Road trips can be -- whimsical

"Lawnmower races, Sisterdale VFD Annual BBQ and Dance, August 18 -- be here!" Road trips can be whimsical.

Once I saw a faded La-Z-Boy recliner sitting in an ocean of red Indian Paintbrush, out in the middle of nowhere, facing the distant, beige mountains. It was a little the worse for wear, but the view from its lumpy cushions was as good as it gets.

On the backroads of Alberta, a witty farmer stuffed a pair of blue work britches with straw, fastened boots at the ends of the pant legs, rolled the whole works up in a hay bale with the legs and boots protruding and left it neatly centered in his field, causing drivers like myself to do a double take and veer wildly over the center line. They like to be push the envelope down there, those Canadians.

Once in Missouri I was in a MacDonald's where every single customer, down to the smallest child, wore cowboy boots. They stared at my family and our feet, we in our scuffed tennies, as if we had just landed our space ship in the parking lot.

I paid $12.44 for a meal in Tennessee. The figure sticks in my mind because it took me a few minutes to interpret, "Thatah be tway-uh fo-ah-tee-fo-aah," each syllable drawn out like the strands of some verbal taffy pull.


Okay, now, don't laugh. I fell in love with a blue-eyed cowboy at a Texaco station in Durango, Colorado. But after a few smitten minutes I signed the credit slip he offered me and left him and his tight jeans for the siren call of the road. I'm not sure it would have worked out anyway. Do cowboys take road trips?

Road trips can be -- scary

Isn't this an amazing view? What you can't see are the signs at this rest stop (and every other rest stop in the American southwest) warning of creepy, crawly, biting, stinging, hissing and venemous creatures hanging out in desert camo waiting to part you from a delicious piece of your warm, human flesh. And that's just the beginning of road trip dangers ...

I once sputtered to a stop in a dusty, one-horse town on a two-lane highway in Nevada. It was way past my usual stopping time, but nothing more promising had appeared and now the road stretched ahead of me for empty miles towards the horizon. A stringy, tough looking woman greeted me from behind the desk of the town's single, ramshackle, motel. "Honey," she said, "I'm putting you in the room next to mine so you'll feel safe." In my mind, the town lost its air of gentle decay and began to look dark and menacing.

After stashing my suitcase in my room, I stepped out the door, headed for a seedy convenience store, which appeared to be the town's only food source. It was after sunset and shadowy figures were lurking in the weak, orange light given off by the single dingy lamp over the entry to the store. I may have considered going without dinner that night. Luckily, common sense (and my devotion to regular meals) kicked in. I gathered my courage, leashed my attack dog, Sam the Cocker Spaniel, and, assuming my most fearsome don't-mess-with-the-librarian expression, I proceeded forth. The miscreants gathered around the store's entry attempted to intimidate me by greeting me with a threatening, "Good evening, ma'am," but my determination to snag a frozen dinner unmolested must have impressed them because I lived to tell about the encounter and to enjoy my mac & cheese and a peaceful night's sleep.

Road trips can be very edifying and adventuresome, but it is necessary to pack a resolute attitude and a fair bit of courage along with your undies.