My Earliest Travel Adventures Across State Lines

     Have you ever unexpectedly happened upon a taste or smell that immediately catapults you into a time warp, back to your childhood?

     That happened to me one day as I was picking raspberries and popped one into my mouth. Something

It's a jungle in there!

about the time of morning, angle of the sun, birdsong or fragrance of damp soil collided with my taste buds to zoom me back to the early 1950s, into a forest of towering raspberry canes by an alley in Kearney, Nebraska. It was my Aunt Florence's back yard garden. I was 6 years old.

The Odd Details One Remembers...

      Aunt Florence (actually, my great aunt; she was my grandmother's older sister) and Uncle Walt had two sons around my mother's age who had moved on to their own lives. I guess Aunt Florence enjoyed having a little girl around for a change. I'm not sure Uncle Walt was so hot on the idea. A small, quiet man with rimless glasses and a dark, weathered face and arms, he kept his nose in the newspaper in the evenings and his ear on the radio, listening to baseball games. He wasn't the friendliest man, nor much of a conversationalist, but he wasn't unkind either. He worked for the Union Pacific railroad and left early every morning in dark denim work clothes, a black metal lunchbox and Thermos of coffee under his arm. He'd ease their black sedan from the little detached garage on its two cement tracks into the street, then would disappear until evening. He'd come home tired and not as eager to hear about my day as I thought he should be.

      I was put on the train each summer, starting at the age of 5, to travel from our small town in northeastern Colorado to Kearney, about 180 miles away. It's hard to imagine parents doing that nowadays, but it seemed safe enough back then. I wasn't afraid. There was always a grandfatherly porter dressed in his deep blue Union Pacific suit and cap to tell me how many more towns before we got to Kearney and made sure I got off where Aunt Florence was waiting. Those gentlemen were kind enough not to laugh when I asked if they knew Uncle Walt since he worked for the railroad too. Some would pause, look pensively at the ceiling and say, “Hmm, no, I don't believe I do.”
      My Mom or grandmother would pack a little carry-on case of goodies to entertain me during the trip. In it were my Ginny doll (Barbie wouldn't appear for another few years, sparing my malleable psyche from the impossible body-type she indicated we were to strive for), some new clothes for her that Gram had made, a peanut butter & grape jelly sandwich (Gram always used cold butter so there were thick squares of it on one of the slices of white bread, with crust, cut diagonally), orange jellies shaped like orange segments and coated with sugar, Fig Newtons, potato chips, plus picture and coloring books. I couldn't wait to get on the train so I could see what they had packed; it was part of the adventure.

      Aunt Florence and Uncle Walt lived in a three-story house in a middle class neighborhood. She and I walked everywhere since Uncle Walt had the car. In those days, ladies her age,(in her 50s), didn't wear pants or shorts. She was always in a dress, stockings and sensible medium-heeled shoes, as was Gram. She looked serious, but had a slightly ironic smile and was fun to be around. She always had good ideas of things for us to do. If she drove, it was only on Sunday when she and I went to the brown brick Presbyterian church downtown. Afterward, we would go to the dairy across the street from the church and get several kinds of ice cream made right there (the local precursor to Baskin-Robbins). They had flavors I'd never heard of, like pistachio, blackberry walnut, mint chocolate chip and peaches and cream. When we got home, we'd make ice cream balls, wrap them in waxed paper and fill the little ice box freezer with wonderful treats to enjoy after supper.

     There were things to explore in the sons' rooms, one of which I slept in: adventure books and magazines, a Boy Scout manual, comics, baseball gloves, coin collections – all “boy stuff” and very boring. Across the hall, though, in a closet at the top of the stairs, were boxes of old clothes and jewelry I was allowed to play with. I was transfixed by an amber necklace and bracelet. The dark-honey translucence were magical. So, too, were the patterns of little black and white tiles on the bathroom floor at the other end of the hall. There was plenty of natural light streaming in from wood sash windows dressed with starched white curtains. The claw-foot bathtub seemed enormous. The toilet had a ceramic black and white handle. The doorknobs were clear glass. A kid would notice those things since they were at eye level.

     Downstairs, on a shelf between the living room and dining room, was a white ceramic cow cream pitcher. His tail curled up, forming the handle. There was a hole in its back for the cream, which was poured through his snout. (Gross, if you really think about it; but I didn't then.) Cereal always tasted extra good when the milk came from that pitcher. The milk was delivered in bottles with a glug of cream at the top, to a wooden box on the front porch early mornings twice a week, along with other dairy products if you wanted.

     About a block away was a little grocery store blending nicely into the neighborhood. It looked like it had been a home once too. The basement must have served as the storage area, since customers had to climb steep wooden steps to the first-floor store. A heavy screen door with a metal center plate embossed with an ad for Pepsi Cola slammed with authority behind you upon entering or leaving. Stepping inside, you were  enveloped in the aroma of indiscernible produce – a mixture of bananas and onions, cantaloupe and cabbage. There was, of course, an ample display of candy to entice the neighborhood kids when they got their allowance or had change remaining when running an errand for their mothers.

     A big city park within walking distance was like an enchanted forest. We had a nice park in our town too, but it didn't have so many huge, shady trees bunched together like that. Or the small buildings painted dark green where maintenance equipment must have been stored. Others were restrooms with showers where you could change clothes to go swimming. There was a big, round cement wading pool for little kids and a bigger one with diving boards, surrounded by a chain link fence, for the big kids.

     One day, when Aunt Florence and I were at the wading pool, a woman screamed and ran into the pool in her clothes to grab a child who was face-down in the water. A couple minutes later, Aunt Florence insisted we leave. She assured me the child would be OK but we needed to get out of their way. I tried to look back as we left, but she tugged me along. That evening I heard her telling Uncle Walt and talking softly on the phone with someone. Her tone of voice and sad expression told me the child wasn't OK, but we never talked about it.

     This was the era before air conditioning in homes so most hot summer days kids gravitated to parks and pools, usually on their bikes with a round towel under their arms, flesh-colored nose plugs hanging around their necks. Girls had to wear swim caps. They were ugly, hot things and I never understood why boys didn't have to wear them too. We kids smelled like chlorine most of the summer and our bodies ripened to a bruised-peach brown and our hair turned lighter.
     At night, Aunt Florence and I would take walks, sometimes to the Dairy Queen near the college. Radio and sometimes television voices and laughter emanated from the houses we passed. One year there were swarms of cicadas. The din was a louder version of the natural ringing older people hear when there is no other sound. Thousands of empty shells clung to trees and houses or crunched under foot as you walked on sidewalks or lawns.

Chris & Bonnie head to the pool.

A friend of Aunt Florence had a daughter my age named Bonnie. She was fun, with dark, lively eyes, fierce determination and loved to laugh. What would now be labeled “play dates” were arranged and we'd either go to the park pool (alone when we were a little older), or play at her house where there were plenty of things girls were interested in. She had an older brother, Tommy, who, along with his friends, were insufferable teases.

The End of an Era

     The trips to Kearney ended after a few years. Then, I biked to our town's pool every day, or out for picnics along irrigation ditches at the edge of town with a friend. The trips to Kearney, though, made a big impression on me and may have sparked the itch to travel that grew stronger as I grew older.

     Passenger trains are long gone from our town, replaced by countless freight trains day and night. Walkable cities with neighborhood stores are being considered again. It's refreshing to see kids on bikes and playing outside, though it's often at day camps these days, where activities are organized and supervised.  
      Kids who travel today don't need a case full of distractions – they have phones or little devices to play all kinds of games - pocket-sized "toys" to keep them amused for hours on end, just like their parents.