Balloons, Maps, and Magnolias

A mother, a son, and the inheritance of wonder.

Watching sunbeams skip across dew drops on the windshield while our rickety car dipped over uneven roadways was beautiful, but as familiar as Grandma’s kitchen. Midnight drives across the United States and waking up to crevices, deserts, and gullies unseen were part of my childhood. Rolled in between blankets pulled off my bed, with snacks and stacks of clothing toppling into my lap, for a girl who belonged to a family of travelers, it was a walk through customs.

I would rub the blurred vision away, attempting to make sense of where I had landed, piecing together the taste in the air for clues and small details. Sometimes it was my mom behind the wheel; other times it was my grandfather, and I’d say, “Papa? Where are we now?” My sense of direction was nowhere close to understanding whether the dashboard was pointed north toward Maine or south toward the coasts of Florida this time.

Always a grin across their lips and a comment resembling, “Oh good! You’re up! Guess where we’re going?” They were identical, my mother and her father—heads tossed back in laughter at my twisted confusion. I was never in on the joke they’d hatched only hours before. A bug creeping across the mattress, a bite waking them to gather maps without much planning, and suddenly we were on a road trip to some unknown place with an unsuspecting surprise.

A good portion of this is why I have been to almost all fifty states (minus two), lived in other countries, and wandered across much of Europe before I reached my thirties. For so long, I wanted to sit still without being pulled away repeatedly. Not a gift I received until adulthood. Yet it was all so exciting, and even now—facing the North Georgia sunshine, I know leaving home makes the taste of magnolia and iced tea swirl across my tongue even sweeter.

Not knowing where I’d land was enchanting. My childhood of spelunking, wading through waves of rippling tide grass, and watching bison tear across the earth hard enough to leave me gasping has carried forward into holding my son’s hand, taking him to places some children never get to experience.

At ten years old, he’s already seen more states than most adults manage in their lifetime. Sometimes the miraculous discoveries land right in our backyard. When I first laid eyes on the advertisement, I knew Nikolai had to see it. At two hundred and twenty-five miles, it was deemed one of the best long-distance balloon races in America.

While browsing the news, an article about Helen, Georgia’s race to the Atlantic held me captive. On a Wednesday night in May, I booked a hotel, packed our vehicle, and buckled my son into the booster seat. His face was the mirror of a younger me. I slid behind the wheel and grinned at the beautiful confusion etched across his features—stormy blue eyes asking all the questions his lips hadn’t readied themselves to speak.

“Guess where we’re going?” I teased, my voice tangled with laughter.

He didn’t have any guesses. I reached a hand toward the back seat, squeezing his fingers. Just my boy and me, setting off on wild balloon adventures. Snacks spilling into his lap, luggage stacked for a two-day trip—the boy never saw it coming.

That night, when I tucked him into a queen-sized bed with a different view of the mountains we had come to love, I kissed his forehead with a promise: spectacular things come in the morning. No glowing television, only shadows on the walls. Excitement so sharp we barely slept.

Our wake-up alarm sounded, but neither of us moved. Still, before the sun, we managed to greet the day, slipping on our shoes in the dim hush. Nikolai’s legs danced their way to the breakfast buffet, the boy nearly eating asphalt in his hurry to reach the car. Switchback roads curled ahead, fog blushing pink and gold as it cascaded into the valley below. I passed the time by asking what he might take on a long adventure.

“Water, snacks! I would need snacks. My binoculars Daddy bought me, and a picture of Daddy since he’s working. Mommy, I would have to take you.”

His words reached into my chest and clasped my heart. My camera, nestled in the passenger seat, slid against the upholstery, nearly tumbling to the floorboard. I caught it, the weight steady in my hand, and my creative mind bloomed with an image of my son—inside a hot air balloon, racing toward the Atlantic. He couldn’t fly with them, but I have a knack for breathing life into his ambitions. I dog-eared the thought and prepared to catch the ember.

Crowds of visitors followed a nature path into the woods where birds fluttered their morning greetings, until the turf gave way to tipped balloons and fire-breathing contraptions nestled in a woodland hollow. Awe and delight lit my son’s face in colors beyond anything he had seen before. Picnic blankets lined the hill for a front-row view, children clutching hands, bug-bitten limbs marked by the soil in the name of anticipation for liftoff. Families sat cross-legged, speaking reverently over hot cups of coffee and pre-made food—every nationality, every shade of skin—gathering for a tradition passed down simply for the joy of being a witness.

When the first balloon lifted, the crowd erupted in clapping, laughter, and well-wishes that echoed against bark and branches. My hands trembled, damp against the camera, as faces peered down from above. Their beautiful vantage became my living nightmare, making me feel effortlessly small. Yet the substance of dreams is believing impossible things. Success comes not only from attempting something massive, but from daring it, even with the risk of falling. Everything I wanted my son to remember was here, drawn out of the wonder of exploring the world.

I learned as much from this perspective as I hoped to teach him. Seeing through my son’s eyes revealed my mother’s and grandfather’s parenting in a new light. Teaching my boy teaches me in return. At four years old, his memory will be hazy, but mine holds it clear. Exploring wasn’t only about me as a child—it was tasting the old, dressed in new seasonings.

Contentment settled as I folded the blanket over my arm after the last balloon drifted toward a cloud shaped uncannily like a T-Rex. The balloons hung suspended in the air as we walked back to the car. Cobblestone streets, a bobbing river, and a hot cup of tea warmed both our hands. Nikolai stooped to collect stones for his pockets—some of which still turn up in random places around our farm today.

When we pulled into the driveway at home, he bolted to his room and dug through the toy box for his flight jacket, goggles, and pilot’s hat. Crayon maps spread across the floor. The dog was conscripted into service as co-pilot, and together they flew past the chickens, who clucked their disapproval.

By day’s end, long lashes rested on peach skin, bowed lips parted slightly, a pilot’s hat tugged low across his face, and an arm draped over the dog’s belly. This autumn, we’re going to Ireland, where history leaves castles scattered across the countryside. My boy will remember every taste, detail, and scent, carving his name from the United States into the world beyond it. I can’t imagine what he will teach me next.