In June 1966 my horizons expanded. Dad and the boys would work all summer, but Mother had a new Pontiac and was restless. So when Aunt Daisy invited us for a visit to Los Angeles, Mother packed the car. My grandmother, Mamoo, joined us, and a Buna friend came along to help drive.
I had never travelled west of Houston, so as she planned the trip Mother described what we would see – more of Texas, San Antonio, the rest of Texas, mountains, Carlsbad Caverns, maybe even real Indians in Arizona. It seemed we’d stop every few minutes for a tourist attraction.
This trip would be different from our earlier vacations through the Deep South. Sandwiched in those prior trips between two older brothers in the back seat, I usually wiggled, wrestled, napped, and worked my way through coloring books and car games. Fun cousins waited at the end of the road in Louisiana or Georgia. This time though, we headed west, and it would be the first time I traveled with anyone besides family.
Mrs. Enmon, our other driver, was a friendly, talkative woman who had driven this route before. Occasionally she wiggled her eyebrows at me in a conspiratorial way when she talked.
“Vegas is really something,” she told Mother, giving me the eyebrows.
“If we take the northern route home, we can stop by and have a good time.”
She mentioned live shows by famous performers and something called a “casino.” Vegas sounded fun, and I liked Mrs. Enmon. Unfortunately, her six-year old son Robert came along, too.
Though he was two years younger, Robert and I were the same size. He had a blond crew cut and a James Dean squint. And he knew how to work a car full of women.
Robert didn’t say much. When he tired of looking out the window or flipping through picture books, he went on the move. Feet on the back seat, stomping me or Mamoo, he’d lean toward his mother in the front and whisper. Then, she made the ask.
“Wanda, can Robert see that book Kay’s looking at?” or “Can Robert have a turn with Kay’s Viewmaster?”
Of course, the answer was always yes.
At first, I thought Robert was shy, but soon realized that wasn’t the case at all. He knew no one could refuse a request if it came from his mom.
Mother had packed games, books, and activities to occupy me on the 3-day drive. The plan was to stay busy in the back seat with Mamoo and take turns with Robert, occasionally sitting in the front between our moms. I thought we had an agreement.
But somewhere between Beaumont and Baytown, a pattern emerged. When I chose a game or toy, Robert wanted it. If I picked out a book, he wanted to look at it with me, and when it was my turn to ride in the front seat, Robert wanted to be there, too. After rearranging ourselves half a dozen times, I decided to stay in the back as a form of protest, but reading made me carsick. So I stared out the window.
The terrain was flat, scrubby roadside. Once we passed Houston there was less green and more brown. The grass and trees thinned out. I could see a long way down the road, but there was nothing to see.
By the end of the first day when we stopped in Fort Stockton, I’d had enough. Helping Mother unload the car, I peppered her with complaints.
“He wants to do everything I do. You said we’d take turns sitting in the front. Why does he get to be there when I’m there? Make him stop.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, pulling our overnight bags from the trunk. “Mrs. Enmon’s helping out and I don’t like to correct other people’s children — besides, he’s only six. You’re eight, and he wants to be like you.”
Then she explained how “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” But it didn’t make me feel better.
“Once we get to Los Angeles, we’ll drop them off at their cousin’s house. You won’t see him for a whole week.”
While that was some consolation, Robert was a thorn in my flesh, and counting the return trip, there were still five more days in the car with him.
That evening was a reward for the day’s suffering. I kicked and paddled my frustrations away in the Best Western swimming pool and dawdled over dinner at a local cafeteria, avoiding Robert’s steely glare. Even though I’d chosen my dishes, the green beans and mashed potatoes were a disappointment, and the deflated chocolate pie was a poor substitute for one of Mother’s homemade desserts.
The next morning we left Fort Stockton before sunrise and turned North off Interstate 10. From what I could see of the landscape beyond our headlights, there was more nothing. It was dry, sandy, and scrubby. Mother and Mrs. Enmon talked and shared coffee from Mamoo’s thermos while Robert napped between them in the front seat.
We headed toward Carlsbad Caverns in the Guadalupe Mountains of southeastern New Mexico. As the sky lightened, a few trees appeared, then gradually, more and more of them. They looked like pines, but not like the ones in East Texas. They were smaller, with crooked limbs and short needles. Mrs. Enmon said every evening, thousands of bats swarmed from the mouth of the cave, flew around through this small forest eating bugs, then returned home at sunup. I hoped they didn’t swarm during our visit.
