The Other Way

When I was a kid we rarely all went somewhere together. As a family of seven children on our budget, we couldn’t possibly have fit all the kids in our one car without someone killing someone else.

On those rare occasions that a portion of us did pile into the car, it was always Dad at the wheel. Mom never had a driver’s license until 1973 – when she was 45 years old – so I’m sure it was an unspoken mistrust of her driving skills, as well as her preference, that placed Dad behind the wheel.

I don’t know if it’s something that comes with age, or at a certain specific age, but Dad never seemed to be in much of a hurry to get anywhere. He has spoken of the foolish things he did as a young man involving cars and excessive speed, but by the time I, “The Caboose,” came along there was nothing left of that foolish young man, and we made our way to every destination at or below the posted speed limit.

Even worse, Dad never liked to use the “expressways,” as they’re known here in the Midwest. Much to my sisters’ chagrin, no matter the distance to a destination, certainly if it was local, Dad would chart a course on the map in his brain for the “back roads” route, usually the most direct – but not the quickest – way to get there.


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Each of us spends the first twenty to twenty five years of life refuting the observations of others about how much we look like or take after either or both of our parents. But then we say or do something that drives home the crux of all those third-party observations: we do look like and take after one or both of our progenitors!

I first noticed it in myself when I saw a photo taken of me while helping to dig a drainage trench around my unit’s 13-man tent while on a military exercise in Germany. I was bent over my ridiculously inadequate entrenching tool and pushing its blade into the earth with my foot. My image was frozen on film, hunched over in profile. And there, at the age of 20, I saw both the resemblance to and a trait of my father: in my effort and concentration, I was pursing my lips just like my father does, and I looked EXACTLY like him (except my nose had not (and still has not (yet)) expanded to the proportions of his nose)!

It was one of those rare moments this morning as I drove to Whole Foods Market, a blank-mind moment when thoughts are flying freely in and out while the brain handles the primary task of avoiding the oncoming traffic and the idiots whose brains aren’t working properly. Earlier I had consulted Google Maps for the route to get to Whole Foods Market and, though it recommended I get right on I-90 and take it east to Illinois Route 53, and then take that north to Rand Road, I opted instead to take Barrington Road all the way up to Dundee Road, and then Dundee Road east to Rand Road, where Whole Foods is. I wished to avoid I-90 not because of the speed – which I would exceed – but more because I-90 is a toll road, and I didn’t want to spend extra money on my trip.

It was on the way home that it hit me. I’m my Dad. I’m the “back roads” guy. I was doing it as far back as the mid-1990s, when I lived in southern Illinois. Where the trip home or back was about 4 hours via I-57, I often “explored” alternate routes, taking the state routes down there and needlessly adding 2 hours to my trip.

And since I’ve moved back to Chicago and took the job I have now, I’ve accumulated at least three alternate routes to get home when traffic along I-90 was too heavy, or when I didn’t care to deal with the idiots and the brainless along the way.

Even now that I live only ten minutes from the office, I have been assessing the alternatives for getting there and back.

At the very least, taking the alternate routes means you know the alternate routes, and in emergencies that can be a good thing. At best, taking the alternate route gives you an alternate view and lets you see things you wouldn’t otherwise see. It doesn’t mean much on the daily commute, I guess, but it can give you a whole different perspective on your world when you’re on a road trip somewhere.

Say what you will about Dad; for all his back roads and side trips, he still got to where he was going, and at a calmer pace, yet, and he’s still right where he is now, if that makes any sense. And, if you ask my opinion, I think he’s all the richer for it.

And, frankly, so am I.