By growing up in an era of TV dads like Ward Cleaver and Ozzie Nelson I learned that my father was different. REALLY different.

Dad was a bona fide genius, who like many brainy people was born old. He grew up doodling figures on graph paper while playing with a slide rule. As a result grownup Dad was most comfortable in front of a drafting table inventing NASA’s next scientific marvel, or tinkering with his 1966 Chevy Impala creampuff dubbed “The Cannonball”.  All else seemed to frustrate him; especially me, probably because he’d never experienced a normal childhood.

How did such an odd guy find his way into our gene pool?

“He was kind of cute, so I married him” Mom chuckled.

Clearly cute was in the eyes of the beholder.

With little encouragement from “Mr. Grumpy”, I spent sixteen years avoiding him, and sticking closer to Mom. Then one day a sudden announcement changed everything. 

“I have good news and bad news.”  Mom said.

“Uh oh” I groaned.

“First, the bad news” she continued, ignoring me. “I won’t be able to drive to Michigan with you guys because of my bad back. The good news is I can still go, but I’ll be flying up while you and Dad go in the car.”

That was good news? We lived in Florida. Michigan was three-day drive. EACH WAY. 

“Can I stay home?”

“C’mon, you might have fun together. Don’t be so quick to judge a book by its cover,” she chirped.

Easy for her to say. She didn’t have to ride with him.

The day of our trip, we dropped Mom at the airport in Tampa and departed in the Cannonball. I’d prepared for the worst, but Dad surprised me by being the perfect traveling companion. At first I didn’t trust him, warily expecting the other shoe to drop. But it was hard to feel that way for long. After all it’s natural for a kid to want to like her father. We laughed, talked, sang along with Johnny Cash, and had a blast.

Of course more than once I was tempted to demand, “Ok who are you and what have you done with Mr. Grumpy?” But I refrained, wanting desperately to believe he was a changed man. The new and improved Dad was so enjoyable that I couldn’t wait for the drive south so we could do it all over again.

I should have known it wouldn’t last.

On the return trip home, somewhere in Kentucky, whoever snatched Mr. Grumpy returned him to the Cannonball with a mighty thud.

“Do you ever come for air?” he suddenly snapped.

I stopped speaking mid-sentence.

“Put a sock in it! I need peace and quiet!” Mr. Grumpy barked.

Clearly it was going to be a long trip.

A few hours later we sailed past a shortcut Dad usually took to avoid interstate construction in downtown Nashville.

I noticed.

He didn’t.

Before long the traffic got thicker, and Nashville’s skyline loomed ahead in the distance.

“Where is the shortcut?” he asked.  “Did we pass it?”

I ignored him, gazing out the passenger window.

“Hello? I asked you a question!!!”

“Are you addressing me?”

“Yes, for Pete’s sake!”

“We passed it ages ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he hollered.

“BECAUSE, you told me to be quiet!”

He stared at me in disbelief, glanced at an endless sea of bumpers and taillights, and burst out laughing. I giggled too, relieved that goodwill had returned to the Cannonball.

After emerging from rush hour Nashville, we grabbed some burgers and made a beeline for our usual stop for the night; the Snowflake Inn high atop Monteagle, TN. 

“Did you make reservations?”

“No, but they’re never booked up.”

Unfortunately he underestimated the popularity of the Snowflake Inn.

It was dark and we were tired. Rather than driving down a foggy mountain highway in search of a better place, Dad checked us into the only other motel in town; the Pioneer Lodge.

“Oh no” Dad groaned in disgust after forcing open the swollen door of our room.

Coin operated vibrating massage units were installed next to the beds.  A long, thick diagonal crack ran across the back wall. A struggling air conditioner dribbled water onto the dirty orange matted shag carpet.  The best that could be said was the toilet flushed, and the prehistoric TV could pick up one station, if someone stood next to the antenna acting as a human receiver.  

“They should pay us to stay here!”  Dad grumbled. 

I’d had enough for one day. Hoping for a bug free bed, I pulled the covers over my head and slept as Mr. Grumpy noisily fussed with the television. 

The next thing I knew, he was shaking my shoulder. 

“Huh? What’s wrong?”  I mumbled groggily.

“Get dressed. We’re not spending another hour in this place.”

It was 2:56 a.m. Bleary eyed, I stumbled to the window and peered out at the thick fog blanketing the parking lot. 

“You won’t be able to see two feet in front of the car!” I shouted.

“I don’t care. Let’s get moving,” he said, parking our suitcases by the door.

Despite a conviction that my fate was in the clutches of a madman, I had no choice but to obey.

As the Cannonball hurtled down the mountain, I vowed that if I lived to see Mom again we’d have a serious discussion about Dad’s sanity. 

Two hours later, we pulled into a truck stop where my cheerful father gobbled up a hearty breakfast of four eggs, bacon, sausage links, grits, and toast, washed down with muddy black coffee. A near death experience did nothing to kill his appetite. 

I on the other hand, was such a trembling wreck after white knuckling the Cannonball’s arm rests that I could barely choke down a bowl of cereal. 

Anyone in his or her right mind would be elated to get home in one piece after such a journey.

Instead, when we pulled into the driveway I was sorry it was over. Call me crazy.

Dad seemed sorry too. In fact, he looked downright miserable as he hauled our bags into the house.

Who would have thought it possible?  I certainly didn’t.

In retrospect, six days in the Cannonball was just what we needed. Scratching the surface of the Mr. Grumpy façade revealed a Dad I never knew existed. He was adventurous, interesting, and cool. Even though we got on each other’s nerves a few times, we finally bonded as father and daughter. Our trip together was the most fun I’d ever had. 

Dad said I’m really great company too. AND he meant it.

Wow. Miracles do happen.   

He isn’t Beaver Cleaver’s dad, or Ricky Nelson’s.  Thank goodness. Ward and Ozzie would have bored me to tears. Maybe that makes me weird too, but I’m happy with the father I have. Mom was right about not judging a book by its cover.

Unpacking my suitcase, I found a crumpled brochure from the infamous Pioneer Lodge. I tacked it to my bulletin board as a fond reminder of my unexpected friendship with a man I no longer called Mr. Grumpy; my Dad.

Michelle Close Mills ©