It dawned on me that this house must have been there all those years ago and that my family and I had driven by it countless times.  I realized I had, more than likely, seen it as I was looking out the window looking for a place to stop for ice cream. 

It was a big house and I could imagine a large family with lots of kids living there.  They would have had holidays and family gatherings in the big weed filled yard.  Maybe the parents grew old together there.  I imagined the generations of this family moving out, saying goodbye, growing old, passing on.  It had a history and even though all I did was drive by it in a station wagon I was part of it.  


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