austinbar.org FEBRUARY 2022 | VOLUME 31, NUMBER 1
Are We There Yet? Yes, and We’ll Finish This Journey Together BY DAVID COURREGES
I
t is 114.7 miles from the driveway of my childhood home in China Spring to the driveway of my mom’s childhood home in Austin. For most of my young life, our little family of two spent at least a portion of every Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving driving that 114.7 miles to celebrate with my grandparents and cousins. The trip to Austin was divided into two parts. The first half was spent primarily on State Highway 317, driving through some of Central Texas’s finest small towns with farms, ranches, and “Texas” as far as the eye could see. It was a real-life Dalhart Windberg painting. Frankly, it was the longer part of the trip, but it seemed to go by so fast. You had to watch out for the speed traps and blinking red lights, but otherwise the variety of the small towns sparked some of the best conversations and memories. The second half—affectionately known as the, “Are we there yet?” half—was spent on Interstate 35. Outside of beef jerky at Robertson’s, an occasional stop at the Stagecoach Inn, and spotting the Matter-
horn off Exit 279 where Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 was filmed, this portion of the drive was an endless parade of mile markers, road signs, and nondescript gas stations. Theoretically, this part of the trip should have gone by much faster since traffic was all going the same speed and there were no blinking red stoplights
or small towns to slow you down. However, I-35 in the 1980s and early ‘90s was very much akin to south MoPac during rush hour: It was four total lanes and always under construction, the speed limit was 55 mph, and there was no GPS with real-time traffic conditions. One wreck, traffic stop, or broken-down car would bring everything to a standstill. In other words, this leg made the entire trip feel like it took F-O-RE-V-E-R!!!!! Or about three hours … whichever is longer. Yes, the chronicles of a threehour trip to my grandparents’ house is a poorly veiled metaphor for our collective experiences
over the past two years. To be clear, my intent is not to trivialize the agony of road trips in the ‘80s. I have, however, never felt closer to being eight years old again than I do today. We have survived the hard part: the slow go of the initial stages of the pandemic. Traversing the months like map dots, we heeded the speed traps and honored the speed limits. To bide the time, we took on new hobbies, read books, grew closer to our families, and deepened relationships. We cheered for our first responders, praised our civic leaders, and worked together to continued on page 6
