When I was eight my family moved from Pennsylvania to California. Our mother was heaven bent to make the trip educational. She brought along tourist books so that she could provide geography lessons as we gazed up at Mount Rushmore and stood in the spray of Old Faithful. Mom read little known facts about each state, including what chapters of history took place there. My father picked a car with a state of the art sunroof, so that we could watch the stars as we barreled across Nebraska. They paced the trip so that we drove for half a day, leaving time for swimming in the pool at each motel along the way. We ate at Howard Johnsons and no one had to wash dishes. My brother was in charge of the AAA map, which had a continuous yellow line across a hundred individual pages telling us where to turn. The trip took two full weeks.

They valued the journey. 

When I drove with my own six kids on the same trek forty years later, I did not pilfer any time on sight seeing. We crammed as many miles as we could into the generous allowance of the days skirting the summer solstice. When I could not stay alert any longer we dragged suitcases to our room, and fell into bed. It was not my intention to make the journey fun, but rather to get there in four days. I succeeded.  

Sometimes that same compulsion to eclipse the journey shows up in my marriage. The embarrassing thing is I am not precisely sure what Arrived looks like. My Golden Wedding anniversary? Wicker chairs on the screened in porch? Knowing each other well enough to forgo conversation? 

Yesterday was as plain as the interstate across Nebraska. John is off his crutches now, and we walked side by side to the local bakery for smoothies. The chatter at dinner boinged like popcorn, from homework, to the rocking chair Zack found at the thrift store, to the pecking order outside our window. When everyone left the table John and I washed dishes. 

As I heard Benjamin singing in the other room I realized that maybe I am not in such a hurry after all.