I had to make one of those crucial, life-altering financial decisions the other day, right up there with purchasing a house, choosing a college and saying "I do."

This one involved buying gas...

Unfortunately, there really wasn't any choice, but having gas money for work means losing gas money for family jaunts. Since selling a kidney on eBay is not an option, we've been staying close to home.

I hate that for so many reasons. Road trips and family vacations were one of the highlights of my childhood. We took vacations every summer to visit relatives in St. Louis. We RV'd cross country, seeing those incredible, breathtaking sights every child should get to see in person -- the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, the Painted Desert, and the cement teepee motel on Route 66.

Of course, between those monuments were miles and miles of brown, flat nothing, so we, being of the pre-GameBoy generation, played road games. License Tag Bingo, I Spy, and How Many Times Can We Squeak the Styrofoam Cooler Lid Before Mom Explodes -- you know, the usual.

One of those games was Name that Critter. Dad was a farm boy and even though we were suburban brats, he made us expand our animal husbandry expertise beyond cocker spaniels and alley cats. As we rolled through ranch, then dairy county, we had to be able to name the Black Angus, Herefords, Charlois and Simmental beef cattle; then the Holsteins, Jerseys, Guernseys and Brown Swiss.

All of this came to mind when I was out cruising Bedford County in June, looking for photo opportunities for the Dairy Month special section. There are a few more breeds than I remembered (where did the Red Angus come from?) and it was fun to see the Brahma crosses and the buffalo out on Horse Mountain Road.

But when am I going to get to teach my kids the difference between a Jersey and a Guernsey? Not on the road, that's for sure. Not just because we can't afford the gas -- you just don't see these breeds grazing in our hills much anymore.

Of course, my boys will argue, "Why do we need to know the difference between a Guernsey and a Jersey? All we need to know is the difference between 2 percent and skim milk."

It's just the joy of knowledge, I tell them.

"It drives you crazy when I can look at the TV and tell you Zorro is riding an Andalusian, but his wife is on a Polish Arabian," I say. "Wouldn't it be fun to drive other people crazy like that?"

"Ummm ... no."

"Just wait -- some day, the Final Jeopardy question will require you to know the difference between a Jersey and a Guernsey cow and you'll appreciate me then."

"Ummm ... doubt it."

I feel as though I've let a family tradition disappear, just as those many dairies have disappeared. Sure, we're replacing the old traditions with new ones. Instead of squeaking the lid on the environmentally incorrect Styrofoam cooler, my kids gradually increase the volume of their GameBoys to increase their mother's blood pressure. Instead of having to suffer through my mother's rendition of "Take me Home, Country Roads," the boys sink into their MP3 music and I'm safe to play Jack Johnson or the new Neil Diamond.

But I have kept one of the old family vacation traditions alive, even if it wasn't intentional. Just like my dad, I fill the tank and gripe and groan and swear the next tank will bankrupt me.

Of course, when Dad was doing it, gasoline was at the outrageous price of 76 cents a gallon ...

-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 215, or by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com. Mother Mayhem is scheduled to be published every Wednesday.