What's more, we're starting to chill; cave temperatures hover around 54 degrees.

''We should have brought pants, wind breakers, shoes and socks,'' Yehuda chastises. Maybe he should be the parent.

SOUTHERN ACCENTS

Rolling hills dotted with horse farms and curled bales of hay take over the horizon as we drive toward the town of Somerset, where we'll stay with friends whose twangy accent fascinates Benjamin. A neighbor invites everyone over to jump on his trampoline -- a new experience for our boys, who delight in chasing fireflies. Me, I'm grateful for the laundry.

On to Knoxville, Tenn., where a booming rap concert has drawn a curious crowd in do-rags, UT shirts and date-night suit coats. America is nation of contradictions, we're learning -- even in places we wouldn't expect.

At twilight, the Appalachian town of Pigeon Forge comes into view. Billboards hype Dollywood, the Dixie Stampede and mini-golf, and in nearby Gatlinburg, sidewalk buskers strum, clog and yodel mountain tunes. After the canned bluegrass music we've played through two states, the real thing is magic, and I'm bummed that the boys -- conked out in the back seat -- miss the folksy street performances.

ON THE TRAIL

The 800-square-mile Great Smoky Mountains National Park abruptly ends the honky-tonk. At the 2.6-mile trail to Laurel Falls, my husband skips ahead with enthusiastic Yehuda while I beg and persuade Benjamin to hike. As we climb, motorized sounds fade away.

Our trail brochure tell us to back away slowly if we encounter a bear; thankfully, we don't. The kids joyfully take off their shoes and splash at the waterfall source -- an act of freedom that rarely seems possible in our daily lives.

Mission accomplished, Benjamin happily skips down the trail; Yehuda squats down to protest the trek. Short on patience, I hoist him on my back for a piggyback ride.

Why is it that the boys are rarely in sync? I wonder. But then, maybe that's a good thing; my husband and I could be carrying two down the hill.

CROSSING THE LINE

Georgia's famed Three Ps -- pecans, peanuts and peach groves -- line the highway as we roll from cozy, small-town college town of Athens to the Georgia Music Hall of Fame in Macon. For Isaac and me, this is a shrine to grand music from Good Old Days, shimmering with the soulful sounds of Ray Charles, Otis Redding and Gladys Knight. For Benjamin and Yehuda, it's a chance to bang on percussion instruments and press seemingly endless buttons without getting in trouble. A temporary tattoo in the form of the museum's logo makes their visit complete.

And now, at last, we're nearing Florida.

We know this not only because the GPS and mapbook indicate it, but because we see The First Palm Tree.

''Look! Look!'' I cry. The boys barely notice.

Even they take note the next day when temperature and humidity shoot skyward. We scrap touring, pledging to visit the Orlando attractions in cooler months, and speed south. Florida's relentless flatness wears us down, and we wonder if here in the Sunshine State, road-tripping is such a good idea after all.

The drive South seems to last forever; rest stops are inevitable. At one of them, Yehuda snags the trip's most prized take-away: a squashed penny souvenir turned out with a hand crank machine. As he grips the oblong copper shape stamped with oranges for the rest of the ride, I realize it's the simple stuff that makes the trip memorable.

For this virgin journey, we'll cherish the memories of friends, overcoming nature's hurdles, hotel pools and family game nights. Those pleasures, surely, we can repeat, even if next time we decide to fly.

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