Writing about Chandler’s and my experiences on our recent road trip has brought up many memories — some from my past, some from yours. (Carol wrote me about a buffalo stampede that left fur marks in the dust on their car, a back country discovery of Carhenge in Alliance, Nebraska [named “No. 2 Wackiest Attraction”], stopping at all “Hysterical” Markers and reenacting what had taken place there, and the indelible memory of a sunrise over Crater Lake, Oregon.)

My memory, reignited by being in Flagstaff, Arizona with Chandler, was of a particular motel that I believe we successfully found still operating there. It has changed its name to the Wonderland Motel, the pool has been filled in, and there are weeds coming up through the cracks in the asphalt, but I have no doubt it is the place my family stayed on summer trips to Texas from southern California. It sits along a strip of motels on the eastern side of town and still boasts a picturesque view of the surrounding mountains. It is firmly implanted in my mind because it was always the first stop of our annual Texas trip to visit relatives and friends where my parents used to live, and it followed about sixteen hours of a family of five in our car — my father driving all night on Route 66 to avoid the extreme heat of the Mojave Desert in August. We would hit the Starlight Motel in Flagstaff around noon, and my father would crash in the room while I and my brother and sister would get to swim in the pool that had a slide.

The man at the desk of the Wonderland Motel was too young to know anything personally about the history of the place, but he did say he thought there had been a name change back when. He also said it was old enough to have been named a historical building (this one undoubtedly “hysterical” due to its poor repair). I had hoped there had been someone old enough to remember, but I have no doubt it was the place. I had an eerie feeling stepping out of my car and sensing the vibe. It was a definite déjà vu.

I am hoping Chandler will remember some of the memories we created on this trip as I do mine. We need vacations (I’m preaching to myself here), not just for the emotional and physical rest, but for the break in the routine of living that helps us remember why we are alive.

It’s ironic that one of Carol’s memories was in Crater Lake, Oregon. It was on our family’s visit to Crater Lake — my dad pulling a house trailer with our 1950 Ford – that my brother cracked a joke in that has become firmly entrenched in the Fischer family lore.

We had a grandfather we called “Daddy Tom.” He was my grandmother’s second husband and we never really got to know him very well, mostly because he rarely talked. He just sat in his chair, leaned over to you whenever you tried to address him, cupping his hearing-aid ear with his hand, and saying, “Yeah, yeah,” only it came out in a strung-out, hoarse diphthong that my brother had learned to master, much to our amusement, earlier that day. So the stage was set when my tired and exasperated father tried to get us kids to quiet down (the five of us in very close quarters in this trailer) with one of those spineless parental threats like, “The next one who says anything is going to have bla, bla, bla to pay,” that my brother seized the moment with a perfectly timed, well executed, “Yeah, yeah.”

We laughed so hard the trailer shook — a truly hysterical marker.