In 1984, my family embarked on an epic road trip across America. My parents, my brother, my sister, and me—and my brother’s best friend for good measure—in a Country Squire station wagon with fake-wood panelling. I was 10 and about to see my dad cry for the first time. 
We spent six weeks on the road that summer, driving from Ontario across to California, down to Texas, and back up home. I loved every mile of it. I still love road trips because of it. How my parents didn’t murder us all, I have no idea. They must have been fucking exhausted.
Remember, of course, this was pre-Internet, pre-cell. Every night for six weeks, my parents had no idea where we’d sleep. I mean, they knew where we’d sleep: in the tent trailer we towed behind the wagon. They didn’t know where the tent trailer itself would find rest.
(For those of you unfamiliar with the technological marvel that is the tent trailer, it’s a big box. When it’s time for bed, you take a tool called “the crank” and wind the box open to make a hard-topped tent. Genius. All the comforts of home, if your home were a tent in a box.)
In Bowling Green, we slept in the trees by a river. In Kansas City, we slept near Kauffman Stadium and caught a game. In Las Vegas, we slept in the parking lot of Circus Circus. In Flagstaff, we slept inside the trailer-park toilet, because it was so goddamn hot.
Anyway, at the California border in those days, there were inspection stations—hunting for contraband fruit, I believe. We stop and my dad has to pop open the trailer. The inspector peers inside our mobile sanitarium, my dad closes up, and we’re on our way.
Eight hours later we pull into Los Angeles. The Olympics are on! That’s amazing. And also terrible, because there is nowhere to stay. We drive all over L.A. on a flying couch towing a trailer. At midnight, my dad finally finds a shitty motel that will let us park in their lot.
He staggers out of the car, four sleepy kids whining in the back, and goes to open the little locked cabinet that holds the crank. Except—the crank is not there. Where is the crank? Oh fuck me, the crank must be back at the border. It’s lying on the road with the snakes.
My dad was a very strong man. Rugby player. This is a picture from around then. I’m the goalkeeper. He’s the coach. Look at those legs in those short shorts. Magnificent pins.
I saw that very strong man sit at a picnic table, put his head down on it, and weep.
I saw that very strong man sit at a picnic table, put his head down on it, and weep.
I watch his heaving shoulders with wonder and alarm. It was like seeing an elephant fly. I also want to make sure none of us die. But what can I do? I’m 10 years old. For whatever reason, I decide to look in the cabinet again. In case the crank had magically appeared, I guess.
I open the door, look into that cabinet with my young, hopeful eyes, and there it is: the crank! My dad must have been too broken to see it. Or maybe it really was magic. I reach in and pull it out like an archaeologist, putting my trembling fingers to an ancient treasure.
I walk to the picnic table. “Dad,” I say. He looks up with red eyes. I hold up the crank like it’s Excalibur. My siblings always complain that I’m the favourite, and it’s true, I am. But they think it’s because I’m funny and handsome. It’s because of that night in Los Angeles.
Happy Father’s Day, Dodo. I’m sorry I called you The Bald Wallet. I’m sorry I told the septic tank jellyfish story. I’m sorry I laughed when you ate a blueberry fritter while muttering, “I hate myself.” I gave you the crank. You gave me everything else. I love you very much.
UPDATE: My parents brought photos as well as their gazebo troll game, and look what we have here: the Squire, the trailer, and my dad in short shorts, with legs for days. Welcome to my childhood: Strap the hell in, son. We're going to California.
