We were members of The Church of the Sunday Drive.

We went for Sunday afternoon drives.

The pews were the seats of a Pontiac primeval.

It wasn’t a shopping trip or an errand. There was no set agenda or particular destination. The journey was often improvised. It was a Sunday drive.

I grew up on this planet during a time when if you owned a car, you were expected to take it for a Sunday drive.

Many families ate the same thing every Sunday. Maybe chicken or pot roast, and then hit the road. Dinah Shore sang, “See the USA in your Chevrolet.” We tried, but a Pontiac was as close as we came. A friend said that his family had been bored in a Ford. Another said that he found God in the backseat of a Plymouth because his father was such a lousy driver.

The author Joyce Carol Oates wrote, “Our car was our principal means of adventure, exploration, and entertainment; our lengthy, looping seemingly uncalculated Sunday drives with sometimes my father, sometimes my mother, at the wheel were our primary means of experiencing ourselves as a family.”

A leisurely Sunday drive on a pleasant summer afternoon was a tradition during the days of dime stores, gas stations and Tang. The aimless meandering was a family-friendly, go-at-your-own-pace, gas-is-cheap affair. It wasn’t in my best interests to decline an opportunity to go on a Sunday drive. It was travel to someone accustomed to staying put. It became a cherished childhood memory.

The drive wasn’t without duties. We had things that we needed to look for–good crops, bad crops, new cars and critters of every kind. Getting nowhere at a snail’s pace was the idea. Bumpy roads made keen eyes bounce. I’d never been on an airplane. I encouraged my father to get up some speed when approaching a dip in the road or the top of a hill, in the hopes that it would result in the semblance of flight. He declined, worrying about the health of the Pontiac. I still said, “Wheeeee!”

I say “Wheeeee!” today. Usually, when walking down to get the mail.

Sunday drives appeared timeless and peaceful. They have been upstaged by hurried traffic. There is no “off” switch to most jobs.

The Puritans, who settled in New England in the 1600s, promoted a strict Sunday observance. Sunday was for church-going and Blue Laws made nearly everything else illegal. Some state’s blue laws were ludicrous, one in the 18th century said that you couldn’t kiss a baby or tell a joke. Church organs and hymns aside, music was taboo on Sundays.

In the 20th century, the Sunday paper with the comics, sports and crosswords became an American staple. Sunday became a day for games and celebrations. Music was played. NFL telecasts hadn’t yet become a major part of a Sunday.

My parents were entertaining guests when a neighbor asked if I wanted to join his family on a Sunday drive. I jumped at the chance. To be honest, I sometimes thought that my family’s Sunday drives were odd and I wanted to compare them to others. Kids called windows as part of this ritual. I was surprised when the children of the host family insisted that I sit by a window. I reckoned they’d been taught to treat guests kindly.

Down the road we went on a hot day in a car without any cooling apparatus other than opened vents and windows. The sun was shining brightly when I felt a bit of moisture on my face.

Rain? Without a cloud in the sky? It was a Sunday drive miracle.

Then I realized why I was given the prized window seat behind the father — a chronic tobacco chewer and a spitter of some renown.

A friend’s father was in the armed forces, stationed far from home. His mother wasn’t a licensed driver. His grandfather believed that every child should experience the joy and educational opportunities afforded by Sunday drives. Each Sunday afternoon, he took his grandson on a tour of rural roads.

One Sunday found the grandfather with a bad cold. He needed to stay in bed. His wife encouraged his rest by volunteering to take their grandson for a Sunday drive.

When grandmother and grandson returned, the grandfather, sitting up and waiting, asked, “Did you enjoy the ride with Grandma?”

“Yes, Grandpa, but we didn’t see a single idiot or moron.”

Good times. It’s a shame that every good road has to end.

 

Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday and Sunday.