Its Friday afternoon in Atlanta, and despite our best efforts to avoid traffic, here we sit.
Im in the back seat while my 83-year-old father drives and my 80-year-old mother navigates.
I havent been in this situation in close to half a century.
I stomp my foot on the back floorboard as if I could stop the car on his behalf.
Whoa, Daddy, could we stop a little sooner and allow more space?
Hes fine and youre going to drive us nutty with this, replies my mother (aka Mama).
And just like that, Im 14 again.
I begrudgingly left the airport and checked in to a nearby hotel feeling exhausted and defeated.
I woke up the next morning to a call from my parents.
Mentally packed for the journey were years of road-trip memories to chat about along the way.
Throughout my childhood, summer vacations typically included a road trip.
Sometimes we traveled from our home in Florida to visit grandparents in North Georgia and Tennessee.
Other years, we journeyed across the country for a week or two.
He decked it out in true 1970s style with shag carpeting.
When the customization was complete, we took our stylish ride on the road.
My Uncle Jim, Aunt Barbara and cousin Jana joined us for many of our adventures.
Another summer, we ventured to New England with a brief drive through New York City.
