With no restroom in sight, my big brother John and I both had to relieve ourselves after drinking a full bottle of ice cold Coca-Cola while standing along the edge of the highway.

Earlier that morning, my family and I had packed up the station wagon and headed out on a road trip to spend Thanksgiving with our grandparents in Buffalo, New York, the day following my acting debut as a Wampanoag warrior.

Before heading out of town, the preacher’s family stopped to get fuel at the Bentleyville Truck Stop on the edge of town. While a young attendant filled the tank, Dad stepped inside to snatch up a few snacks.

After coming back to the car, the blond-haired minister handed his boys a frosty bottle of Coca-Cola and a bag of Herr’s potato chips.

When we dropped our jaws, this kindergartner asked, “We get our very own?”

“Yes; and be careful not to spill it,” added our father.

These two whippersnappers propped ourselves up against the back of the seat opposite our sister and looked out the rear of the vehicle as we enjoyed the delicious snacks.

“And we’re off,” Dad announced while driving around in a near circle going up the on ramp and pulling onto Interstate-70 as everyone settled in for the long journey ahead.

The preacher found a gospel sing on the radio while his wife pulled one of her “Grace Livingston Hill” books from the glove compartment; and their ten-month-old daughter’s head wobbled before it slumped against the back of the car seat – she was off to dreamland.

My brother and I, who were as snug as two bugs in a rug in the way back of the station wagon, occupied our time by playing one of many exciting car games.

After putting our snack debris in one of the side compartments, these youngsters began with “The Name Game”.

The first to go would name an animal. The last letter of the word had to be the first letter of the next creature with no repeats allowed. Since John was the oldest, he made the executive decision to be the one to start the game.

“An ape goes gibber, gibber, gibber,” commented the freckle-faced lad scratching his forehead. “The next word starts with an ‘E’.”

“An elephant goes trumpet, trumpet, trumpet,” I noted moving my arm like a trunk up and down.

“A tiger goes growl, growl, growl,” mentioned the six-year-old putting his hands up like claws. “The next word starts with an ‘R’.”

“A rhinoceros goes bellow, bellow, bellow,” I announced moving my head up and down like I was poking with the animal’s horn.

“A snake goes hiss, hiss, hiss,” said the oldest giving his cohort a fright by slithering his arm around this five-year-old’s neck and giggling. “The next word starts with an ‘E’.”

“An elephant goes…” I stopped short when my big brother interrupted me.

“You lose. You already said elephant. No repeats,” John declared victory while I protruded my lower lip.

“It’s only a game,” noted the freckle-faced lad putting his arm around me in consolation. “It’s not a big deal. You’ll get better at it.”

When I announced the need to “tinkle really, really bad” awhile later, my parents just looked at one another with wide eyes as the pastor pulled the car over to the side of the road.

After Dad stepped to the back of the car and helped me get out, this five-year-old stood between the two open doors and began to make a steady stream that lasted a whole minute.

All of the sudden, John called out from the back of the car, “I have to go to the bathroom, too.”

“Well, get on up here,” Dad chuckled looking at this wife knowing full well the six-year-old only needed to go because of the novelty of going along the roadside. “We don’t have all day.”

“I’d like to get to your grandparents house before dinner,” he added.

After the little family got back on the road, my brother and I had a renewed energy to play a few more games.

We played Ridley Ridley Ree, 20 questions, Count the Cars and the Restaurant Race. John triumphed at one game while Mark was victorious in two games; and, even dad was successful at a contest.

However, it didn’t take long for these siblings to tire out. The hum drum of the wheels going round and round caused our eyes to become heavy. We laid down beside each other and fell fast asleep.

When the station wagon came to a complete stop, Dad put it in park and exclaimed, “We’re here boys. Time to get up.”

These two brothers rubbed little eyes as we woke from our slumber and realized we were parked in Grandma and Pappy Price’s driveway.

When dad opened the tailgate window, Uncle Ron sprang from the large white house to welcome us and lend a helping hand.

These boys, all smiles, stood with our little bodies sticking out of the large back window ready to embrace our father’s youngest sibling.

The short black-haired young man walked over and wrapped strong arms around his nephews for a warm embrace before picking us up and setting us on the ground.

Then the 19-year-old kissed his sister-in-law and little niece on the cheek before shaking his minister brother’s hand, after which he carried the luggage into the house.

Grandma and Pappy Price stepped out from the side door off the kitchen and greeted their son and his family.

My big brother and I both hugged at Grandma’s skirt.

“I’ve been a good boy, Grandma,” I exclaimed with a smile as the middle-aged woman with red hair bent down and kissed my cheek.

Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton. If you’re interested in reading the extended version of this story in his novel titled, “Little Town by Gibson Mine,” just type the title into the Facebook search engine and scroll down to Chapter 19, Journey to the Empire State.