It was still early when we arrived at the park. Unlike Southeast Texas in summer, the air was cool and dry. While everyone else unfolded from the car, I stared toward the horizon, shocked at its brilliance. I never paid attention to a sunrise before, but this one had me spellbound. It looked like a painting. Golden rays beamed from the edge of a yellow sun, and shades of pink spread across an endless sky.
I slipped into my new, navy blue windbreaker we bought for the trip, and felt proud as I zipped it up. Sticking my hands in the front slash pockets, I headed toward the Visitor’s Center.
I must have been near the edge of the parking lot when I stopped to look back. The others hadn’t followed. I could see Mother, Mamoo, and Mrs. Enmon crouched down, talking to Robert. Mother waved me back. As I approached them, I could see Robert; red-nosed and sniffling.
Taking me aside, Mother leaned down.
“Let Robert borrow your jacket for a little while.”
“Why?” I asked.
“They forgot his, and it’s cold in the cave.”
I thought about it.
“He can wear my sweater.”
“Well, he doesn’t want to. It’s red and he says it looks like a girl’s sweater. You can switch off later.”
But I knew better. Robert had backed out of other agreements. If I blinked now, I might never see the windbreaker again.
“He can’t have it,” I said, arms crossed.
I don’t remember what happened next. It’s possible Mother held my upper arm tightly, whispering hot coffee breath in my ear, threatening violence or public humiliation. Or she might have smacked her hands together and said,
“Right now! Take that windbreaker off!”
Or she may have forcibly removed it.
But the next thing I remember is stumbling down an incline toward the cave, wearing my red sweater. I barely heard our tour guide telling us to pay attention and stay on the path. And it didn’t faze me when he said bats would be dangling above our heads. I was busy pouting.
But then we entered the caverns, and I breathed in the cool, damp air. Hearing tiny, high-pitched squeaks, I looked up. Lining the ceiling, from one side to the other, were thousands of Mexican Free-Tailed Bats with wings folded and velvet bodies scrunched together. They looked soft enough to pet.
On each side of the dirt pathway sat vivid blue-green pools of water, teeming with algae. As we followed other visitors through a narrow passage or two, gradually, the cave opened up. In one chamber the vaulted ceiling was so high I couldn’t see the top. Stalactites hung like gigantic icicles. Some grew long and melded with stalagmites that rose up from the floor to meet them. Other formations stood in groups, like great statues in a museum.
The air grew cooler. As we walked farther into the cave I exhaled forcibly, watching mist flow from my mouth.
At the halfway point, we stopped in an enormous lunch room that was wide with a high ceiling. The dark, lumpy irregularity of cave walls contrasted with gleaming metal counters and bright fluorescent lights. Food service employees wearing white bustled about, selling sandwiches and soft drinks. There were bleachers where guests could eat or rest before descending to lower chambers. There was even a mail box if you wanted to send a postcard from underground.
Mother squatted down, taking my hand.
“Are you ok? Looks like you’re breathing hard.”
“I’m fine,” I said, easing my hand from her sweaty palm.
“Well, my claustrophobia is kicking up, so I think we should head out,” she said, wiping a bead of sweat above her lip.
“We’ll wait in the gift shop for the others.”
Then she summoned the elevator for an ear-popping ride back to the surface of the earth.
I don’t recall much more about Robert or the rest of our time in the car.
But I do remember Disneyland’s House of Tomorrow and floating down a stream as hundreds of dolls danced and sang “It’s a Small World.” I remember seeing Blue Boy and Pinkie, the Walk of Fame and bones of a long-dead Sabertooth Tiger bubbling up from the La Brea Tar pits. I also have a dim memory of Robert’s face on the last day of that trip when he finally ran into the word “No.”
Our moms were guiding us through the Golden Nugget Casino, when — somewhere between the slot machines and black jack tables — a burly security guard appeared, blocking our path. Pointing toward the front door, he bellowed,
“No children allowed!”
Robert’s eyes grew wide and his mouth turned into a surprised little “O,” as we made a hasty exit.
What I learned about travel that summer was that sometimes you don’t get the seat you want. The food may taste bad, and other passengers can be irritating. You might be asked to leave certain places and occasionally your favorite clothes get lost. But planning ahead makes travel easier. A bad seat can be viewed as a temporary assignment on the way to something better. Taking your own snacks and a change of clothes is smart, too. And if you’re headed west out of Texas, it helps to remember that you must be at least 44 inches tall to ride on Space Mountain and 21 years of age to enter a casino.