During summers in the mid-70s, my parents, younger brother Joe and I would embark on cross-country round trips (via recreational vehicle) between Indiana (where I was raised) and California (where I was born). There was so much fascination packed between these states: Yellowstone National Park, Boys Town in Nebraska, and Mt. Rushmore, a monument I obsessed over, monumentally, for many of my formative years. "How'd they do that, make those faces out of stone?" my tiny brain wondered.
Along the journey, we'd stay at KOA campgrounds or economy hotels. The large trademark burnt-orange 6 in Motel 6 more than once shone like a beacon for us as night descended, prompting my yawning pilot of a father to pull off and call it a night.
My mom and dad have a favorite story from these good ole days and have regaled us with it many a time over the years at family gatherings or visits with friends. It was the morning after one of our Motel 6 stays, and we were back on the road – much too far down the interstate to turn back in case one of us forgot something in the motel room.
As Dad drove and Mom relaxed in the passenger seat beside him, I suddenly let out a deep, bloodcurdling howl that whipped them around in unison. Through my Old Faithful-caliber tears, I could still see their wide-eyed, wrinkled-brow expressions. "Oh my god, Paul, what's wrong!?"
Between whimpers and gasps for air, I managed to screech "Mmmm ... mmmm... myyy Band-Aid box!!! Wahhhhhhh!!! Wahhhh!!!"
Yes, a Band-Aid box, the metal kind with a hinged lid that snapped shut, cast me into the greatest depths of despair. Only this was no ordinary box. It was the perfect-size storage space for the treasures I loved to collect: wheat pennies, seashells, shiny pebbles. There might have even been a buckeye pod or two in there, too, and, I'm certain, souvenirs from the several landmarks where we stopped, gawked, and posed for photos snapped on a Kodak Instamatic X-15.
Anyways, the Band-Aid box was like a security blanket to me: I clearly couldn't live without it and it wasn't within my clutches. It was somewhere in the motel room we'd left behind at least 50 miles or so.
But my parents – the deeply loving, hard-working, selfless, heavenly human beings that they are – decided the only "Band-Aid" that would heal the situation would be to return to the motel and rescue the missing treasure. They had no qualms about this, especially if it meant quelling my grief and restoring me to a happy, quieter state. Besides, Mt. Rushmore could wait. It wasn't going anywhere.
So Dad, bless his heart – BLESS HIS HEART! – turned the RV around and back to the motel we drove. Quite fortunately we were able to locate the box! It was lodged between the bed and nightstand, swallowed by a wad of nubby chenille bedspread. I quickly, gleefully opened the lid to find all my collectibles intact, not knowing that the seed for a memory I'd treasure for the rest of my life had just been planted.
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