My late husband and I decided early in our marriage that travel would be a priority.
Steve and I didn’t covet fancy cars or flashy jewelry or the biggest house in the neighborhood. We preferred to save money for experiences instead of things.
When we had children, we didn’t slow down. In fact, we traveled more with children than without.
Cooper has traveled to 15 states plus the District of Columbia — not bad for a 9-year-old. Katie’s not far behind.
Even when Steve was undergoing treatment for brain cancer, we fit in trips to Chicago, Disneyland andPalm Beach, Fla.
Just five weeks after Steve died, the kids and I skipped town for Southern California and a Legoland adventure. A trip for the three of us seemed a fitting way to mourn together and to start creating new memories.
We talk about our past travels all the time. We reminisce during meals and car rides. There are photos throughout the house of favorite moments — Cooper near the Golden Gate Bridge, the four of us on the beach in Gloucester, Mass., just the three of us at Legoland.
Even if the children don’t remember the actual moments because they were too young at the time, they certainly are aware of my recollections and our growing family lore.
So imagine my surprise when talking with Cooper immediately after school Tuesday. He’d just taken theTAKS writing test, for which he and his classmates had prepared for months. The prompt — the topic to write about — is kept secret until the day of the test.
When I met him in front of school at 3 p.m., I learned that fourth-graders were asked to write about an interesting place.
Perfect, I thought, Cooper has so much material to choose from.
I wondered which breathtaking site he selected — the rough-and-tumble terrain of New Mexico and the mountain that Georgia O’Keeffe painted and called her own? The aspen-covered mountains of Colorado, through which he rode a horse named Eastwood? Tiny Mackinac Island with its homemade fudge and bicycles and ducks?
No.
Perhaps Central Park or the U.S. Capitol or even the Texas Capitol?
No.
Whale-watching off the coast of Maine, standing in front of the Liberty Bell or admiring the expansive view from atop the Hancock Tower?
No.
Six Flags Over Texas?
Why, yes.
The amusement park just 34 miles from our house. The concrete home of long lines and fried food, cheesy entertainment and manufactured fun.
I laughed out loud. Actually, “cackled” is probably more descriptive.
“Cooper, you’ve been all over the country,” I said between cackles. “To the Pacific and Atlantic and Gulf coasts. You’ve been to New York City and San Francisco! And you chose an amusement park a few miles from our house?”
Cooper laughed with me.
“It’s the first place I thought of,” he said. And then he told me about his essay, how he described the wind — as if a leaf blower were blowing on his face. How he could taste sunscreen on his lips. How he heard screams from distant roller coasters.
His words are what count on the test, of course — not the place he’s writing about — but how he writes about it. He used his own words to share an experience that matters to him, that makes him happy.
And though I have no plans to scale back our future adventures, I am thankful for the reminder that the value of travel isn’t whether it’s familiar or exotic, nearby or faraway. What does matter is the joy we experience, tuck away and draw from in the years to come.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. E-mail her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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