| Letters and Diary Non-Fiction posted May 9, 2021 | Chapters: |
...6 7 -8- 9... 
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The world on wheels
A chapter in the book Memories of This World
Memories of this World ch. 8
by estory
The world we were born into in the 1960's was a world on wheels. For the first time, just about every family owned a car and the means to move on the interstate highway system that the government had just constructed. Those Fords, Chevys, Chryslers, Pontiacs and Plymouths, those Volkswagen Beetles and Vans, sedans and station wagons and touring coups made it possible to live in the suburbs and work in the city, listening to WINS news, WABC pop radio with Dan Ingram, and WLIR along the way. For the first time in history, you didn't have to go to a concert hall to listen to music; not only could you listen at home on a home stereo system, but you listen to music on the road on your car radio. For breakfast there was the classic bacon, egg and cheese biscuit at McDonald's. On the way home you'd grab a Whopper in a drive thru window at Burger King. Fast food was born. Gulf, Mobile, Texaco and Shell stations kept the tank full, cheap. It was the era of the rush hour. The mobile economy.
And the economy boomed. The interstates made my father and uncle's small business possible. They installed curtains and movie screens in countless twin theatres and multiplexes in the tri state area, from Perth Amboy to Wilkes Barre, Danbury to Utica, Springfield to Nashua. And the eighteen wheelers travelling along those highways brought us fresh oranges from Florida, milk and butter from the Great Lakes, lettuce, carrots and broccoli from California, potatoes from far off Idaho. Whirlpool refrigerators, Carrier air conditioners, Toro lawn mowers and Zenith tv's would come from the factories of Gary, Indiana, St. Louis Missouri, Cleveland Ohio and Minneapolis Minnesota. Clothes milled and sewn across the South. It would all be hauled up to the stores we shopped in in New York on those long, endless roads of double yellow lines, guard rails and exit signs. Things made and transported by people you never met, in places you would never see. You could only guess at them from the names on the old Texaco maps: Detroit, Pittsburgh, Birmingham, Richmond.
The interstates also enabled something else that was new: the family vacation. No longer were you confined to the city where you grew up and lived. You'd throw your suitcases into the back of the Falcon wagon, grab your comic books and puzzles, and buckle up in the back seat. Mom would sit up front with the maps. Dad would take the wheel. You'd leave before sunrise when it was too dark to look out of the window, listening to the radio. When the sun came up you'd be going over those bridges, through those toll booths, watching the Palisades, the Delaware river and the Catskills go by. There were the necessary stops at the auto plazas; trips to the restrooms, a quick fill up at the gas pumps, and then a burger and fries at McDonald's before continuing the journey further and further across the map, along those interstates. 95. 84. 80. 40. 10. Route 66. You'd measure your progress by reading exit signs: Albany, Troy, Syracuse, Rochester.
At the end of the journey, off of one of those exits was the experience of the motor inn that also enabled those vacations. You could park and spend the night in the comfort of something very like your living room at home. There were twin vanities and a clean shower in the bathroom, double beds and cot if you needed it. There would be a television set so you wouldn't even miss your favorite shows. If you drew back the curtains in the window, you could look across the parking lot at mountains, maybe a lake. If you were in Howard Johnson's or Holiday Inn, there would be a swimming pool out back. If you were lucky enough to be on the second or third floor, there was the thrill of riding the elevator up and down to the lobby. There would be the complimentary ice machine and a Coke vending machine in the hall.
Most of them had a restaurant where you could sit down and have the waitress bring you meatloaf with brown gravy, mashed potatoes and beans, or fried chicken with corn on the cob, macaroni and cheese or shepherd's pie. For dessert there would be apple pie a la mode or peach cobbler. In the morning there would be waffles with butter and maple syrup, or scrambled eggs with bacon and english muffins. Then you could go into the lobby and look through the t-shirts and baseball caps, the shot glasses and the coffee mugs, the souvenir plates and the racks of postcards.
You'd pick out a postcard and there you would be, in Niagra Falls, the White Mountains, the Poconos or the Jersey shore, the Skyline Drive or the Finger Lakes. A point on a map, somewhere in a distant city whose name was printed next to a dot along that double, yellow line.
