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By Lauren Green
For nearly ten years, I drove a slightly dinged up silver-grey minivan. I embraced minivan life and considered its design a wonder of pragmatism and functionality. For starters, the dual side-sliding doors made for quick and efficient entrances and exits. The way-back third row was cozy, comfy and close enough to the driver’s seat to successfully pass off hot Chick-Fil-A number one combos… yet just far enough away to give both parent and child a welcome sense of autonomy. And those middle row captains’ chairs? They were a dream in versatility; built to accommodate everything from bulky car seats to labrador retrievers to lanky pre-teen appendages.
Located just in between those middle seats was a substantial space in the floorboard. Early on, it was the perfect home for my diaper bag, bulging as it often was, with teething toys, blankies and baggies full of Cheerios. Later, it became a default locker where my kids threw backpacks, stowed instruments and collected sports equipment; a continually revolving pile depending on the season and time of year. This floorboard site also made for a useful walkway (when clear of all the aforementioned paraphernalia), guiding passengers to and from the way-back. But most importantly, it was here where the buckets were stored.
For the entirety of my kids’ childhood, we lived a relatively far distance from extended family. Letters and phone calls helped bridge the gap when they were young, but nothing replaced face-to-face visits. So at least twice a year we cleared the calendar, packed our bags, and drove sixteen hours to see both sets of grandparents during our winter and summer breaks. On any given trip, without fail, I would forget to bring a raincoat, or a bathing suit or an extra set of sunglasses. But never once did I forget to pack the travel buckets.
From the time each child could grasp a crayon, both my son and daughter owned their own travel bucket. Roughly nine inches high, nine inches wide and twelve inches long, each plastic tub held a personally-curated treasure trove of books, toys, markers, notebooks, games, crafts… and snacks. All geared toward keeping the children engaged and the adults sane during the long days on the road.
My kids were great travelers, thanks in big part to these buckets. Over the miles, they read books, wrote stories, played games, sculpted clay, cut snowflakes and even painted pictures with those handy plastic cases of oval-encased water colors; all while buckled in for the long haul. As they grew up, the contents of their buckets changed along with their interests. However, we had one family rule that stayed the same: what started in the bucket, returned to the bucket. This was a hard one to enforce, thanks to the wide assortment of crumbly, powdery, drippy snacks each kid reliably packed. Yet nevertheless, when time came for a pitstop, back-seat-bucket-clean-up was non-negotiable. Messy middle seats were unacceptable and not in keeping with my minivan feng shui.
But messy clothes were a given. It was a challenge for my kids to arrive at our destination without wearing a few tell-tale signs on their shirts. It’s a look I’ve come to recognize more and more on myself. I sport a similar sense of style nowadays, complete with faint smudges, conspicuous stains and miniscule crumbs. As an adult in my second half of life, I could easily blame fading eyesight or slowing reflexes, but regardless of age, miscalculations are hard to avoid when traveling down the road. A flaky condition, an overconfident bite, the unexpected drip; journeys threaten marks on our shirts. And in our lives. But a lot of those marks conjure up a whole slew of sweet memories.
As such, I’m trying to talk my husband into resuming road trips with me. We no longer have kids strapped in behind us, but I can think of several projects that would fit perfectly into a travel bucket. Until he relents, I’ll try framing my errands less like annoyances and more like mini trips; complete with a snack or two. And while on the road, I’ll try to stay presentable. I’m counting on many miles ahead of me, so this may prove problematic. But if smears, splatters and spots are indicators of where I’ve been, I’ll wear them proudly. No need to stop the car just yet. Just add a stain stick to my bucket.
Lauren Green and her expanded family of five have called Southlake home for over eighteen years. She no longer drives a minivan, but she still loves a road trip. Say the word and she’ll grab her bucket. You can reach her at [email protected].