It was a day like any other. 

Except it wasn’t. 

Because it was the day we drove ten hours to stand in adoration before BooMama herself for ten minutes. And, upon arriving home in practically the middle of the night, we proclaimed to the lightening bugs that yes, even bacon couldn’t rival the success of our trip.

I and and my favorite sister Sarah awoke on that fateful Monday morning to the blaring roar of motorcycles racing through the streets of Clarksville, a sure sign that the day’s temperature would produce fried eggs on the pavement, sunny side all round.

Sure enough, as Sarah hauled a hefty supply of lunchtime essentials(including three kinds of crackers: “They’re just SO GOOD, Squidz.”) out to our chariot, a furnace worthy of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednigo billowed through the opened door and  collided with the heat outside. While this Bible-like temperature transformed Sarah’s carefully groomed hair into a jungle housing tan sunglasses, it merely warmed us up for the steamy excitement yet to come. 

“Aren’t you even CURIOUS, Squidzen?” She asked, enthusiastically drumming the steering wheel with her palm after we had driven for a few mystery miles with no sign of suspicion from the passenger’s seat. Poor child. She does not understand that the sister of her childhood hopes operates under the unwavering conviction that any road trip involving the writer of this blog behind the wheel cannot possibly travel in any other direction than due spectacular. And really, who could experience any kind of anxiety with that sort of destination on the itinerary? 

So, armed with a trusty Yahoo Maps print-out boasting 19 steps and the key to our longevity, we cruised along winding Southern  roads, speeding towards our destination.

After a few miles, it became apparent that, in case of an emergency break-down, any dairy allergies would have to be left on the rumble strip because the only AAA representation for miles around stood lazily chewing their cuds in the corn fields beside the road. We envisioned a million meals comprised of nothing but cornflakes and milk for days and days. The speedometer shot terrifyingly towards  roof of the car as Sarah benevolently taught a spelling lesson.”This is how you spell Relief, Squidz: P-O-T-T-Y,” and proceeded to explain that Relief must place very low upon the priority list because we were on a greater mission and absolutely couldn’t be late and….please pass the crackers-not those, the ones in the silver bag.

It was not until Josh Groban had performed his entire CD twice, the air conditioning had switched on and off so many times the Antarctic turned pale, and every station on the radio, including the static had undergone careful scrutiny, that Sarah began to show signs of inner turmoil. 

“Squidz. What if we’re LATE? What if BooMama leaves early and we’re not there? Squidz. Don’t let me forget to fix my make-up. WHAT IF WE DROVE ALL THIS WAY WE’RE LATE??!?!?!”

I assured her that BooMama could not possibly close up shop before the time etched in stone on her blog, and how could she because she was expecting us. But Sarah’s hands began to wave more flamboyantly than usual. The steering wheel seemed lonely. 

In an effort to cage the swooping butterflies of looming time constraints and to distract from the martyrdom of forgoing Relief in the interest of a greater goal, we commenced  a dancing sing-along. I waved my hands wildly in the air, and she shook her shoulders with vibrant energy. Bouncing up and down, we serenaded the exits, singing at the top of our lungs. A pause in the passenger’s seat to roll down the window and gasp for air left Sarah performing a solo. Somehow, she managed to seamlessly move from “That’s What Makes You Beautiful” to “God Will Take Care of You” in a span of thirty seconds. Greatness on its way to see greatness. 

“Geez, Louize!” Sarah nervously popped two enormous pieces of Wriggley’s cinnamon gum into her mouth and spoke to the GPS, engaging in a heart to heart that eventually, FINALLY convinced Louize into bringing us to BooMama’s headquarters. 

It has been said that a good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving. If the author of that quote sped along through Northern Mississippi with a colorful map in one hand, box of rice crackers in the other, and a sister bubbling over with suspenseful excitement in the driver’s seat, and craning his neck to glimpse each and every vital sign and keeping an eye on the car clock, I think he would reconsider.  

As we exited the bookstore on that day marked in highlighter and underlines, Sarah literally glowed with blogging pleasure.

Smiling, I asked,”Well, what did you think?”

Laughing, she said, “It was the best day of my blogging life.”

THAT is a good traveler.