States back then provided roadside picnic tables, so we’d have lunch next to the highway, eating liver sausage and mustard sandwiches out of Mom’s picnic basket, bracing for the deafening whine of each speeding car that would pass and blow away whatever paper plate was not weighted down.
Toward evening, we kept eyes peeled for waterfront cabins to rent, and Dad would turn down a narrow gravel drive and see if there was a vacancy for a family of 10 while we waited in the car. When he emerged from a resort office, we’d study his face for evidence of success.
Barely 40, my father had been fitted by the dentist with an upper “partial,” which, when he was mulling something over, he’d move up and down with his tongue, appearing to smirk. That look usually meant that this might be the last stop and a good place to stay, subject to my mother’s approval after she heard the details about the swimming beach, number of beds, and, of course, the cost.
