What I've Learned

They were called the poor man's air conditioner. I'm referring to those wonderful, triangular vent windows that cars used to have.

At some point, car designers moved away from vent windows, touting the new, sleeker, non-vent window look. A pox on all their houses.

Vent windows were my salvation.

As a child, I suffered from profound car sickness. On the Garn Scale, which wouldn't be developed until years later, I must have rated at least half a Garn, though I wasn't in space.

The words, "We need to pull over," brought an immediate response from whomever was driving. I graced hundreds of roadsides, and the miserable thing is, I never felt better afterward. I'd throw up and still be punk and dizzy.

In time, I could endure a car ride if and only if I were in the front seat, and the vent window was angled to blast outside air in my face. My brother learned to not even bother calling, "Shotgun," as we headed to the car. The spot was automatically mine.

I eventually outgrew the condition, but not completely. To this day, I cannot read in a moving vehicle. It won't make me throw up, but it puts me on the verge, not just for the duration of the trip, but for the rest of the day.

Also, I can't ride on things that spin. Giant twirling tea cups and spew-inducing contraptions like the Tilt-a-Whirl hold no allure for me.

The cause of carsickness – or more appropriately, disequilibrium or motion sickness – stems from four systems in our bodies that detect when we are still and when we are moving.

First of all, there's our ears. Liquid in the semicircular canals of the inner ear helps us sense if we're moving, and which way – up, down, sideways, round and round, forward, or backward.

Then there are our eyes, which can see if and which way we're going.

Receptors in our skin tell our brain if we are mobile or immobile.

Receptors in our muscles and joints tell the brain if we're moving our muscles and what position our body is in.

Motion sickness, in part, happens because two or more of these systems send conflicting messages to the brain. If the inner ear says you're moving, but your eyes are fastened on the interior of the vehicle or a book – which appears not to be moving – some brains, like mine, get confused. Am I moving or not? To let me know something is amiss, the brain brings on nausea and dizziness to get my attention.

The nose must play some part in all this, because fresh air blasting from the vent window made a difference in staving off the urps. Probably part of the vent window solution was that air blowing in my face helped confirm what my eyes and inner ear were sensing. Hey, brain, I know my skin and muscles say I'm sitting down, but check it out. I must be moving forward because air is hitting me in the face.

Ah, vent windows. Their design was simple and elegant. No electric button, not even a crank. Simply unlock the window and physically push it open, adjusting it to the preferred angle with a forefinger.

Not only did they help me endure the motion of a car ride, they made blistering hot Oklahoma summers bearable. When I was young, none of the cars we owned had air conditioning. Vent windows kept us from baking. They also served as chilly, but effective window defoggers in winter.

Vent windows, alas, are a thing of the past. But they need not be lost. I suggest an effort be made to go through junk yards, collect old vent windows, and install them on carnival rides.