Detour

It was before freeways. The roads between our starting point and our grandparents’ farm were 2-lane blacktop at best and unpaved single-lane country roads at worst. If Dad drove us in the summer, part of the way was closed for a “bridge out” because of spring floods. If we went at Christmas, a road was blocked by snow or a washout or mud. We never drove to the farm on the most direct route but came to “DETOUR” signs directing us to go around this block or that section or along this river to the next bridge.
“Oh, Boy!” my brothers chortled, “Another adventure!”
We kids sitting in the back seat knew then that the trip would extend an hour or two—because a detour meant we would get lost—especially after dark. Dad invariably missed a critical sign. Many times he must retrace his route miles back to the original “detour” sign and start over. He insisted the whole family stay awake and to please keep their eyes peeled for the tiny, dirty, orange signs on fence posts along the way, and to sing out if we saw one.
Always when we got to Grandpa and Grandma’s farmhouse they came out carrying lanterns; anxious to hear about the detour that had caused the delay this time. There was a hot meal for us to eat just minutes away when we got there. Always we kids fell asleep in strange beds upstairs listening to the comfortable grown-up voices down in the kitchen, telling stories and catching up on events since our last visit.