One day this week we went to Santa Fe — twice. Well, it was actually more like two and a half times. Here’s what happened: We traveled to Albuquerque in the morning for an appointment. We returned mid-afternoon and got a call about picking up our two small grand-daughters. That accomplished, we recorded close to 400 miles, and neither we nor the car breathed hard.

     Now imagine a couple of generations ago when we were the little ones and our parents the trip-arrangers. Choreographing the Second Vatican Council couldn’t have involved more to-do than a trip to Santa Fe — not the way Mom planned things.
     Today we travel more in a month than we did all year, back in the Œ40s.
     Perhaps as a throwback from the horse-and-buggy days, Mom was obsessively attentive to details. And the only thing that took longer than planing the trip was the trip itself.
     My wife and I, assuring our son and daughter-in-law that meeting them in Santa Fe was no big deal, discussed how things have changed.
     On the stretch of I-25, which has gotten progressively busier these days, we talked about the comfort of cruise control, automatic headlights, temperature control, adjustable seats, power-everything, and a ride that insulates us from the elements.
     Back then, after an hour of traveling, we were exhausted: four of us children in the back seat, with Dolores, the oldest, in the front with Mom and Dad. After an hour we piled out of the car — we hadn’t gotten to Santa Fe yet; rather, we were only to Starvation Peak, getting ready for a pic-i-nic. “A picnic,” Mom used to explain, what was other people had. We had a “pic-i-nic,” and I surmise that extra syllable made the fest ever more joyful.
     We never had a car trip without someone becoming ill. One of Dad’s pleasures in life was enjoying a Roi-Tan cigar, a big one, which would last all the way over and back. Once, as we activated our 4-45 air conditioner, one of us complained about inhaling cigar smoke, which in those days may have been more therapeutic than the gas fumes travelers everywhere ingested.
     Mom told Dad about the discontent in the back seat, and Dad, not to be deprived of the pleasure in smoking a store-bought cigar, grumbled and responded with, “I ought to throw them out.” Thereupon, Mom nodded and flung the four-pack of Roi-Tans out the window, never to be seen again.
     Well, by “them,” Dad meant us, his progeny, his loving offspring, not the cigars. We rode the next two hours very quietly. Even the Phase II pic-i-nic at a store in Rowe, where we enjoyed the only soda pop of the trip, was in somber silence.
     I sometimes marvel at the technological changes this generation has witnessed. It makes almost no sense to my 8-year-old grandson and namesake when I explain that older cars didn’t have seatbelts or safety handles on the doors. Or padded dashes or safety glass. And the steering was exactly like we see in old movies, with the driver having to make huge arm movements just to go straight.
     In the pre-cell phone era, a breakdown, which was common, may have meant finding someone who could hail a wrecker. Of course, handymen often could perform the repairs themselves.
     But my biggest impression is the long-lasting influence early travel had on Mom. Many times we’d pick up Mom and Dad at the Albuquerque airport. Out of habit, Mom often would look to the back seat and ask, “Is everyone present and accounted for?” Was she mimicking a line from “Cheaper by the Dozen”?
     Was she remembering the really olden days when kids actually fell out of horse-drawn wagons?
     Cars were bulkier in those days and trunks roomier. Our two-installment picnic could never have comprised fast food. No, Mom would have fried the chicken ahead of time, or cooked it at a picnic site. And none of us had ever heard of a camping stove or aluminum utensils. Instead, the skillets, silverware and condiments we used at home were the same ones what went with us on our day-long trips to the Capital City.
     Six hours for a 400-mile trip in the year 2005 or more than three hours for a 65-mile trip in 1947: you do the math.
     But somehow, as we appear to be standing still when passed by SUVs that whiz by at 90 mph, I kind of long for an occasional drawn-out jaunt, that would even allow us time for a pic-i-nic.