“Uh, oh” I groaned.

“First, the bad news” she continued, ignoring me. “I won’t be able to drive up to Indiana with you on vacation this year. The doctor said my back isn’t up to it. Now for the good news…I can still go, but I’ll be flying, while you and Dad go in the car.”

Mom and I have always had vastly differing opinions about what qualified as good news.

When I was growing up, Dad and I weren’t at all compatible; partly because of our similar temperaments…we were both stubborn, and hotheaded. And like many adult males, he was clueless about how to speak with “know it all” 16-year-old girls, so his frustration usually did the talking.

But much of the problem had to do with Dad’s job as an aerospace engineer. Government deadlines, contract revisions, long hours…they wore him down until he had little patience left for parenting. When we were together we were like the Israelis and Palestinians attempting to uphold their latest peace treaty…both sides tense as pokers, waiting for the slightest irritant to bring tempers to a boil again.

Thus, the thought of being trapped in a car with Dad wasn’t an appealing proposition.

I begged to be allowed to fly too, but our travel budget didn’t allow for additional plane tickets. And we needed the car to get around in while in Indiana.

“Spending time together will do you both some good. Your father is a rational, reasonable adult. Why don’t the two of you try to get along? With a little effort, you might have a good time,” she said.

Try to get along? Ha! I wondered how often the Israelis and Palestinians heard that one over the bargaining table.

The day we left on our pilgrimage, we dropped Mom off at the airport and then set off in “the Cannonball”, Dad’s nickname for his 1966 Chevy Impala. He was immensely proud of it, considering it to be the equal of any luxury car on the road. It was a cream puff, with a spotless interior, immaculate paint job, and an engine that purred like new, although it was nearly ten years old.

"Dad and I" Photograph contributed by Michelle Close Mills.

Once we were on the interstate, Dad turned into a surprisingly agreeable companion. He loved being out on the open road in his beloved Cannonball. His enthusiasm combined with perfect weather, as well as good food and hotels made for an exceptionally nice trip. Even the scratchy country music stations on the Cannonball’s AM radio were tolerable. Best of all we managed to enjoy each other’s company for a record 1,200 miles without a single skirmish. Hoping our truce was permanent, I found myself looking forward to the ride home.

I was an idiot.

From the time we embarked on our southbound journey the weather was atrocious, with alternating drizzle and torrential downpours that didn’t let up until we reached the Kentucky/Tennessee state line.

While it rained, nobody talked. Every now and then one of us would let out a big sigh to break the monotonous swishing of the windshield wipers. I’d nod off, jolt awake, see that it was still gushing, sigh some more, and nod off again.

But once the sun emerged, so did my high spirits. That was when I made the mistake of animatedly chattering about a plethora of topics; my friends, the latest fashions, activities for the coming school year, the new tire I needed for my bike, and the money I was saving for a yearbook....

Every once in awhile Dad would interject a disinterested “Hmmm”, but otherwise I did all the talking…never taking into consideration that my audience hadn’t uttered a word.

Until…

“Don’t you ever pause for breath??? Your non-stop prattle is giving me a headache!!” Dad suddenly snapped.

Evidently, our cease-fire was over.

I stopped mid-sentence, and coolly glanced at him over the top of my Foster Grants.

“Not another word until I tell you to talk. I want some peace and quiet!” he bellowed.

My grandmother was fond of saying, “Be careful what you ask for, because you might get it!” Someone was about to learn what that meant.

An hour later, Dad was so busy enjoying his peace and quiet that he zipped right by the Murfreesboro TN shortcut that we always took to avoid heavy traffic and interstate construction in downtown Nashville.

I was tempted to point out his error but decided to remain silent, still stinging from his scathing dismissal an hour earlier.

About twenty minutes later, the traffic started getting considerably thicker, as the Nashville skyline loomed ahead in the distance.

“Where in heck is the Murfreesboro road?” he asked. “Did we pass it?”

I ignored him, staring out the window.

“Hello? I asked you a question!!!”

“Are you permitting me to speak?”

“Yes, for crying out loud!”

“We passed it about fifteen miles back” I replied curtly.

“Fifteen miles???? Why didn’t you tell me that I’d missed it?” he roared.

“BECAUSE, you told me to be quiet!” I retorted.

He stared at my face in disbelief for a moment, then looked straight ahead at the endless sea of bumpers and taillights, and burst out laughing. Then I started giggling too, overwhelmed with relief that harmony and goodwill had returned to the Cannonball.

Eleven miles and 83 minutes later, we emerged from the bowels of rush hour Nashville and approached our usual midway stop for the night…the Holiday Inn high atop Monteagle TN. Nothing else had gone smoothly that day, so I wasn’t surprised to learn that Dad had neglected to make reservations, and the Holiday Inn was booked solid.

