For years, when Steve and I have taken road trips and he’s been the one driving (which has been almost always), I’ve been content —well, not just content, but really happy — looking out the passenger side window. When we’re in rural areas, I love seeing the trees and fields, and I especially enjoy getting the occasional glimpse of wildlife, whether it’s a wild turkey, an elk, or a hawk. When we’re driving through small towns, I’m interested not just in the business districts (where I’m sometimes saddened by vacant storefronts and other times buoyed by bustling shops), but also the residential areas (looking at the different styles of houses, the various ways in which yards are landscaped, and — this time of year — the holiday decorations). Of course, not every sight is pleasant; just last week, I wrote about the litter along our roadways, and I’ve also developed a dislike for political signs, which used to be pretty innocuous (with just the name of the candidate and perhaps a catchy slogan), but have, in recent years, become mean. Or downright obscene. So, I guess it’s fair to say I’ve enjoyed most of the views.
But lately, I’ve found myself spending less time gazing out the window and more time glued to the screen on my phone. Sometimes I’m doing something travel-related and productive — trying to find a restaurant or a hotel — but other times, I’m checking my email (Really? It can’t wait ‘til later?) or playing Wordle or Quordle (No question about it, those can definitely wait ‘til later). But where I get seriously sucked into screentime is with unnecessary online searches. Some little something will trigger me, and off I go.
For example, on a recent road trip, we were listening to a ‘50s music station, when singer Ritchie Valens’ name was mentioned, prompting Steve to ask me if I knew how Valens died. (Steve is a music afficionado and I’m not, so he often asks me music-related trivia questions and is usually stunned — as am I — when I stumble upon the correct answer.) But this question wasn’t too hard, since I grew up listening to Don McLean’s “American Pie” and, therefore, was familiar with “the day the music died” (and the plane crash that killed three rock ‘n’ rollers). Of course, he went on to ask me a follow-up (supposedly softball) question — Who were the other two musicians killed in the crash? — and I immediately came up with The Big Bopper, but completely blanked on Buddy Holly (See, I told you, I’m not a music afficionado). But this conversation spurred me to grab my phone and google the plane crash, and, well, from there, I just hopped from one website to another. And although I did learn some interesting facts (the reason the musicians were on the plane in the first place is that they were on a tour in the Midwest, and they’d finally grown tired of riding on rickety buses), I knew, in retrospect, that I’d squandered an opportunity to enjoy the best part of any road trip (seeing what’s happening roadside).
I’d like to say that was the only time during the trip that I buried my face in my phone — but it wasn’t. We switched from the ‘50s station to one playing Christmas music, and, of course, we began hearing all the usuals: “Blue Christmas,” “White Christmas,” “Last Christmas,” “Christmas, Don’t Be Late,” and “All I Want For Christmas.” And then we heard “O Tannebaum.” Tannebaum is German for “fir tree,” but, in English, “O Tannebaum” is translated to “O Christmas Tree.” Most people are probably familiar with the instrumental jazz version that plays in “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” But, for me, this song takes me back to 1969 when I was in second grade, and my teacher, Ms. Wieland, taught our class to sing this carol, allowing us, I believe, to learn the English lyrics, as German probably would have been a bit ambitious for a group of second-graders. Every year, when I hear this song, it makes me think of Ms. Wieland — she was a young teacher with a beautiful smile and a sweet, encouraging disposition.
So, what did I do? I googled Ms. Wieland, of course. And, as always, what should have been a quick, online search turned into minutes and minutes — and more minutes — of jumping from one website to another. But I did find her. Or at least I think I found her. I hope it was her, because when we got home, I decided to write her a thank-you letter for the difference she made in my life. I know she won’t remember me (I was only at that particular school the year I was in her class, so she never saw me running up and down the halls, as I progressed through school), but, still, I thought she might appreciate the gesture (despite it’s being five decades late).
If Ms. Wieland receives my letter and it makes her smile, then googling her instead of sightseeing was definitely worth the trade. Still, more often than not, when on a road trip, I think I would do myself a favor by enjoying the sights instead of the (web)sites.
