“When we traveled with kids, where did we put them?” I asked my husband as he piled the back seat full of trip necessities: carry-on packed with cosmetics, hair spray and extra undies, cooler filled with water bottles, AAA maps and tour books, jackets and – the most essential of all – bunches of munchies.

“Beats me,” Ray answered, “couldn’t have been the trunk. It’s full of luggage and enough shoes to make Imelda Marcos green with envy.”

I ignored the jab because I long ago gave up trying to make Ray understand that different colored clothing demands shoes that match … or at least don’t clash. I’m a tourist that you won’t see wearing pink capris with orange flip-flops. But Ray’s view of fashion while traveling is “We’re never going to see these people again, so why should we care how we look?”

I’m embarrassed to say that I embraced his view when we took a trolley ride from hell during a recent sojourn in Virginia. Who knew the tour we signed up for would be an eternity on a trolley with wood-slat seats and no air except what was blowing in the windows – along with mass quantities of diesel fumes – at 45 miles per hour?

I spent the first five minutes of the ride trying to protect my hairstyle; after that I looked like my childhood pet, a cocker spaniel named Ranger, holding his head out the car window and letting his long ears flap in the breeze. Those who think Kansas has heat and humidity should have been on that trolley ride … or with us hiking the Mall at Washington, DC.

Getting to our nation’s Capitol from our suburban hotel was fun. The Metro, a light rail train, transported us the 40mile round trip for only $6.50 each and deposited us right at the Mall. After that, we relied on our feet, Ray’s in cowboy boots and mine in red Crocs. Why didn’t we wear our tennyrunners? And whose wacky idea was it to put our national landmarks so far apart? We made it to the Washington Monument and the World War II memorial, but our close-up view of the Lincoln Memorial was through a telephoto lens.

I am not by nature a crabby person, but give me feet that feel like they’ve been walking on hot coals and expose me to 95-degree heat and a humidity high enough to swim through, and I’ll show you snarliness that makes Rosie O’Donnell look downright meek.

Ray coaxed me to walk to the Smithsonian Castle by promising me lemonade and lunch in the cafe there. A couple of ham sandwiches and lemonades set us back $30, but it was worth it because, by the time we got there, I would have paid that much just to sit down.

I did much better at the Gettysburg battleground. No heat that day, but lots of humidity because it rained the entire time we were there; still, it was an emotionally moving experience. It wasn’t hard to imagine ghostly images of soldiers loading and firing the cannon that dotted the battlefield … or the sprawled bodies of those who died there. One tourist accurately referred to Gettysburg as an outdoor cathedral.

We came home with a treasured Gettysburg souvenir. When I mentioned to a bookstore salesclerk that my great-grandfather Henry, a soldier of the 142nd Pennsylvania Infantry who later migrated to Kansas, attended the 75th anniversary of the battle, she directed me to a DVD of the event featuring film of that last reunion of the Blue and Gray.

We knew the odds were against catching a glimpse of Granddad, but the news film taken at the dedication of the eternal flame showed him – then 94 years old and boasting a long white beard – standing proudly erect and saluting. He was wearing the medal they gave to each soldier of the Union and Confederate armies who came to the reunion, the very medal that is now in my possession.

Our guide said each old soldier was housed in a tent with a caregiver and that the weather was very hot and humid during Gettysburg’s 75th encampment. My admiration for the stamina of the nonagenarian veterans increased when I saw what they were wearing: their old uniforms or – in Granddad’s case – what appeared to be a dark wool suit complete with vest.

Perhaps they had such respect for each other that they cared how they looked even though they knew they’d never see each other again. And, while I’m guessing the old soldiers weren’t required to do much walking, I did notice that not one of them was dumb enough to be wearing cowboy boots or Crocs.