We were both very tired, and the sun was going down. Rather than driving down the dark mountain highway in search of better accommodations, Dad checked us into the only other lodging in town…a run down edifice known as the Smoky Trail Motel.

“Don’t expect much,” he grumbled after emerging from the office with a key. “The lobby smells like dog urine.”

When he opened the door it was evident that same dog that had baptized the lobby had also spent time in #102, our room for the night…an accommodation with the charm of an old urban bus station.

Coin operated vibrating massage units were installed next to the beds. A long, thick crack ran across the interior back wall from the bottom left to the top right. A poorly working window mounted air conditioner dribbled water onto the matted tangerine colored shag carpet.

The best that could be said for the room was that the toilet flushed, and the black and white TV worked. Sort of. We discovered it could pick up one station, and that was if I stood next to the antenna acting as a human receiver.

“What a DUMP!” Dad muttered over and over.

Neither of us was hungry, and since there was little comfort to be had in our dismal quarters, we put on our bathing suits and trudged down to the pool.

However our hopes for a refreshing dip were dashed, when finding that the pool was nothing more than a fetid cement pond brimming with bilious green water and mosquito larvae.

“Aw, D%&$*t, D%&$*t, D%&$*t!!! “yelled my overwrought father.

Needless to say what was left of our evening was officially ruined.

Once back in #102, Dad launched into an endless litany of complaints about the Smoky Trail Motel…it was a roach ranch, it was filthy, and the management should be paying us to stay there, yada yada yada.

I sat on one of the beds, listening to him loudly pontificate while munching my dinner (a stale bag of off-brand vending machine potato chips), pretending I was deaf, and praying that the sheets were clean and insect free.

Exhausted and unable to endure any more chaos, I pulled the covers over my head while he struggled with the rabbit ears on the television, no doubt wishing I’d get my fanny out of bed and stand next to the antenna again.

The next thing I knew, Dad was shaking my shoulder to wake me. I glanced at the clock. It was 2:56 a.m.

“Huh? What’s wrong?” I mumbled groggily.

“Get dressed. We’re not spending another hour in this hovel.”

Bleary eyed, I stumbled to the window and peered out at the thick Smoky Mountain fog blanketing the parking lot.

“Have you lost your mind? You won’t be able to see two feet in front of the car!” I shouted.

“I don’t care. Get moving,” he said as he placed his suitcase by the door.

Oh good grief! This was Mom’s idea of a rational reasonable adult?

Despite my conviction that my fate was in the clutches of a madman, I had no choice but to do as I was told (while fervently praying we wouldn’t plummet to our deaths before reaching the valley). Thankfully God heard me, and supplied a well-lit eighteen-wheel truck to lead the way down the steep foggy grade. I clutched my pillow tightly, peeping over the top every few minutes, my heart thundering in my chest, as the Cannonball hurtled down the mountain.

A few hours later, we were seated in a booth at a truck stop where Dad scarfed down a hearty breakfast of four greasy eggs, bacon, sausage links, grits, toast, and several cups of muddy black coffee. A near death experience did nothing to kill his appetite.

I on the other hand, was such a trembling wreck after white knuckling the Cannonball’s arm rests that I could barely choke down a meager bowl of Rice Krispies.

I can laugh about it now, but it was several years after the fact before I was mature enough to appreciate what had happened between Dad and I while we were on the road together.

It was the first time that I had his undivided attention for more than a few minutes. We talked, cracked bawdry jokes, laughed, ate, sang duets to Johnny Cash tunes on the radio, survived harrowing adventures, and bonded for the first time as father and daughter.

I discovered that Dad wasn’t the cranky old stick in the mud that I’d believed him to be. He was adventurous, unpredictable, downright exciting, and one exceptionally cool dude.

I think he realized I was pretty good company too.

As time went on Dad retired from his high stress job, and I married and became a mother. He was finally able to relax and get to know and enjoy his daughter. And by having a daughter of my own I began seeing things from a parental point of view. What was once a tentative and often fractured relationship, became rock solid. We’d talk for hours about anything and everything; finally realizing that what existed between us was a rare and wonderful gift. We discovered that it wasn’t just our similar temperaments that made us alike. What he thought, I thought. What I felt, he felt. We were so much alike that we knew each other better than anyone else could ever know us. Drawing close to my father helped me realize that a relationship with anyone (no matter how impossible they're reputed to be) is possible.

Dad died on June 27, 2005 at the age of 73. As I look back, our trip together was one of the best weeks of my life, a week filled with memories that the sting of death can’t erase.

In retrospect, I can finally admit that Mom was right when she announced our vacation plans so long ago. Despite any misgivings to the contrary, a road trip with Dad was very good news indeed.