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This is the second chapter of a holiday series that will run for seven days and end on Christmas.

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Dana had spent the better part of three days packing everything she thought the family would need for the trip to Michigan, attempting to cover all the bases. The result was a mountain of luggage, ice chests, boxes of Christmas gifts, spare clothes, and road games to keep the kids busy—all stacked in the middle of the garage where the Country Squire should have been. Instead, it sat in the driveway.

Each progeny was allowed one small Piggly Wiggly brown paper grocery sack to bring into the cabin of the Ford. They could fill it with toys, snacks, books—whatever they wanted—as long as the contents didn’t spill out over the top. Everything else was to be loaded and strapped down atop the car within the chrome roof rack. This was perhaps Doug’s favorite part of the entire trip: the arranging, rearranging, strapping, re-strapping, and overall organization of the roof load. Days were spent planning, measuring, and readying for the big pack.

The day before departure, Doug stood before the mountain of luggage and boxes and called for Kyle to help. He retrieved the step ladder and began the long ritual of loading. Three hours later, father and son stood beside the Country Squire admiring their work. Doug grabbed the nearest rope and gave it a tug. Finding it tighter than a piano wire, he declared, “This isn’t going anywhere.”

Maps of Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, and Michigan—secured through Triple A weeks earlier—had been marked in yellow highlighter, rubber-banded together in order, and placed in the glove compartment. Beside them sat a new tire gauge from White Automotive, a bottle opener, a book of matches from Piggly Wiggly, and an ice scraper from his All-State-Farm agent—a gift for renewing his Home, Life, and Auto policies just before Thanksgiving.

A stack of term papers sat on the middle of the front bench seat—Doug’s grading work for the holiday break. He’d post final grades when they got home.

The alarm was set for 4:30 a.m. and the plan was a 5:30 departure. They pulled out of the driveway a little after 7:00. Then again at 7:20, after returning for Crocket’s food, Dana’s birth control pills, Kristen’s feminine products (which she’d hoped she wouldn’t need but did), and a Bible Doug tossed atop the maps in the glove compartment. He’d decided at 7:12 that divine support was going to be necessary and vowed privately to attend church more often once they got home.

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Originally, the plan had been to drive all the way to St. Louis and spend the night there. The late start, however, forced a change. Joplin became the new target. The decision was made in hushed tones between clenched teeth from the front seat. Dana, equally tense, realized there had been no point in going back for her birth control pills.

The three kids had played the license plate game until the Country Squire hit Odessa, then lapsed into silence punctuated only by giggles or grunts. Outside Big Spring, Crocket’s intestinal parasite—an unwelcome souvenir from Thanksgiving leftovers—made itself known. The resulting projectile vomiting covered Kyle and most of the way-back area of the wagon.

The mess forced a pit stop at a rest area outside Snyder, where Dana did her best with the limited tools at hand while Doug unpacked part of the roof rack so Kyle could get a change of clothes. Unfortunately, his suitcase was at the very bottom, and Doug had neither the time nor the patience to dig that far. Kyle wound up in a pair of his father’s oversized pants and one of Dana’s flowery Sears blouses she’d been saving for the holidays. The result was a fourteen-year-old man-child who looked like a homeless transvestite.

The smell was unbearable. All the windows were rolled down as Doug set the cruise control at 85, trying to outrun the stench. Crocket slept on the seat beside Kyle, his stomach gurgling in protest, and Dana decided she’d probably never wear that blouse.

They pulled into a McDonald’s in Stamford for food and a bathroom break. Kyle refused to go inside, dressed as he was. He opted for the shrubs behind the dumpster and waited in the car for his Quarter Pounder and fries. While waiting, Crocket began another round of full-body convulsions. Kyle barely got the Magic-Gate door open in time for the next wave. Even so, he managed to wolf down his burger moments later—the resiliency of a fifteen-year-old male on full display.

The itinerary was adjusted again. Tulsa would now be the stopping point for the night.

The further north they drove, the cooler it got. By the time the black Country Squire crossed the Red River into Oklahoma, the windows were all the way up. The pairing of dog vomit and McDonald’s fries was never meant for long-distance travel. Doug finally pulled into a Ramada Inn in Oklahoma City and got a room. After unloading just the essentials, he told Dana to order pizzas from the Pizza Hut across the street, then took the Ford to a car wash to purge the stench from the back end. By the time he finished, the air was thick with Pine-Sol and Armor All.

Doug called his mother to report they might arrive a day late.
“No problem, dear,” she said. “Just be safe. The roads are starting to get a little slick up here.”

No one slept well that night.

Doug didn’t bother setting the alarm—those only caused tension and unrealistic expectations. The family woke around eight, and it was ten before they hit the road again. Kristen and Kim in the middle seat alternated between napping, hangman, and the license plate game. Kyle, happily back in his own clothes, kept an eye on Crocket, who seemed over the worst. He alternated between BOY’S LIFE, Motor Trend, and a paperback of The Outsiders—summer purchases with mowing money.

By the time the Ford reached the city limits of Springfield, Missouri, the air outside had turned from chilly to frigid. Snowflakes began swirling in small tornadoes over the hood. By St. Louis, visibility was near zero. For two hours, no one spoke. The only sound was the hum of the tires and Doug’s quiet muttering as he squinted through the storm.

