The two-lane interstate to Yuma from El Centro cut right through the desert. On either side of the blacktop, sparse, low sagebrush and cactus plants rose impossibly from the parched earth. Nothing moved. Even the insects didn’t venture out to huddle around the cactus flowers. The earth and sky merged into a shimmering white-hot horizon.
On the road in the distance, the blacktop shimmered. A small turquoise dot appeared as if emerging from water. As it got closer, the dot grew until it became a station wagon: Our station wagon. Mom and Dad were in the front seat chain smoking. Four kids were sprawled in back in a sweaty tangle of long legs and arms like half-grown lions.
“That’s where you live!” yelled Jeff and Dennis in unison, as we passed an abandoned wooden structure with no roof, windows or doors. Dad reached over and put his hand on Mom’s knee. She put her hand on his and took a long last drag from her cigarette and flicked it out the window, where it was immediately sucked into the open back window and onto my lap.
“Hey!” I yelled. The burning cigarette butt wasn’t much hotter than the air blowing into the window already. Air conditioning for the car was still several years into the future for us. So at this time, outings that involved driving through the desert were like trips through a blast furnace.
Mom poured a cup of iced tea from a thermos bottle and handed it back to us. We passed it around, each taking a sip from it. I carefully scanned the landscape to find an ugly, broken down structure for Jeff, Dennis and Janice to live in. Old buildings of any kind were few and far between on that desolate stretch. If one of the others saw one first, that's where I would have to live until I could find an uglier one for them to live in.
Janice was in college. She was an English major and going to be a teacher. She still went on road trips with the family then, but soon she would be off to San Diego State. Janice always started the singing on our road trips. We sang so loud, all of us. When one song ended, Janice had another one to sing. Eventually, we gave Mom and Dad a headache with our singing. “Shut up!” Mom yelled with her hands cupped over her ears. We laughed and stopped singing for awhile. Janice and I used to sing while doing dishes, too.
The hard, prickly desert floor gradually softened into pure sand and soon there were mustard-colored sand dunes in mounds like yellow snow. Mom told us these are the only sand dunes outside of the Sahara. Dad pulled over to the side of the road and we all got out to better experience the beauty. The heat made me want to vomit. Jeff and Dennis jumped out and started to run around, but soon found the sand was the temperature of molten glass. Janice got out, took a quick look and went right back to the car. Better to simmer slowly in the shade than to par boil in the sun. Mom and Dad scanned the scene shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands. They walked a few yards up the road and looked some more. They walked across the road to take in the view from the other side.
“Can we go now?” My head had joined my stomach in revolt against the heat.
“OK, back in the car, everyone,” said Dad and we piled back into our sweaty tangle and continued on.
Our destination was the Yuma Territorial Prison. If it was 117 degrees outside, it was 125 degrees inside the prison where everything was made of stone that soaked up the heat and radiated it right back into your face. There was a little circular building where they displayed artifacts with little tags from the prison’s working days. There was a circular glass display in the middle and all around along the inside wall were more glass cases with more artifacts and more little tags. Mom started in the middle and read each tag one by one.
“Isn’t this interesting?” She proceeded to the next item. “Oh, my!”, “Isn’t this something!” Mom inched her way one by one through the display. This was going to take awhile because there were hundreds of items to look at. I went outside and found the others looking into the stone prison cells.
“Why are the beds so small?” Jeff asked.
“People weren’t as tall as they are now,” Dad said.
“Look! These doorways are just big enough for me,” Dennis said, fascinated that grown-ups in the past were only as tall as an 8-year-old boy.
Everything around me had begun to spin and turn white. I stumbled a few steps looking for some shade, then collapsed. When I woke up, we had left the prison and were parked in a restaurant parking lot. I was laying in the back of the station wagon. Mom had been putting ice and cold cloths on my face and arms. When I was able to sit up, we all went into the restaurant. It was dark and cool inside and we all slid into a big corner booth. Soon, there were hamburgers, French fries and tall nubby plastic cups of ice cold Coke. Dad said I still looked pale, but I felt great, like I had just emerged from a steamy fog.
On the ride back home through the desert, it was dark. The air was soft and cool. I laid in the back of the station wagon and listened to the chatter of my family and dozed on and off. I felt good.
