Remember when we traveled by car before rest areas and fast food? Oh, those were the days.

We often went home to visit family and friends and well, home. From good old Detroit (and it was good in those days) back to the hills and hollers of Appalachia we’d go.

Of course, the drive took longer then, too. There were no freeways. Instead, we snaked through all the towns, big and small, on two lane highways considered superb at the time. It now takes under seven hours to make the same trip that used to require 12.

Part of that time saved is because the roads are much straighter today. Through the hills and mountains from southern Ohio through southeastern Kentucky near the West Virginia line, the highway — or blacktop as it was called — wound round and round as it weaved through the mountains, valleys and hills.

As a young girl, I awoke to the smell of chicken frying long before daylight for our trek. That was all the announcement needed. Though long and confining, the excitement of visiting grandparents and cousins didn’t allow that to dampen my spirit.

After what seemed like forever in the car, we stopped when we finally found a grassy spot to pull off on. First, everyone answered nature’s call, yes, in the fresh air, Mom spread a quilt on the ground and she and Daddy began bringing items out of the trunk of the old Buick.

Though room temperature (and we didn’t die from salmonella) that fried chicken sure tasted larrapin’ good. Often, our only accompaniment was light bread (white store bought loaf) and ice water from the Thermos jug. Sometimes we had a piece of fruit or a can of pork and beans to go with it. Remember, there were no fast food places to stop.

Other times, a general store stop for slices of bologna along with crackers and a big pickle was dinner on-the-go.

With a single wet warshrag, Mom cleaned us all up for the rest of the journey with hopefully only one or two more stops for gas and nature calls. There was always a diaper change needed for someone, too.

Always the first to get carsick, especially as we swayed back and forth through the constant curves, there was a bitter pill. Motion sickness is no joke, but it seems I was the only one afflicted by it. Since unable to swallow any pill until after both my own children were born, Dramamine was memorably bitter, because it had to be chewed to get it down. A follow up of ice water only exacerbated that effect.

The joy experienced with family was unmatchable. We frolicked with cousins while the adults talked long into the night. We shared the pleasures of sleeping under handmade scrap quilts in feather beds placed on a base of ropes knotted just right on old bed frames. Oh, such security. Listening to Maw’s cuckoo clock and the tick of the big mantle clock filled the silent serenity and magic of another time.

After days or weeks, what did a mere child know about time? We made the return trip home. But it wasn’t without benefits.

Maw always packed food for our journey and extra jars of homegrown honey, molasses, jams, jellies, pickles, pickled beans and cushaws (a large winter squash) and dried beans (leather breeches or shucky beans) to be enjoyed later.

Our favorite treat was placed in a big bucket or crock on the floor of the backseat on one side or other of the “hump.” It was filled with pickled corn on the cob, grown from their enormous garden — eaten cold and the favorite snack of our entire tribe.

From our own garden, I once surprised my family by pickling some corn on the cob ahead of a reunion far from the hollers. Unsure of how it would be received, we first shared our collective memories of it, especially on those long trips.

None of the next generation had ever tasted it. A few — well, actually most — puckered up and gave a resounding thumbs down, but there were a number of others who only gave two thumbs up because that’s all they had.

The recipe was shared and taken back to Texas, among other places.

Keeping such traditions alive are very important to me — the younger generation not so much. Who wants Grandma’s fine china and crystal when Styrofoam or plastic dinnerware and Solo cups are in such common use?

This saddens me to no end; however, keeping memories alive, especially of how it really was is important. In these uncertain times, many may wish they had paid more attention to the old folks sharing how they got by — like homemade baby formula.