Cultural icons are a fascinating study. It amazes me how an idea or symbol can travel well beyond it's contextual borders and yet still convey something of it's original meaning. Take the White Christmas as an example. There exists, in my mind at least, this ideal that Christmas should be flocked with snow; this image is powerful enough that while my family sold Christmas trees years back, people were in the market for flocked trees, which were normal green trees painted white with fake snow. Salem rarely sees a white Christmas; I can only remember one in my three decades, so when one comes around it seems like a special occasion begging to be marked with joy and celebration. I say this by way of painting a picture of my soul as I sped away from my happy home, flecked with melting snow, with the promise of a heavy snow storm on the wind. This year we made merry in the southern climes of Northern California, which while southern were still cold and wet (alas, no snow).

It had been some years since we last paid a visit to my in-laws, and this year was to be the first Christmas without my grandmother, as well as Emma's first Christmas, so it seemed quite prudent to make like a bird and migrate south, but only for a week. Now some may call us brave, or fools, but we strapped a six month old into a car seat for eleven and a half hours while I navigated the various aspects of I-5. Our stupidity sunk in when we arrived at Grant's Pass, having just spent the last 10 minutes to a continuous serenade of screaming, crying, hysterical tears, from our beloved little girl who had the misfortune of having something fall upon her noggin, and then discovering she was utterly alone in the backseat. I am as yet uncertain what possessed us to leave Emma alone in the backseat for the first four or five hours of our trek, but it was at Grant's Pass that we moved to our readied Plan B and moved Holly into the back, and moved luggage up front with me.

Picture in your mind, if you can, a silver Toyota RAV4, of the year when they were still small (circa 2001). Load it up with all the usual accouterments which attend a child of so few months, and add to it a week's worth of supplies for a family of three, further add in presents for approximately 14 people. This was the scene as we made our great landward journey in search of holiday cheer. Comical though it may be as seen from afar, the accommodations were a trifle cramped and left us dreaming of hot tubs, massages, and brightly colored drinks with paper umbrellas.

We discovered, to our disappointment and Emma's discomfort, rest stop bathrooms along the I-5 corridor do not have changing tables. Let it not be said that mothers are not inventive and improvisational; Holly quickly figured out how to change diapers in our car. Unfortunately this meant Emma found herself mooning the world, which rewarded her with icy kisses bestowed upon her bottom. Quick and nimble hands were required and delivered, and Daddy proves to be an adequate distraction with his many funny faces. Alas, I am now wanted in two states for behavior unbecoming of a respectable adult male in his early thirties (I may even be treated to a visit by the men in white coats in some counties).

Emma did far better than I had feared, and only cried out that one time, which is quite understandable. Once she had someone in the back with her to keep her company and to fetch the toys she managed to drop outside her grasp things moved along swimmingly. The Siskiyou pass was clear on the way down, which is to say the road was wet and slushy, and we encountered no ice; however, on the descent from the summit my windshield froze, then my washer fluid froze in the nozzle. It was cold enough to freeze outside, but the road was slushy, and I gave thanks to our Good Lord.

On the return trip home we learned our lesson, and loaded up one adult in front, and one in back. Emma enjoyed this arrangement much better, as that meant Daddy had almost two hours of making faces, silly noises, and other assorted embarrassing activities which had her laughing, giggling, and "talking" in her cute little voice. This of course wore her out and she slept. We found the pass was equally navigable though we hit it just after dark and I was filled with much trepidation as I slowly followed the twisting and winding brake lights in front of me. My folks were kind enough to send an emissary of heat to my house, which is to say when we pulled into our driveway my father and brother were there tending to a fire which had our house at a cozy and comfortable temperature.

As I think about our Great Winter Trek of 2008, I am reminded of so many novels and stories about journeys, not least of which is The Lord of the Rings. There is something to be learned from the journey itself, and while the destination is important, and in some cases greatly desired, there are things to be found, and lessons to be learned in transit. I cannot deny this, as we did learn a few things on our trip over the rivers and through the woods to grandmother's house, but I don't think any of those people dared to make journeys with a six month old strapped into a car seat. I'd love to see how Frodo would handle his expedition with a baby on board; who knows he might like it, there were frequent feedings.