Once upon a time, when the sun rose above the trees and the first light of day spoke promise, my nonno would turn to my mother and say: “Come, Rose. Let’s go for a ride. We can pack a thermos with some Genoa salami sandwiches and go for a ride with the kids.”

This was 1960, when taking a ride in a car meant adventure. You never knew where the ride would take you or whom you would meet along the way. It was a time when gasoline was 31 cents a gallon, and you could ride all day without having to fill up the gas tank. It was a simple time. No cell phones or technology disrupted the joy of a leisurely drive.

I have fond memories of my nonno, Nunzio Falcone, taking my family on rides. Nonno was generous, yet he had strict rules about riding in his car. “No radio playing,” he would announce every time my mother, sister and I stepped inside his car. “It distracts the driver from the road.” There would also be no drinking and eating in his car: “We eat and drink when we find a nice place to rest.” Over the years, Nonno had different cars, from a black Cadillac in his early days, to used cars he brought during the last years of his life. It did not seem to matter what he drove. It was the essence of what the ride represented. A kind of freedom and wondrous joy that came from discovering even the most familiar settings were special. And so, with a nod of his Stetson, our journey began.

My nonno loved Westerly, R.I., because of the small family shops that sold Italian goods. From Talman St., we would take what used to be known as scenic Old Route 2, enjoying the various farmland and grassy pastures along the way. On the way back from Westerly, we would stop at the Dew-Drop Inn, where crowded booths, dusty floorboards, and homemade pies and coffee greeted us. One time, on the way back from Westerly, Nonno was giving me driving lessons, and I was behind the wheel. When a dog ran in front of the car, I panicked, and swerved the car into the woods. No one was hurt, and the dog escaped. When I looked at Nonno, his face was pale and he was wiping away sweat with a handkerchief. All he could manage to say was, “Driving lesson over for today.”

Another favorite ride was actually one my mother liked best. It was on Wawecus Hill Road, in Bozrah. My mother fondly named this route the “Pig Ride.” In 1960, the terrain was basically farmland, with acres of free-range pastures populated by cows and pigs and chickens. Stone walls and glorious oak trees welcomed visitors to what appeared to look like the entrance to heaven. At the end of the ride was a large pasture with a picnic table close to the road. The owner was a farmer who welcomed every visitor to use the table. Many days, we would sit and eat at the picnic table while Nonno talked to the farmer like an old friend. Sometimes we would stay and watch the sun set low. We were amazed how every second that passed, the sky changed its mood. The colors went from brilliant orange, to soft pink, and finally to midnight blue. There always seemed to be a cluster of black crows fluttering around the sunset, calling to each other, until their voices disappeared as soon as the sun went below the horizon.

Nonno loved the city of Norwich, as did my entire family. Some days we took a short ride to visit aunts and uncles who worked in town. There was a trip to the Disco Building to visit his daughter, Angelina Falcone-Valentine, at her hair salon. Other days we visited Nonno’s brother-in-law, Charlie Gencarelli, the tailor in the Marguerite Building. Uncle Charlie would be busy sitting behind his huge black and gold embossed Singer sewing machine, but he always managed to pour my mother and Nonno a cup of espresso from his thermos, and offer my sister and I a birch beer soda.

Sometimes, after taking a long ride, the best part of the day was returning home to Talman St., where Nonna would greet us with supper. My father, after finishing his job at Becker & Goldstein in Norwich, would join us to sit down to a homemade Italian meal. I hope someday readers follow Nonno’s advice and, with a spirit of joy and adventure, say to their loved ones: “Come on. Let’s go for a ride.” Happy trails!

Concetta Falcone-Codding is the author of “The Lonely Nest.” To contact her, email concettafalconecodding1@gmail.com.