William Marvel: Highway to Hell

Not so long ago, I still found the prospect of an impending road trip as tantalizing as it was in 1971, when I started across the country in a $125 beater that took me to the West Coast and back. Planning my route and loading the car always revived early childhood recollections of long drives home up U.S. Route 1, from Navy bases in Virginia and Florida. We stayed in motel cabins with wooden screen doors that swung shut with a "slap," eating in diners reminiscent of Edward Hopper or "The Twilight Zone." Wherever we stopped, my mother usually found someone interesting to talk to while my father scoured the road map.

Even on a hundred or so research jaunts to distant libraries and archives over the past four decades, there would be intriguing historical sites to see along the way. Road trips were also the only occasion when I allowed myself bacon-and-egg breakfasts, which added considerably to the allure.