Lining up for Slot Machines – You could never figure out what the big deal was.

Every Summer, like Clockwork. Since you were five, since you were old enough to eat on your own – two weeks, middle of Summer.

Family Vacation.

Loading up the Plymouth Suburban – gassing up at the Gulf station at 3 in the morning – heading West.

Always the West – Summer in Detroit meant Summer in a suburb of Hell. Sticky hell with mosquitos the size of a city bus – thunderstorms that make you swear off sleep for the rest of your life.

Heading to Los Angeles – the yearly pilgrimage – peeing in a bucket in the backseat. Stopping at Howard Johnson’s. Canvas waterbags attached to the Radiator.

Disneyland.

But . . . you never actually got there.

Every year you tried – had your heart set on Hollywood Boulevard – Graumann’s Chinese – The Matterhorn – World’s Thickest Small Steak at Ollie Hammond’s. You never went to those places, but you knew about them because your Aunt used to write your mom and send photos. Every Christmas it was a card from Palm Springs. Swimming pool and your cousins the color of Hershey Bars, waving while you and your parents sat frozen waiting for Spring.

Every year – swearing up and down, Dad was going to take you and your mom to L.A. – that was the plan. You had the maps the prove it.

But you never got past Las Vegas.

One day – that was it – one day at the Roulette wheel and back on the highway. Swear to god – this time, for real.

One day became three days became five days, became time to drive back to Detroit. Dad broke. Mom kept the gas money – she hid it.

Dad made promises – dad made deals.  He made a deal that, when he did hit the jackpot, he’d take an extra week off – call in work with tales of a broken down Suburban and a complete engine overhaul would take maybe weeks.

Came close, but never hit the jackpot – never called in sick or with tales of a broken down car – always back at work on the assembly line; two weeks on the dot, and you getting ready to go back to school. No “what I did on my vacation” stories to tell – endless stretches of highway you could see for miles – bored out of your mind. Could’t even go inside a casino – had to walk around and look at people. People staggering around or celebrating. You wondered what the big deal was.

Time to head back – L.A. was “next year for sure”- you were getting used to being disappointed.

Packed up the car and drove off, just like last year and the year before that and the year before that.

Assumed the position – back seat – window rolled down. Your dad didn’t believe in air-conditioners, said they put stress on the engine. He built them, he should know.

He did have a radio and it had great speakers and it filled the car. The nice part about driving across the country was listening to the radio.

You didn’t have Disneyland but you had music.

And as a reminder – here’s a half-hour’s worth of Dave Diamond from WIL in St. Louis on August 6, 1963.