- Growing up, my family would take road trips from New England to Florida.
- When my grandfather was 94, me and my dad took him for one last road trip.
- He died six months later, but the memories from that trip will always be with me.
Growing up, my family was fortunate enough to take a few road trips from New England to Florida. We’d pile suitcases, razor scooters, Doritos, and coolers into the proverbial family station wagon and brave the tumultuous nearly 2,000 miles of Interstate 95.
This stretch of highway carries over 100 million people, including thousands of trucks and semis carrying goods throughout the country; it is not for the faint of heart at times.
My paternal grandfather started this tradition in his 70s with a group of older friends. When it got too cold in New England, they migrated south with the birds.
We decided to take him on a road trip again
As my grandfather got older and his group of friends dwindled, the trip became more arduous and less frequent.
He was a virile man, working until his 80s and shoulder-pressing my adolescent sister to prove his continued strength. However, as he got into his mid-90s, that virility diminished, and even walking became difficult. After Christmas in his 94th year, his morale had crashed. He required a walker or wheelchair at times, and the cold got to him more than ever. It became clear he needed the respite of a southern migration.
Courtesy of the author
So the 94-year-old World War II vet, his motorcycle and car enthusiast son (my father), and a naive recent college grad who thought they knew more about the world than they did (me) loaded the Trailblazer and followed the birds. Grandpa sat in the back seat with his face against the window while my father and I split driving duties in the front.
The stretch 95 from the George Washington Bridge through New Jersey was always brutal, but hitting Delaware was like seeing the greener grass on the other side of the fence. Now, state sizes would fluctuate, traffic would subside, and we’d ease into the relief of warmth. This is where my grandfather found great joy in tracking the milemakers on the side of the road. He’d call out each green sign as we progressed, “10 miles to Maryland.”
Next, we hit the gauntlet of the Chesapeake and mid-Atlantic. Baltimore tunnel can add hours to the already bullish commute, and DC is like playing traffic Russian roulette. Luckily, the old man knew the detours of these areas, and we passed the Mason-Dixon with comparative ease. The shift in the environment led to Grandpa spinning some new yarns: his zig zag train ride in the war that brought him to Fort Bragg, the time he nearly sold his Cadillac to a stranger at a gas station on this route, stealing oranges from a golf course.
The external temperature had barely changed from New England, but he was getting warmer.
Eventually, after reading every billboard between the Carolinas aloud, he took a long nap. There was a sort of silent understanding between my father and me, knowing this trip might be the last of its kind.
It was his last trip
After about an 18-hour trek, we hit the Sunshine State. You could see the smile light up on the old man’s face.
The following week, we pushed the wheelchair down the Hollywood boardwalk, stopping for an occasional cold beer at tiki bars or street vendors. My grandfather was in complete awe by the wave pool at Margaritaville, watching would-be surfers tumble into the chlorinated water.
The stories continued, too. I learned my grandfather was born on a kitchen table. Our ultimate patriarch (his father) had blue eyes, a rarity for Italian immigrants in the 20s. Grandpa would push his handicapped daughter’s wheelchair onto the beach and carry her into the water so she could feel the surf on her legs. I wish I could have carried him from his, but the man never wore shorts.
We’d end our Floridian pilgrimage and headed back north after a week. The old man died about six months later, but moments from that week were constantly part of his conversations until then.
They’ll continue to be a part of mine forever.