They finally pulled into a Holiday Inn to wait it out. The three kids, who’d never seen snow before, were entranced. Crocket, bewildered by the brightness and the cold, discovered that his steaming bowel movements vanished into snowbanks—something that amazed him and horrified everyone else. Exhausted, the family collapsed after another dinner of fast food and carbonated sugar water.

Morning brought a world blanketed in snow—including all their luggage on top of the Ford. Doug borrowed a shovel and broom from the motel office and did what he could before hoping the highway wind would take care of the rest. Conditions were better, but full highway speed was a fantasy—one of several Doug entertained to stay awake. Dana considered offering to drive but was afraid he’d say yes. She’d never driven in snow.

“Hey, Mom,” Doug said into the pay phone at a rest stop outside Indianapolis. “The weather’s pretty bad. We’ve lost a lot of ground. Probably going to be another day before we make it.”

“That’s okay, dear,” his mother replied. “The skies are clear here. I’m sure it’ll get better the closer you get.”
Her voice carried comfort, concern, and longing all at once. It struck Doug unexpectedly, taking him back to being a boy confessing to cheating on an English test.

His mother was right, though. The weather cleared after Indianapolis, and the miles rolled by faster. Conversation returned. Kyle and Kristen peppered their father with questions about his Michigan youth.

“What was it like growing up this far north?” Kristen asked.
“Did you learn to drive in snow? Ever wreck a car?” Kyle chimed in.
“Can you eat snow?” Kim wondered.

“Not if it’s yellow,” Doug said with a grin. Dana laughed and swatted his shoulder. Kristen called him gross. Kyle thought about Crocket’s snowbank experiment and gagged.

The mood softened as the trip neared its end. The tension melted into relief—like a swimmer spotting shore after choppy waters. When Doug finally swung the hidden headlights of the Country Squire onto Glade Street, he felt like he was coming home.

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The house looked like a postcard—steep gables, a full-width porch, and a round-top navy-blue front door. He hadn’t even stopped the car before his mother burst out onto the porch, coatless, in a floral-print dress he remembered from his youth. The kids bolted from the car for hugs and kisses while Crocket trotted toward a new snowbank, eager for a repeat performance.

Doug and Dana held hands as they walked up the porch steps, letting the moment breathe. He looked up at the gable window that had once been his room and glanced at Kyle with newfound understanding.

They say the most underrated sense is smell—and Doug believed it. When he closed the front door behind him, the house flooded his memory: baking cookies, peppermint, Avon perfume, Witch Hazel, and Bar Keeper’s Friend. Separately, each might have been overpowering. Together, they were perfect—an aromatic time capsule.

The afternoon was spent unpacking and settling in. The kids were smothered in baked goods and affection. Dana found herself oddly glad they’d come. Doug, meanwhile, couldn’t stop pointing out bits of his childhood—the doorframe nick where his brother chipped a tooth, the patch of wall he’d once drawn a car on in crayon.

Eventually, the kids discovered the basement—an entire world beneath their feet.
“I thought the walls would be dirt,” Kim said.
“I think it smells cool,” Kristen added.
“It is cool,” Kyle said. “Can we sleep down here?”
“Of course, dear,” Grandma smiled. “That’s where you’ll be bunking.”

Doug took in the knotty-pine paneling, the multicolored linoleum floor, and the bar he and his brother had built before their father passed. When the oven timer dinged, they all went upstairs to the small kitchen. Dana and the girls joined his mother at the table. Doug nodded to Kyle. “Let’s let the ladies have their time,” he said—meaning he wanted time alone with his son.

They trudged out to the detached garage. The handle wasn’t locked—it probably hadn’t been since the fifties. Doug turned it slowly and heaved the door upward. The springs creaked, then gave way with a sigh.

The garage had its own scent, as vivid as the house’s. Under a blanket of quilts sat the last new car his father ever bought: a 1956 Ford Fairlane Sunliner, black and pink—his mother’s favorite. Doug feared mice might have gotten to it, but the mothballs and traps had done their job. He peeled back the blankets one by one until the time machine gleamed in the dim light.

“WOW! This thing is cool!” Kyle exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Last car your grandpa bought,” Doug said. “Said it was the perfect car for your grandma—though a convertible in Michigan might’ve been questionable. He even had to extend the back of the garage to fit the Continental kit.” That led to a discussion of what a Continental kit was and why people loved them. “It was built in Dearborn—not far from here. This was as good as it got in 1956, at least for a family like ours from Ferndale. I still remember him calling long-distance the day he brought it home. Don’t recall him ever being that excited.” He paused. “I was excited too, but for a different reason. There was something new in my life even better than a car.”

Kyle looked up, puzzled.
“You were born the day he brought it home,” Doug said softly.

A single car can hold many touchstones—depending on who owned it, who rode in it, and who remembers it.

“You think maybe we can get it out and go for a drive while we’re here?” Kyle asked.
“We’ll see,” Doug said, covering the Sunliner again.

Back inside, the kitchen was full of women and warmth—three generations united by food and flour. Grandma stirred something wonderful on the stove. The girls chopped vegetables. Dana lifted a tray of cookies from the counter. Doug stood for a moment, taking it in, wishing his dad could see it.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked. “Smells great.”

“Shepherd’s pie,” his mom said. “It’s your brother’s favorite. He’ll be home soon.”

The hair on Doug’s neck stood on end. Dana saw him stiffen. Without a word, he went to the Frigidaire, grabbed a Dark Horse Ale brewed in Pontiac, and found the bottle opener—right where it had always been.

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