I was born with a "let's go" gene. I would sit in a chair at my grandparents' house with a view of the driveway. If I heard my mom's car or my dad's pickup start, I was out the door like a shot. I asked the destination only once we were en route. True, the worst place was the electrical store where my dad would buy stuff for his ham radio set up (his call sign was K6JYP -- anyone out there remember?) There was nothing there that interested me so I would root through the truck and always found treasures in the back of the seat, loose change included. I mean, what did my dad do? Throw change over his shoulder? He also had a penchant for cherry danish. If I was lucky, they were only a day old upon discovery.
Then I entered the convent, a never-ending journey, smooth, bumpy, stormy and beautiful, that far surpassed family adventures, school field trips, and Girl Scout camping jaunts.