Soothing Pillows

The car is the sanctum sanctorum of the family, long-established with particular rules and habits, seeing the true nature of the family at its rawest. And more than the average traffic around town, road trips bring out the best and worst in everyone. The most frequent road trip in my youth was the semiannual trips to Ohio to visit our grandparents and cousins. For our family the fun began even before we entered the vehicle.

The morning of our trip was always hectic. We kids never got out of bed, even after numerous goadings from our father. Mom was never quite ready with her packing, even if she had stayed up half the night doing so. Then we had to cart all of our stuff down the stairs and out into the car. I always brought a completely full bookbag, stuffed with gameboys, a book or two, music galore, a magical dog leash, two globes (in case we got lost and I managed to misplace the first globe), a bunsen burner, a caterpillar larva, 18 potted plants, and the most recent edition of Brittanica Encyclopedia's letter L volume. I also brought a pillow.

Fitting my copious entertainment materials into the car was difficult as it was, but also finding room for my three siblings' equally burdensome loads was truly an art. We often completely filled our leg room with the piles. But really, what would I have done without my chrysanthemums once we arrived in Ohio? It's traumatic to think about the possibility.

It was a first come, first served game, to some extent. When we were all young and bendy, squeezing into tight corners was a possibility for all of us. So whoever got their stuff in the seat first got it. But as we strapping boys grew into strapping young men, it was difficult to ignore our cramped positions if we were in the back. My sister got the short end of the stick then and as the youngest boy, I often joined her. When I went outside, I knew the good seats were either already full, or that I would be ejected if I took them. So I would throw my goods into the back and return inside to wait for departure.

By this time we were already two hours late. We had intended to leave at 7:30 AM, or so my father had said; now it was 9:30. Looking back, I am skeptical that he ever anticipated a timely exit. It was so wonderfully marvelous, after all, to be late. Mom was still scurrying around upstairs getting her hair dryers and telling us to pack enough socks. I would then return to the living room and surround myself in couch. In such position I could quickly fall back asleep and be slightly late for the coming conscription of the kids to help carry Mom's bags down to the car.

Around 10:15 we would make it to the car as a family, only to discover that we had forgotten everything important. I had left my prized geraniums, Mom had left her green polka dotted socks, my brothers' headphones had both just mysteriously broken, and my sister needed the next Anne of Green Gables book. We also had to use the bathroom again for the 32nd time.

The great thing about all this waiting, at least for our Christmas trip, was that the pillows had lots of time to chill in the car. By the time we actually left, I could enjoy a delight that only came a few times a year and only for fifteen minutes each time. This, of course, was the joy of my cold pillow laying in my lap. Perhaps I am strange, but as an often over-warm person, the refreshing coolness of the pillow in my lap was akin to a cold drink in midsummer. It relaxed, revitalized, and removed me from the busy life of childhood. I was no longer worrying about what game I would play next, what character I would be in Mario Kart, or if I could avoid my vegetables at dinner. Though these were still urgent concerns, the pillow put them out of mind for just long enough to bring some peace. Then I had the rest of the car ride to dwell in that peace.

As a child, but even more as I grew older, the peaceful monotony of long car rides was like a trip to the spa for me. There were no obligations I had to fulfill, no duties I could perform even if I wanted. I was forced to just sit and deal with it, and given the pace of my life, I began to look forward to the car rides as intrinsically valuable, along with the destinations. The way the wind blotted out all minor noise in the soundscape was just right for an occupied silence, not the awkward blank silence of a dead room. In that kind of silence I could rest and think, ponder and question, wonder why I didn't do this more often.

If there is one thing that is conspicuously lacking from the lives of most people today, it is silence and reflection. The demands forced upon us by jobs, by ever-present means of communication, by the routine of life, occupy every waking minute. But in a world where hectic insanity is all too common, peace and rest is often just a small pause away. It could be a cup of coffee on the deck, a walk in the park, or a book in a comfortable chair. Whatever form it takes, a few moments of rest every day make a world of difference.

Now when I lie awake at night, I often search for the cool spots in my pillow, mostly because I'm warm, but also because they make me peaceful. After all of our early morning escapades, the pillow was initiation into a new mindset, a complete juxtaposition with the hurriedness of packing.

Don't stress. Find a good pillow.