Recent legislature forbidding distracted driving briefly flickered in the news. Its marketing featured a driver speeding along with a shaggy dog, its head hanging out the window.

Plenty of us recall a time when children or pets could pretty much ride anywhere they would fit inside a vehicle. Heck, even plopped on open-air truck beds. Which is actually still legal for farmers going to and from market.

The 1950s and ’60s ushered in a new era for family travels, and plenty of us couldn’t wait to hit the road. My imaginary friend, Pixie, and I had no trouble squeezing into the family sedan or Dad’s old pickup at any opportunity — I loved riding standing up beside my father with my left arm looped around his neck. There was always room for Pixie beside me, of course.

A nation newly traversed by interstates, thanks to initiatives by President Eisenhower, made a journey a heckuva lot easier. (My Great Uncle Miles regaled us with stories about him and his brother John navigating a trek westward in a “Tin Lizzie,” an atlas their only guide. Upon reaching the Rockies, Uncle Miles said the Model T ended their crossing by rolling backwards down the mountain, having insufficient engine power.

But now the road was open and calling, and rural folk were catching the travel bug.

A friend recalled squeezing above the back seat into the rear window niche of a two-toned, yellow-and-white ’56 Chevy destined for the nation’s capital. (He, too, grew up in a time before children’s safety car seats, seatbelts or any safety constraints.)

“You’d be arrested now,” he chuckled, recalling napping in that window nook as the family vehicle set off. His grandmother, along with his mother, and great uncle and aunt “piled into one car and drove seven hours.” 

He woke as they rolled to a stop when they neared D.C., his aunt seeking directions to the closest dime store. He was ordered to remain in the car with his uncle, forestalling the inevitable begging for a toy. 

His Aunt Nettie huffed back after leaving the dime store, “We’re going home!”

His crestfallen mother entreated, “But why?”

“You can tell all you need to know about a town by the quality of their dime store,” she answered scornfully. “We haven’t lost anything here.”   

His Uncle Elmer turned the Chevy around, driving straight back to Burlington. 

Whatever happened in the dime store was not discussed. Did they fail to stock her favorite snuff? “Aunt Nettie was a closet snuff dipper. Beehive [brand].”

I remembered a misadventure of my own in my aunt’s drab-green, ungainly Plymouth she’d named Zesta.

One summer’s morning, my aunt and my mother packed the car for a husband-free trip to Cherry Grove, a family beach, suitcases strapped to the roof. 

There was ample room for 5-year-old me to stand on the Naugahyde rear seat and watch the road retreating behind us as morning dissolved into afternoon. Pixie, my compact friend who looked exactly like Speedy in the Alka-Seltzer ads, was not along for the adventure.

Suddenly, the green Samsonite cases the two sisters had lashed to the roof broke free and I delightedly watched them bounce along the highway in our wake. Out spilled pajamas, clothing, toiletries and unmentionables. I giggled as motorists did their best to avoid them, veering wildly behind us. 

My mother swiveled around. “What is so funny?”

I pointed to the scene behind us. “Our clothes! In the highway!” 

My mother screamed.

My aunt screeched to the side of the road, Zesta’s white-wall tires kicking up a dust cyclone. 

“What in the world?” my mother shouted at me. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Our aunt was a striking woman, leggy, tanned and outdoorsy. More than one driver slowed just to get a better look at the blonde wearing beige Bermuda shorts, a halter top and white Keds. I myself couldn’t take my eyes off my aunt as she gathered up our belongings as best she could, darting in and out of traffic. Passing cars tooted. 

My mother, the prissy one, shouted at her older sister to be careful as she stood cautiously by in a sundress, her hair and makeup just so.

My aunt rescued some pieces from the ditches and roadside, all of it soiled. We continued on our way, the sisters sobered and quiet. “I had a brand-new bottle of Tweed cologne,” my aunt sighed. 

“Did ya’ll get new clothes,” asked my friend as we laughed about our road trips gone sideways. 

“Of course not,” I answered. 

Once at Cherry Grove, we would sit in the sand and eat grape popsicles, plus I  rode the surf in an inflatable float.

I still had my blue bathing suit, which I called my “bathing soup.” And my Teddy, too, which I was wise enough to know could not have survived being stuffed into the airless suitcase.

Pixie was away on an Alaskan adventure, which was just as well, I decided. There would be much to tell him when we both returned.