The world we were born into in the 1960's was a world on wheels. For the first time, just about every family owned a car and the means to move on the interstate highway system that the government had just constructed. Those Fords, Chevys, Chryslers, Pontiacs and Plymouths, those Volkswagen Beetles and Vans, sedans and station wagons and touring coups made it possible to live in the suburbs and work in the city, listening to WINS news, WABC pop radio with Dan Ingram, and WLIR along the way. For the first time in history, you didn't have to go to a concert hall to listen to music; not only could you listen at home on a home stereo system, but you listen to music on the road on your car radio. For breakfast there was the classic bacon, egg and cheese biscuit at McDonald's. On the way home you'd grab a Whopper in a drive thru window at Burger King. Fast food was born. Gulf, Mobile, Texaco and Shell stations kept the tank full, cheap. It was the era of the rush hour. The mobile economy.
And the economy boomed. The interstates made my father and uncle's small business possible. They installed curtains and movie screens in countless twin theatres and multiplexes in the tri state area, from Perth Amboy to Wilkes Barre, Danbury to Utica, Springfield to Nashua. And the eighteen wheelers travelling along those highways brought us fresh oranges from Florida, milk and butter from the Great Lakes, lettuce, carrots and broccoli from California, potatoes from far off Idaho. Whirlpool refrigerators, Carrier air conditioners, Toro lawn mowers and Zenith tv's would come from the factories of Gary, Indiana, St. Louis Missouri, Cleveland Ohio and Minneapolis Minnesota. Clothes milled and sewn across the South. It would all be hauled up to the stores we shopped in in New York on those long, endless roads of double yellow lines, guard rails and exit signs. Things made and transported by people you never met, in places you would never see. You could only guess at them from the names on the old Texaco maps: Detroit, Pittsburgh, Birmingham, Richmond.
The interstates also enabled something else that was new: the family vacation. No longer were you confined to the city where you grew up and lived. You'd throw your suitcases into the back of the Falcon wagon, grab your comic books and puzzles, and buckle up in the back seat. Mom would sit up front with the maps. Dad would take the wheel. You'd leave before sunrise when it was too dark to look out of the window, listening to the radio. When the sun came up you'd be going over those bridges, through those toll booths, watching the Palisades, the Delaware river and the Catskills go by. There were the necessary stops at the auto plazas; trips to the restrooms, a quick fill up at the gas pumps, and then a burger and fries at McDonald's before continuing the journey further and further across the map, along those interstates. 95. 84. 80. 40. 10. Route 66. You'd measure your progress by reading exit signs: Albany, Troy, Syracuse, Rochester.
At the end of the journey, off of one of those exits was the experience of the motor inn that also enabled those vacations. You could park and spend the night in the comfort of something very like your living room at home. There were twin vanities and a clean shower in the bathroom, double beds and cot if you needed it. There would be a television set so you wouldn't even miss your favorite shows. If you drew back the curtains in the window, you could look across the parking lot at mountains, maybe a lake. If you were in Howard Johnson's or Holiday Inn, there would be a swimming pool out back. If you were lucky enough to be on the second or third floor, there was the thrill of riding the elevator up and down to the lobby. There would be the complimentary ice machine and a Coke vending machine in the hall.
Most of them had a restaurant where you could sit down and have the waitress bring you meatloaf with brown gravy, mashed potatoes and beans, or fried chicken with corn on the cob, macaroni and cheese or shepherd's pie. For dessert there would be apple pie a la mode or peach cobbler. In the morning there would be waffles with butter and maple syrup, or scrambled eggs with bacon and english muffins. Then you could go into the lobby and look through the t-shirts and baseball caps, the shot glasses and the coffee mugs, the souvenir plates and the racks of postcards.
You'd pick out a postcard and there you would be, in Niagra Falls, the White Mountains, the Poconos or the Jersey shore, the Skyline Drive or the Finger Lakes. A point on a map, somewhere in a distant city whose name was printed next to a dot along that double, yellow line.
