How It All Began

First Trip – Other than to Grandma and Grandpa’s

My love for travel started long before I could even spell the word.

Dad had meetings to go to—work conferences here and there—and one day he called Mom and said, “Let’s all go.” The company was paying his way, so why not drive and take the whole crew? Everyone meant Mom, Dad, my three older brothers, and me—just two years old and still in diapers.

Back then, car seats weren’t a thing. I had free rein of the back of that big old station wagon, roaming around as we rolled down the highway. Mom was the navigator, paper road maps spread across her lap, tracing lines and guessing turns. Dad handled the driving, steady and sure, the hum of the tires and the rattle of the cooler between them.

We didn’t eat out much—our road meals were simple and perfect: Vienna sausages, crackers, and sandwiches packed from home. There was something comforting about those little tins and crinkly sandwich bags, the taste of adventure wrapped up with family and miles of open road.

We left our small town in southeast Kansas and made our way all the way to California. That first trip was more than a vacation—it planted a seed. The love for the open road, for discovering new places and chasing horizons, has been part of me ever since.