Nomads of the Great American Heartland

Scenes from a family car trip:

Day 1: The open road. A full tank of gas. Kids in the back seat. Maps on Mom’s lap. I zero out the odometer. I zero out the kids. Out of the garage we roar, as if leaving the Bat Cave. The pace car for summer vacation.

“Dad, is it hard to drive?” the little girl asks.

“Not really,” I say.

“Because you make it look so easy,” she says.

“Here, have a dollar,” I say.

By noon, we are in the land where you pump first, then pay, a small token of trust that encourages us to continue. Gas is 20 cents cheaper. You can see the sky.

In the back seat, it smells like a garden party. I’m pretty sure there are cut flowers.

Day 2: The open road. A full tank of gas. Kids in the back seat. Maps missing.

“I think you’re sitting on them,” my wife says.

“They’ll be safe there,” I say.

In Denver, my wife does that little thing with her hands that she does when she thinks I’m not slowing down soon enough for traffic stopped ahead. Like someone shaking out a match. Like someone watching a no-hitter.

“Thanks for the help,” I say.

“No sweat,” she says.

“I spilled Orange Crush in my shoe,” the boy says.

“I want Orange Crush in my shoe,” the little girl says.

By 4 p.m., the back seat smells like a frat party. I’m pretty sure there is beer.

Day 3: The open road. A full tank of gas. Tic-Tacs rattling in all the ashtrays. Underwear flapping from a window.

“Mom, what’s a common-law marriage?” the boy asks.

His mother explains common-law marriages.

“See, we’re married,” the boy tells his little sister, which makes the little girl break into tears. I don’t know if she’s happy or sad. As with most brides, it’s hard to tell.

“Get a lawyer,” her older sister suggests.

“OK,” says the little girl.

To pass the time, the kids make signs with Magic Markers and hold them up to passing truckers.

“Just married,” one sign says.

“Honk if you’re bored,” another says.

“Have you seen my duck?” asks another.

By 4 p.m., the back seat smells like boiled socks. And a type of cheese I cannot at first identify.

“Car-trip cheese,” I finally say to my wife.

“Huh?” she says.

“Never mind,” I say.

Day 4: The open road. A full tank of gas. After breakfast, my wife calls me “Dagwood,” then threatens to leave me for the mini-mart attendant at the Shell.

“He seemed so nice,” my wife says as we pull away.

“Dad, if she goes, we’re staying with you,” the boy says.

“No, we’re not,” says the little girl.

“That’s your choice,” I tell them.

For lunch, we stop in the little Iowa town where Buffalo Bill was born.

“Wanna see the Buffalo Bill museum?” I ask.

“Yes!” the little girl screams.

“Dad, don’t let this get any worse,” my older daughter says.

“That clerk, he seemed so nice,” my wife says.

“My leg is bleeding,” says the boy.

By 4 p.m., the back seat smells like a zoo. I think there’s a monkey loose.

And in the nick of time, we arrive in Chicago, proudly wearing the dirt of eight dusty states.

The kids tumble from the car, then grunt when their grandmother hugs them hard. For several minutes, they struggle to get their breath back.

“She hugs good,” says the little girl, staggering toward the house.

The Midwest is bigger than we remember it. Friendly. The sort of place where presidents are born.

For eight days, the children run rampant across northern Illinois, swimming and fishing and throwing rocks in rivers. They chase their cousins. They eat watermelon with their noses and chins.

When they run out of things to do, they sit on the back porch and count their mosquito bites, as if comparing souvenirs.

“I’ve got 12,” one says.

“I’ve got 15,” says another.

“That’s a nipple,” one explains.

“No it’s not.”

“Let’s not talk about nipples,” I say.

On the ninth day, we load up the car. The kids climb back aboard, three car-trip cosmonauts, ready for another mission.

“My face is bleeding,” says the boy.

“That’s Grandma’s lipstick,” his older sister explains.

“She kisses good,” the little girl says.

The car sputters as we pull out of the driveway, as if we left a sparkplug in the garage.

“Bye, Grandma!” they yell, waving out the back window.

Somehow, the sputtering minivan keeps going, pointed back across the prairie.

“I can’t believe it,” my wife says.

“What?” I say.

“It’s over,” she says sadly.

“Not yet,” I say.

The open road. A full tank of gas. Two thousand miles till home.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.