by Salvatore Barcia Jr.

Posted: August 8, 2017 (Inaugural blog post)

It was a hot August day in 1978. We were on our annual family trip, this one all the way across the U.S.A. from New York to California. As we trekked, we came across the small, sleepy town of Chloride, about an hour or two outside Las Vegas.

Chloride was a small town, one tourists rarely visited, but my father sought unknown nooks and crannies on our vacations. The town had a jail with nothing but four walls (most likely an obsolete relic from the old west, I had assumed it was their functioning local jailhouse). There was a general store, a few houses and not much else. You could feel the quiet. Tumbleweed accounted for more traffic than cars. Dust circled around corners. Its few residents probably wondered why a family of New Yorkers was sauntering through their homestead.

Finding the US Post Office, the only official body in town, my parents thought it would be a good idea to step in and ask about the town. This was my father’s ritual. Anywhere we went – whether on a cross-country journey or on a drive to the store around the block – he stopped to talk, chatting it up on any possible topic and often making us late for our next stop. Somehow it seemed everyone he met was a Brooklyn Dodgers fan from his old neighborhood, knew everything about pharmacy, or loved Buddy Holly.

“What happens if you need the police?” my father queried as we glanced around the office.

“Well,” the woman laughed, “we have to call the police from the next town over and wait about 20 minutes.”

After a hearty laugh and a few more questions we toured the tiny outpost for another little while then continued on our odyssey. These trips are among my fondest childhood memories. We departed at dawn, and you could taste the crisp summer air still awaiting the burning touch of the sun. I would set up a mini-camp in my section of the car, figuring out the best position to peer through the window at the endless countryside. To this day I love the feel of an early summer morning, anticipating whatever adventure lies ahead.

We would pack up the car and start driving, sometimes in our old red station wagon, and others in our giant baby blue Chevy Suburban (I thought it was the biggest car ever). Our long distance drives included two coast-to-coast trips, seeing every possible bit of the country along our way. The AAA TripTik was our travel bible, maps directed us to offbeat destinations, and local gas attendants were informed enough to guide us when we got off track. It seemed navigation and geography were required job skills, and every gas attendant was highly adept at directing travelers to even the most obscure destinations. Alas, this is yet another lost talent – today you’re lucky if someone can guide you to a shop two blocks away.

One time in Washington D.C. my parents asked someone for information and he immediately observed, “You guys are from New York, right?” Lacking full grasp of regional accents, I wondered if he was psychic.

On this particular trip we were headed all the way to the Pacific coast, which meant extended periods in the car forcing us to creatively occupy our time. Radio service was haphazard, often with no signal in the desert or mountains, and we spent some stretches reading or doing crosswords. The rest was up to us.

Most time was devoted to a disappearing art – simply observing the world around us. We gazed at the distant countryside and absorbed the landscape: mountains; desert; badlands; lakes; rivers; ghost towns; farms. There was anticipation about the mountain range appearing to be just ahead but still distant after an hour of driving. Our eyes glared at skylines magically bursting over the horizon. We shivered with fear and excitement when a mountain road offered mere inches before the car might drift off a cliff. Sometimes we awed at the night sky full of stars not visible from home, or pondered the glow from headlights just beyond the horizon. We personified animals and tried various ways to grab their attention. Street and highway signs, directions and distances to towns, license plates, types of cars and bumper stickers were all ideal fodder for a variety of driving games. There were stretches of land with no civilization, and others requiring an explanation about the unique housing architecture. We debated the purpose of abandoned factories and snickered after stopping at Vosburg, its “downtown” consisting of one store and one house (this was also its uptown, east side and west side). The journey was the best part of the trip, and a device in hand or mounted in the car could have ruined this wonderful experience given to a child.

My two older brothers and I also concocted stories along the way. Once we developed a conspiracy theory about Montana not really existing. The government wanted there to be 50 states because it was a nice round number, so they created a fake state with road signs sending drivers on a wild goose chase to nowhere.

Chloride offered another opportunity to let our imaginations run wild as we wondered about a foolproof plot to rob it. Anthony, the oldest, explained how easy it would be for robbers to flee since the only police were 20 minutes away. Vinny and I agreed as we eagerly considered the blueprint for our faux theft.

The plot grew as we covered more miles on the road. We concluded the best location would be the post office, since we assumed the general store had a shotgun under the counter. After the robbery we would take off in multiple cars. Over the next few days our escape plan became increasingly elaborate. Getaway cars would go different directions. Sounds would be deployed from various locations to throw off police. Decoy vehicles would have dummies visible through the windows. Somehow the plot to rob this sleepy town evolved into a heist covering hundreds of miles and costing more than the loot would provide.

Of course it wasn’t real. What mattered was the time we had allowing creativity to sprout from our minds. We were forced to think, and we loved it. No devices, movies, video games, clips, live updates, posts, or newsfeeds.

It reminds me of what childhood was like for my generation. We were lucky enough to be one of the last generations to grow up before technology took over. There was television, then cursed as the “Boob Tube,” but its use was limited. Most time was spent on the block playing and creating games, whether it was baseball, tap-tap, running bases, man hunt, or skelly (by all accounts this game never made it too far past the borders of New York City).

When it wasn’t with the kids on the block, it was in the house or backyard with my brothers and cousins. One of my favorites was the haunted house we would do in the pantry. We used Ernie and Bert dolls covered in ketchup, sheets for ghosts, flashlights, grapes for eyeballs, cauliflower for brains, and whatever else we could find in the house to create a scary mood. The haunted houses did come to a tragic end, however, when Anthony got under the sheet attached to the pantry shelf and came at us, knocking down everything on the rack. Being the 1970s, the bottles were all glass with the uncanny power to shatter into hundreds of pieces. Ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise were everywhere. My mother’s arrival home soon after was much scarier than anything we could drum up during the haunted house.

She declared an end to the haunted houses that very day.

All these memories are strong in my mind, and although things must change I don’t always agree they are for the better. With a grasp on reality and an understanding of the forces driving kids (and adults) today, I won’t ever apologize for lamenting the past and seeing its positives. Perhaps technology is an answer to some questions and creativity will continue to thrive. Just as the ancients needed to accept books undermining oral traditions, perhaps I need to be more accommodating of today’s technologies. Still, while living in the present perhaps we should all try to remember the blessings of the past and keep them alive, because not everything old should be discarded.

Just leave Chloride alone. They don’t want any trouble.