And the economy boomed. The interstates made my father and uncle's small business possible. They installed curtains and movie screens in countless twin theatres and multiplexes in the tri state area, from Perth Amboy to Wilkes Barre, Danbury to Utica, Springfield to Nashua. And the eighteen wheelers travelling along those highways brought us fresh oranges from Florida, milk and butter from the Great Lakes, lettuce, carrots and broccoli from California, potatoes from far off Idaho. Whirlpool refrigerators, Carrier air conditioners, Toro lawn mowers and Zenith tv's would come from the factories of Gary, Indiana, St. Louis Missouri, Cleveland Ohio and Minneapolis Minnesota. Clothes milled and sewn across the South. It would all be hauled up to the stores we shopped in in New York on those long, endless roads of double yellow lines, guard rails and exit signs. Things made and transported by people you never met, in places you would never see. You could only guess at them from the names on the old Texaco maps: Detroit, Pittsburgh, Birmingham, Richmond.
The interstates also enabled something else that was new: the family vacation. No longer were you confined to the city where you grew up and lived. You'd throw your suitcases into the back of the Falcon wagon, grab your comic books and puzzles, and buckle up in the back seat. Mom would sit up front with the maps. Dad would take the wheel. You'd leave before sunrise when it was too dark to look out of the window, listening to the radio. When the sun came up you'd be going over those bridges, through those toll booths, watching the Palisades, the Delaware river and the Catskills go by. There were the necessary stops at the auto plazas; trips to the restrooms, a quick fill up at the gas pumps, and then a burger and fries at McDonald's before continuing the journey further and further across the map, along those interstates. 95. 84. 80. 40. 10. Route 66. You'd measure your progress by reading exit signs: Albany, Troy, Syracuse, Rochester.
At the end of the journey, off of one of those exits was the experience of the motor inn that also enabled those vacations. You could park and spend the night in the comfort of something very like your living room at home. There were twin vanities and a clean shower in the bathroom, double beds and cot if you needed it. There would be a television set so you wouldn't even miss your favorite shows. If you drew back the curtains in the window, you could look across the parking lot at mountains, maybe a lake. If you were in Howard Johnson's or Holiday Inn, there would be a swimming pool out back. If you were lucky enough to be on the second or third floor, there was the thrill of riding the elevator up and down to the lobby. There would be the complimentary ice machine and a Coke vending machine in the hall.
Most of them had a restaurant where you could sit down and have the waitress bring you meatloaf with brown gravy, mashed potatoes and beans, or fried chicken with corn on the cob, macaroni and cheese or shepherd's pie. For dessert there would be apple pie a la mode or peach cobbler. In the morning there would be waffles with butter and maple syrup, or scrambled eggs with bacon and english muffins. Then you could go into the lobby and look through the t-shirts and baseball caps, the shot glasses and the coffee mugs, the souvenir plates and the racks of postcards.
You'd pick out a postcard and there you would be, in Niagra Falls, the White Mountains, the Poconos or the Jersey shore, the Skyline Drive or the Finger Lakes. A point on a map, somewhere in a distant city whose name was printed next to a dot along that double, yellow line.
So many things about the world we live in we take for granted, and one of them is the mobility of our world, the cars and highway systems that changed the economy and led to so many conveniences and experiences that people never had before. It's hard to believe that all this didn't exist, even a hundred years ago. Less than that. Seventy years ago. The suburbs, the rush hour, the family vacation; ours was truly the first culture on wheels, on the move, like never before. Travel was not only for the rich and famous; the average person could drive to the mountains from the shore or to the shore from the mountains. Looking back on it now, it is also very nostalgic. Those old Howard Johnson motor inns, those Holiday Inns, with their kitchy lobbies and the fast food we grabbed along the way; they are all a part of our fondest memories now. I remember taking a trip once a year, during summer vacation from school, in July or August. The Catskill Game Farm was our first trip, in 1966. Then Niagra Falls, Howe Caverns, Mystic, Valley Forge, New Bedford, and the White Mountains. I got to see Washington DC on a graduating school trip. I still remember staying up late one night playing poker with the boys in that Holiday Inn. And of course there were the old cars we rode around in; my dad had a Ford Falcon and then, in 1970, he bought a Volvo wagon. One of my uncles had a Galaxy, another, a Ford Torino. Another uncle out east had one of those old Volkswagen Karmans. Wonder what it would be worth now. estory
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