At one time – let’s call it the “mid-1980s” – my entire family could fit into the cab of my dad’s Ford F-150 pickup truck. My dad, my mom, my sister, and myself. All of us nestled in, side by side on the truck’s vinyl-clad bench seat. On long trips, such as the two-hour drive up to our little cabin in rural Wisconsin, we’d pack ourselves in, slam the door shut, and crank the AC as we roared up U.S. Highway 53 (back when it only had two lanes).

Our cocker spaniel was in there, too.

This could not happen today. I can barely believe it happened then. We are not a family of pixies, taking up petite portions of couch cushions and only the edges of our dinning room chairs. We fill space. We are solid. However, back when it was time to hitch up the fishing boat and pack the back of the truck with suitcases and coolers, we could do it. My sister and I were just kids. And almost all of us were wearing seat belts.

It was never comfortable, is what I’m saying. But time and nostalgia has given me a little elbow room. These are childhood memories from when I was young enough to have someone watching out for me. And we got to do fun things like to go to a cabin on the weekends, all summer long. It was a fantastic time.

”

Sometimes there’d be storm clouds and bolts of lightning flowing over the horizon. I’d take a deep breath and smile. We had beat the weather. We’d be safe, together here in the cabin. It was the best feeling in the world.

MIKE PAULUS

My dad drove, my sister sat next to him, then my mom. I sat by the passenger door – the window seat. I probably started out next to my sister, but when I got old enough to whine my way into almost whatever I wanted, there was no looking back. My seat commanded gorgeous views of northwestern Wisconsin. But I spent most of the time listening to an old plastic Walkman with the blue foam headphones, staring at the dashboard.

In the summertime, we’d head up to the cabin on Friday nights after dad got off work. By the time we got up north, the sky would be purple and the nighttime insects would be cranking their incessant buzz into high gear. We’d slowly motor up the grassy driveway, and I’d pop open the door so we could stumble out into humid night air, stretching our legs.

Sometimes there’d be storm clouds and bolts of lightning flowing over the horizon. I’d take a deep breath and smile. We had beat the weather. We’d be safe, together here in the cabin. It was the best feeling in the world.

Now, I’m not the kind of guy who complains about kids these days with their smartphones and their internet tablet pads. I love that stuff. Sure, I played outside with the neighborhood kids until “the street lights came on,” and I used to “drink from the garden hose,” and I used to “eat dirt” or whatever nostalgic memories today’s adults like to reference from “the good ol’ days.” I’m happy I did those things. But it doesn’t make me any happier, smarter, or better than today’s kids.

We don’t need to use our own childhood experiences as some kind of meter to judge modern kids and their parents. And anyway, it’s not like all those nostalgic memories are particularly … accurate. My grandparents wouldn’t have let my mom do something frivolous like play until “the street lights came on” because a) they didn’t have streetlights on their farm, and b) they had a lot of flippin’ chores to do. 

Every generation thinks it had a more valuable childhood than the next. If you’ve got some great memories, just be glad about it. You’re lucky. Don’t use those memories as a reason to complain about something. 

I’m really, really glad my family (and our dog) had to cram ourselves into a pickup truck for two hours. It’s a wonderful memory. It was sweaty and hot and my legs cramped up. 

But it makes me smile. And it makes me feel safe.