It started to rain shortly after we passed through San Francisco, and incongruously, our pick-up's radiator began to boil over.

I had decided to drive the coast route so the children could see Monterey, Caramel, and Big Sur. This was to be a 'fun' trip, inside of a fun trip, especially for the boys, who had nothing to do but stretch out on a soft pile of sleeping bags in the back; the sun on their faces, a breeze to keep them cool. Somehow, things just didn't work out as planned.

Now, I can remember with a chuckle a wet and dripping James asking incredulously why were we stopping at a service station for water, when his pockets were overflowing. And, the look on the attendants face at the next stop further on, when all six of us climbed out of the front. Since the boys had done such a convincing job of talking their way in out of the weather, I let them explain to the man that wore the Texaco star that he really wasn't on "Candid Camera."

Roll on old chariot. It took three days to cover 500 miles. What with rest breaks for horses and humans to get out and stretch, stops to let the radiator cool, and finally an expensive interlude at a garage, we arrived in Los Angeles at the height of rush hour traffic and promptly got lost on a maze of freeways. We did something like 60 miles at 20 per, in what seemed an endless circle.

The horses showed the whites of their eyes when a tacky pink Cadillac pulled up along side and sounded a phony whinny on a novelty horn: they curled their lip at the stench of a diesel tractor's exhaust in the face: and dammed near stomped the bottom out of the trailer in protest over my driving with a heavy foot on the brake peddle. Meanwhile, back in the back, Barry Jr., having ridden through Hollywood without an offer from a talent scout, gave up the idea of a movie career, and went to sleep under the tarp with his feet hanging over the side of the truck as if he was a lonesome cowhand on a last trip to boothill. James wasn't about to let his golden opportunity go to waste, and waved his big Western hat to all that passed by darting in and out of traffic, cursing our strange caravan.

Well after dark we stopped at an all-night supermarket to buy grub, and while grubby Bernice was pushing a cart around with the stylish housewives of this obviously well-to-do suburb, the boys exercised the horses by riding around the parking lot, bareback, yelling like Indians. I think we must have pulled out of there just before the police arrived. Near Long Beach we pulled up to a state park campground and were told that no pets were allowed unless on a leash. "Fine," six sleepy voices replied as one, but the answer still was, "No."