Honea Express

The drive to Tucson should have taken seven hours. It took twice that. The boys passed out shortly after sunset and we let The Muppets soundtrack play through two more times before we replaced it with conversation and the sounds of the open road.

It took over three hours to drive from one side of Los Angeles to the other. The rest of the drive was long and lonely. We stopped for a burger. We stopped and slept in a rest area parking lot. We stopped for gas, sunflower seeds, and coffee. We lost an hour in the middle of nowhere.

The boys woke up shortly before sunrise. They found the symmetry enticing. The sun also rises, and so too, the sons. We arrived at Nana’s house and we let the games begin.

Traveling to visit family over the holidays is exhausting. There is more to do and see than one can fit in an extended weekend without becoming extended themselves. The demands on time are great, because the people you wish to see are great. Most of them. But they have friends and families, too. Nothing gets any easier.

The boys spent time with grandparents, an aunt, an uncle, and a great-grandfather that embraced them with a joy that none of us knew he still possessed. They also ate a lot.

Thanksgiving rolled into Black Friday, and Saturday came and went in a blur of quick greetings and endless leftovers. People were hugged accordingly.

Sunday found us sitting on the hood of our car in the middle of Interstate 10. There had been an accident — something horrible 30 miles ahead. The freeway had been closed for hours, but, according to news reports, by the time we stopped it had been open for nearly 90 minutes. It takes a long time for freedom to trickle back. We walked along the asphalt of the interstate and talked to strangers. Children played soccer on the shoulder. Teens skated around parked cars. There was talk of a barbecue a mile down the road. We had already eaten.

There is an odd sense of community meeting your fellow travelers while, literally, on the road. We all had our bags and our baggage. We all had someplace to be and someplace that we were coming from. And we all knew that it was better to be at the end of the line than the cause of it. Everyone was free and easy. Everyone was on their way home or something close to it.

The unpacking of the highway finally reached us and our journey continued without a hitch, but it did have a few more waves. What were once faceless targets of frustration and the occasional curse word were now bonded by shared experience. We traveled as a caravan, going whichever way the road goes.

The drive from Tucson should have taken seven hours, but we weren’t in a hurry. At some point the sun set, and the boys were right behind it.

“I want this,” said my son. He was marking off toys in a holiday catalog per a request from his grandmother.

“We can share it,” added the other.

“We can share the toys,” replied his brother, “but I’m not sharing underwear.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

And so it went, page by page, an item here, and an item there. One wanting. One sharing. Their list grew longer and their plans all the grander.

“This is too expensive,” said one. “But maybe Santa can bring it.”

“Maybe,” I said as I looked at the price tag. It was doubtful that Santa could swing it this year.

“I like this better,” he said.

“And there is a coupon,” said the other.

“What does Nana want?” they asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I haven’t asked her yet.”

“We should probably find out.”

“I’ll look for something she might like,” said one.

“It can be from both of us,” said the other.

And so it went, page by page, an item here, and an item there. One pointing out things that others might like. One pointing out things that could be from the both of them.

By the time they were done the list of gifts to give far exceeded those to receive.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to get everything on the lists,” I told them.

And so they retraced their steps, page by page, and when they came to an item here and an item there, one would say, “I don’t really want this present.”

“I don’t want it either,” said the other, “but I think that Nana would love it.”

And soon the lists were one, and the boys were proud and happy.

“How is that?” asked my son.

“If we can’t buy it, we’ll make it,” added the other.

“Like an elf,” agreed his brother.

Then the catalog was closed and they went downstairs to play. The sound of laughter bounced recklessly up the stairwell. It was loud and it was sometimes sudden. It was a gift they didn’t know they were giving.

And it came from the both of them.

“Thank you,” said the girl as she walked through the door that my 5-year-old son was holding open. She was midway through a line of children, and the first to acknowledge us.

“Did you see how that little girl thanked you?” I asked after the kids had passed.

“Kids should always use their manners,” he answered.

“Not just kids,” I added. “That goes for all of us.”

“Even when it’s another kid?” he asked.

“How did it make you feel when she thanked you?”

“Good.”

“Then I think you have your answer,” I said.

We walked down the hall, looking at this and that, up some stairs, and through a door that a child held open.

“Thank you,” my son said.

The child smiled.

“That kid was using manners, too.” I noted.

“By holding the door open?” he asked. “That’s what I do for people.”

“I know you do.”

A woman walked by with a handful of books. She dropped one about a foot from where we were standing. My son ran over, picked up the book and handed it to her. He asked if she needed help, and she replied that she didn’t. Then he went to the door and held it open.

“Thank you,” she said to him.

“Your son has very nice manners,” she said to me.

“Yes he does,” I answered as he ran up and took my hand. We started to walk away.

“Daddy,” he whispered (which is basically just a huskier version of his yell). He pulled me close, “You were supposed to say ‘thank you.’”

Touché, kid. Touché.

He held my hand as we walked together down the sidewalk. He paused often to point out random acts of kindness. I paused too, and I thanked him every single time.