Growing up, on of my favorite things about Sundays was our Sunday drive. It was either with Granddaddy and Gammy or Mom and Dad, and it was typically after church and Sunday lunch.

There was never really a specific destination, but the adults in my life wanted to take time on the day away from work and chores to see what was what around town.

Could you call it being nosey? Sure. In fact, I suspect part of the reason I wanted to become a journalist at such an early age is the natural curiosity that was encouraged in me from the beginning.

If Dad was driving, we were going to see all the new things neighbors had done — new plantings, construction, who was visiting or who was away. If cars were missing from the driveway on Sunday afternoon, there was a good chance at least part of the family was away somewhere, because in those years, nothing was open on Sunday afternoons so there was nowhere to go.

Yes, that was back in a time, although for me not so long ago, when Walmart was not here, and when even gas stations were not open on Sunday. You needed to plan ahead and gas up on Saturday for work Monday morning.

There were no 24-hour stores and no internet. There were no video games to get lost in or cell phones to disappear into.

We talked to one another, and we looked at the world around us. We read newspapers (ahem) and when we watched television, we tended to do it as a family.

We sat down to meals together, at the table, not in front of the TV. We took walks together and even played cards and board games together.

And on Sundays, we went driving to see what we’d missed during the week while we were at work or school.

Dad would stop nearly every time at one neighbor’s house or another and we’d go in and visit.

Being an only child meant I often sat quietly by while the grown-ups talked, and I overheard things I probably should not have. But I seemed to understand that these were things I should keep to myself. It never seemed right to share personal details with anyone else. Maybe that’s where I got my understanding of trust and confidentiality.

After we’d get in the car, Mom and I thinking we were heading home, Dad always wanted to “take the long way” and cruise either a few more nearby streets, or downtown, just to make sure he wasn’t missing anything.

So we kept abreast of the town’s going-ons if Dad was driving.

If Granddaddy was driving, we were going on an adventure.

We were going to do our best to get lost, then find our way home, or so he said. I don’t think he was ever really lost, because he was a born wanderer and one of those who had a natural internal compass. But there were many times when I did not have a clue where we’d ended up — until he turned a corner and suddenly I knew where I was.

I discovered, with him, hidden parks, tiny inlets of High Rock Lake, hiking trails, and restaurants that I had never heard of.

Along the way, I learned to talk with strangers, to be patient and listen to their stories. I began to understand the value of every life, every story.

I ate food that was strange and new from kitchens far different than my own. I sat in rocking chairs and on steps and heard about lives that could seemingly have come only from novels, had I not been sitting right there listening to the person who lived it.

I never knew where we were going to end up.

One Sunday we ended up fishing with a fellow that worked for Granddaddy at the brick plant in Thomasville.

Luckily, Gran taught me to fish, from baiting the hook to getting the fish off the hook to preparing it for cooking. Although we typically released what we caught, I had learned the lessons well enough to stand my own that day, and the man we were visiting was impressed.

We caught quite a few that day, and I helped the whole way through. At the end of the day, Granddaddy handed the entire cooler of fish to the man and told him to take it home for his family.

After we were in the car on the way home, I asked why we had not brought any for us.

I remember Granddaddy looking at me before explaining that Gammy was already at home cooking our dinner. I must have looked confused, because he went on to say that for this man, fishing was part of the way he fed his family.

It was just fun for us, but for him, it meant putting a full meal on the table some days.

A different kind of Sunday drive discovery, but just as important. That was when I understood the importance of respecting that not all lives are like mine. But whatever our differences, I should appreciate hard work, and I should practice both awareness and kindness.

I still head out on random drives from time to time, just to see what I will discover.

Elisabeth Strillacci is the editor of the Salisbury Post.