Who got taught a lesson on the New Jersey Turnpike?

Dad eyeballed his four sons in the rear view mirror of his 1966 Ford LTD station wagon. Cigarette smoke curled from his lips across his angry caffeinated eyes. There was warfare on the horizon.

We were an hour into a 14-hour overnight car trip. Dad was a 37-year-old furniture salesman, sporting a crew cut, piloting his car full of family and baggage south from New York to North Carolina.

The car was fueled. The tires checked. Engine fluids topped. Maps folded to showcase the route. Dad was mission focused: Delivering his family safely to his parents in Morganton in the most efficient, expedient and no-nonsense manner possible. 

He was looking like the Navy officer he was after college.

He had his carton of Parliament cigarettes within reach. A thermos of black coffee was right there, too. 

Mom was in the front passenger seat. Her carton of Salem smokes was beside her. Her main job was Peacekeeper. She wore her fingernails long and sharp, as was the fashion then. Control management. Dad preferred peace and quiet. And order and sanity. 

Fat chance. You jam four brothers aged 4 years to 12 years into a single bench car seat for an overnight drive lasting14 hours and there’s going to be some fighting.

It was the mid 1960s.  We lived in Mount Kisco, N.Y. Mom’s parents lived nearby so we saw them a lot. Dad’s parents lived in Morganton, so every couple of years we’d load up the car for the overnight haul.

The family car was a 1966 Ford LTD station wagon with the faux wood paneling, fold-down rear seat in the way back, vinyl bench front and middle seats, a pressed solid-steel head-cracking dashboard, AM radio, hand crank windows (with the triangular smoke vent, no less) and a heater. 

All the comforts of a bus stop.

The Bros sat four abreast in the back bench seat. The older bros got the window seats (as if there was any question). Oldest bro, Trip, brought a thick book with real words. The youngest bro, David, had comic books. Another bro, Mark, had a book about birds and trees or frogs or worms or something. I don’t think I brought anything.

 The Bros were wearing, … I don’t  remember what we were wearing so it doesn’t matter.

Mom had prepared a bag of snacks for the bros. Oranges, bananas, water, some cheese and peanut butter sandwiches. You eat fruit and peanut butter for 14 hours and something unpleasant is gonna give that belongs outside the car.

Within an hour the back seat was about as peaceful as a hockey game, the parents had nearly dislocated their shoulders by vicious back swings from the front seat, the bros all had lung damage, Mom had broken several fingernails / claws and 40,000 passers-by got taught a lesson in child management. 

Settling into the ride, I spread my knees akimbo to maximize my legroom, jamming Mark’s legs together. He started to complain. I placed my right elbow next to his left rib cage. I hammerjacked my right fist with my left hand, driving my elbow into his ribcage.

He yelped and jumped to the right, causing David to scream “HEY” around a mouthful of orange wedges. (The guy was chowing down on the oranges.)

“Quiet back there,” said Mom.

“Allen hit me in the UOOFFFFFF,” Mark said as I wacked him in the chest. 

David silently leaned a tad to the right. “Sorry,” he said.

“OKAY, WHO CUT THE CHEESE?” Dad said.

Mom swiveled and hissed, “Your father’s got a long drive ahead of him and you BEHAVE because —”

David said, “I couldn’t help it, mom, it’s —”

I opened the window. It was wintertime and the cold air rushed noisily into the wagon.

“CLOSE THE WINDOW,” Dad said.

Mom leaned over and pinched my leg and damn near drew blood with her claws. I whacked Mark in the arm. He noogied David, who looked bewildered at Trip, thought better of it, and kicked Mark in the shin. Mark jumped and inadvertently kicked me. I stomped on his foot and he yelped and yelled, “Cut it out. Mom, tell Allen —”

“DON’T MAKE ME STOP THIS CAR,” said dad.

Mom leaned over her seat and started swinging her snapping claws. 

Each swing had a word with it. “You (swing) boys (swing) STOP (big swing and another miss) this (swing) non (swing) sense (swing) right now,” Mom said, panting.

All bros dodged and danced and laughed because Mom didn’t land a punch.

“THAT’S IT,” boomed a voice from the driver’s seat. “Honey, let’s light ‘em up.” 

Mom and Dad both lit their cigarettes. Windows were rolled tight. Mom took a big drag and blew smoke in our direction. The car filled with smoke in no time.

We started gagging on the nicotine. I swear I coughed up a chunk of my left lung. We could hardly see our hands in front of our face, what with the thunderheads of blue smoke.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Mark said.

“You get sick in this car and it’ll be the last place you ever get sick,” Dad said, exhaling a lungful. He and mom exchanged grins and took synchronized drags.

“You keep misbehaving and you’ll wish you were just sick,” Mom said. “So BE QUIET and settle down. We have a long way to go.”

“Me too,” David said.

“QUIET,” mom said.

They finished their smokes. After about 47 years they cracked their windows. Trip and I rolled down ours and we sucked in the cold, fresh evening time air. David was looking green. 

We were getting close to the New Jersey Turnpike.  We had been traveling for a little more than an hour. It was rush hour on the Pike. Thousands of cars. We rolled up the windows.  

We were getting twitchy and started bumping and bouncing against each other.

“Watch it,” I whispered to Mark.

“Cut it out,” David said to Mark.

“I want the window,” Mark said. “You always get the window. Why can’t I have the window? Mom, tell Allen to share —”

“Ahh, sorry,” David said, leaning a little. We all opened windows.

I leaned across Mark and popped David a good one in the chest.

“HEY,” Mark said.

“Mommmmmm,” David said. “I can’t help it and he just hit me for something I can’t help.”

Mom twisted in her seat. “You want more of this?” she said holding up a pack of Salems. “Or this?” she said, showing her fingertip claws.

I snuck in another clandestine elbow shot to Mark. He fired another noogie at David, who started crying. Trip just sat there reading.

THAT’S IT,” roared Dad. And he whipped the Ford LTD wagon over to the emergency lane next to the guardrail. “Outta the car, all of you. NOW.”

We got marched against the guardrail. We were ordered to turn our backs to the rush hour traffic, told to drop our pants and bend over the rail. Mom proceeded to spank all of us with her hairbrush, bristle end. 

In the ensuing five minutes, I bet 47,000 parents drove by, took deep note of the parents lining up their children on the New Jersey Turnpike, pants down for all to see and getting spanked with some kind of weapon. 

I can just hear those parents telling their children, “See that? That’s going to be you if you don’t shut up and sit still.” 

Those parents owe us brothers, bigtime. 

That’s the last thing I really remember about the trip except waking up to the clicking sound of a turn signal. The bros were lying  all over the seat sleeping.  It was near dawn.

We were turning onto Powe Street in Morganton where Dad’s parents lived. 

Made it.

Allen VanNoppen is publisher of The Paper. He may be reached at 828-445-8595 or via email at allen@thepaper.media.