When he said, "Let's go," he meant instantly. You were to have completed the preventive bathroom visit. Under no circumstance could you return to your room to grab one last item. If you did not have your shoes on your feet, you were to walk to the car with shoes in hand.
If, for some reason, you had not predicted exactly when Dad was ready for the road trip to begin, you were treated with impatient sighing, rocking on heels, and rolled eyes. Luckily, once in the vehicle, Dad calmed.
Most problematic were our family trips to the beach when my sister and I were children. Mom would pack a large cooler with drinks and food. She also had prepared an umbrella, towels, meat tenderizer (jelly fish stings), sunscreen (SPF 8), extra clothes, toys, deflated floats, and who knows what else into a large canvas bag. Or was it two? Oh, the chairs. How could I forget the chairs that Dad would cross the tall dunes to retrieve from the car. It would be his second trip. The first was him carrying one of the bags as he toted half of the cooler. Mom had the other side of the cooler as she either toted a child or an umbrella.
Beach days were fantastic for Maverick and I. We sat in our yellow submarine float as Dad swam, pulling us to the sandbar. I do remember Dad being slightly annoyed at having to haul so many items to the beach. Yet, we children could not have stayed at the beach nearly as long without the shade of the umbrella for a nap after a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I wonder how far Dad swam while we slept?