Dispatches from rural Oklahoma: Left or right—lessons from the backseat

No itinerary, just “Left or right?” at the first stop sign. The best trips weren’t about the destination, but who rode along.

When I was a kid, we never had much of a plan when I would travel with my grandparents. Pappy would back the car out of the driveway, roll down the window, and when we hit the first stop sign — just three blocks from the house — he’d ask, “Left or right?” That was it. That’s how the trip started.

Sometimes we wound up two towns over, other times two states away. It might’ve been a Sunday ride to Ken’s Steakhouse, where the owner was one of Pappy’s old buddies from his wheat-farming days. Or maybe it was the long way — the very long way — to a family reunion, which Pappy considered a perfectly good excuse for an all-day drive.

Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas, New Mexico — we didn’t go for the landmarks. We went for the journey. And more often than not, the road told us what kind of day we were gonna have.

Pappy drove, of course. He’d narrate the countryside like a livestock auctioneer: “See those cattle? That one’s been wormed, that one needs it.” And in the backseat, there I was, parked between a stack of books and a road atlas the size of my lap, courtesy of Granny.

Granny didn’t say much, but she was always teaching. She believed in being prepared — even for an unplanned trip. “You’ll need something to read and something to read by,” she’d say, tucking a flashlight into the seat pocket just in case we hit a long stretch without lights.

She taught me how to follow a map the way some folks teach a kid how to ride a bike — gently, with trust. “Page 42. Look at that highway. Now trace it with your finger.” And just like that, I could see how one town led to another, how rivers bent around counties, how you could hold the whole state in your lap if you folded the pages just right.

To this day, I still trust an atlas more than GPS. I don’t want a voice telling me to turn — I want to know where I’m going, even if I don’t know where I’ll end up.

We didn’t have selfie sticks, tripods or travel blogs. We had rest stops with picnic tables, Dairy Queens with the lights half-out and Granny’s purse full of Wet Wipes and peanuts. What we made wasn’t content — it was memory. The kind that rides around with you long after the trip is over.

I can’t tell you every place we visited. I don’t have a photo album of historic markers or tourist traps. But I remember the vinyl seat sticking to the back of my legs. I remember the smell of Pappy’s thermos of coffee and the sound of Granny’s finger tapping the map when she wasn’t impressed with his sense of direction.

And I remember the meals because there was always a meal. Chicken-fried steak with cream gravy. Fried pies wrapped in wax paper. Hamburgers the size of a hubcap served with a side of local gossip. Food was never the goal, but it was often the destination.

Those trips taught me that the best kind of travel doesn’t come with an agenda. It comes with people who know how to wander well. People who don’t mind taking the scenic route to a steakhouse like the Deckboat Steakhouse over in Ft. Cobb (a CKenergy member) or letting the family reunion wait an extra hour while we detour through a town with a funny name.

I’d trade a dozen dream vacations — Paris, Tokyo, anywhere — for one more trip with Pappy and Granny. No plans. No rush. Just one more “Left or right?” at the first stop sign, a stack of books in the back and time to be together in motion.

Because travel, at its best, isn’t about where you go. It’s about how you feel when you get there — and who you had in the car with you along the way. And maybe a bit about what you plan to eat.