Road Trip

In the summer of 1978, I turned 20. One of my dearest memories from that summer was attending the movie Animal House with my two closest brothers. John was three years older. Mitch was one year younger. In my mind’s eye, that summer, as different as we were, we outgrew our adolescent rivalries and recognized that we were friends. Good ones.

We were all capable young men, viciously loyal to each other, and cocky. We were farm kids from a small, no-account acreage. Naively optimistic, we were confident beyond reason that we couldn’t dig holes too deep for us to climb out. If we had a problem that work could solve, we could be counted on to solve it. We overwhelmed setbacks with cleverness, physical stamina, and humor.

We weren’t each other’s patsies, though. We were hyper competitive. We wouldn’t harm each other. But when we transacted with each other, we wanted to win. If we lost, we would get even. And then laugh. Hundreds of our dealings were superimposed with jocularity where the register was never reconciled, and debts were never repaid in kind. Interest was compounded only in spirit.

Animal House’ irreverence in the opening clip appealed to us. We laughed so hard when we watched it because it mirrored our own attitudes. Yup, the Deltas had gone too far. Double-secret probation! The establishment would crush them! But it couldn’t. Because they could always say, “Road Trip!”  In other words, “Fuck ‘em! We’ll do it our own way.”

Around the same time, we met with our father to examine whether expanding our farming operation could provide us with economic opportunity. We were entering adulthood and needed to make choices. Farming was our dream and a foregone expectation of growing up. After exploring every angle and much handwringing, the answer was an obvious “no.” We didn’t have nearly enough financial heft to scale up.

It took that moment for each of us to realize we were not going to be farmers. We had backup plans, just in case. John was in law school, Mitch was an apprentice sheet metal worker, and I was in engineering school. We took stock of it all and said, effectively, “Road Trip!” My brothers and I each sprinted down our own paths of opportunity. Somehow, we knew we were on our own path to success, and we knew that of each other as well. John’s expertise helped create the means to finance development and renewable energy. Mitch helped to build and run the cleanest coal-fired power plant in our state, responding to our nuclear panic. I helped bring robots into industrial processes, improving quality and making work safer.

Calling on our farming habits, we started early and worked late. We were supported by spouses and families left lacking our attention but by exception. Companies sought us, and if we had to go, we went. Midcareer we all transitioned from employees to employers. We missed each other. So we gathered on holidays to brag and whine and laugh and drink; and to give the middle finger to all those we imagined who thought we couldn’t do what we were accomplishing.

We moved fast. We did a lot.

And we got old.

Age brings irreplaceable perspective. It is humbling, now, to know how many risks we ignored and how certain we were in our speculations along the way – against all odds, really – only to have it all work out as it did. Mitch passed away. John and I still communicate on business, social, and family issues. Our registers remain unreconciled. Our mutual debts never discharged, but long forgotten. By every measure, the world is a safer and more prosperous place than it was when we started. We helped. We did our share. Maybe more. We’re satisfied.

Sort of.

In many ways, my brothers and I are emblematic of a generation. As we came of age then, the United States felt on its heels. A failed war, a hollow military, an energy crisis, environmental decay, an out-of-control drug culture, a criminal President, all-too-frequent assassinations still fresh, a rogue head of the FBI who had to die to be removed… Sound familiar? The leadership told us to turn our heat down and drive fifty-five. We had every reason to feel sour towards our institutions. So we broke out. To hell with the militaristic, rigid views of our forebears. We were more free-form, more creative, and more celebratory. We invented radar detectors, took our CB radios, and crashed the gate doin’ ninety-eight! We remade things with new ideas.

For 30-plus years we exploited the mass of our population bubble to make better things for more of the world. But we could not have done what we did without the freedom we inherited. No excuses. We boomers have not improved the institutions of freedom. We just overpowered them. We pushed them to their elastic limits. Now we are leaving them in a more fragile state than we found them. Not ideal. Our republic needs some attention.

With the benefit of hindsight, would we do it differently? Given all we accomplished, it’s hard to be critical. Inter-generational accountancy is weird. We inherited freedom. For that we owe a debt to people long dead that we could never live long enough to repay. We spent that freedom to make a better world, and perhaps we compromised a little too much along the way. Maybe we lost track. It is hard to know what the next generations are inheriting from us. Some cool technology for sure and a fiat currency system that may or may not work. Good luck with that.

I have outgrown my youthful irreverence and I miss it. When I watch Animal House now, I identify more with Dean Wormer than I care to admit. I sense the next generation’s emerging zeal for their own road trip. I sympathize. I pray for the modern equivalent of overly optimistic farm kids ready to drive. But if I could add a waypoint to their journey, it would be to shore up the republic. An amendment or two to strengthen our constitution and tighten our bonds might be a good idea. We didn’t even try that. We did our jobs and stood by while our political parties and social activists sliced and diced it according to their authoritarian whims.

My biggest regret is that I wish we hadn’t.