This is the time of year when Americans traditionally embark on extended journeys with their loved ones. Some of these journeys are so long that by the time they end there’s a good deal of fantasizing about leaving said loved ones at the next roadside gas station.

It’s family vacation season once again, that time-honored American custom that was originated by the Pilgrims when they left England. One of the Pilgrim dads convinced his family to go on vacation by saying, “We could use a change of scenery. I’ve got a great idea! Let’s go for a little boat ride! C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

By the time the Pilgrims reached North America they were tired and hungry and smelly and thoroughly sick of one another. This family vacation template continues to be followed by the majority of our citizenry.

One strategy that family vacationers use to reduce vacation-related stress is to make specific vacation plans. But striving to adhere to a strict schedule often induces teeth-gnashing levels of stress. Besides, planning to have fun is like planning to fall in love. It doesn’t feel right unless it happens spontaneously.

Like many guys, I’m goal oriented. I take it as a personal challenge if Google Maps implies that it’ll take six hours to drive from Point A to Point B. How great it would be if we could do it in five and half hours? That would show those smarty-pants at Google.

But a couple of things unfailingly prevent me from attaining this goal. The first is that the freeways are crowded with idiots who don’t know how to drive. I can quickly identify such idiots by the way they honk their horns at me and make rude gestures.

The other obstacle that makes it impossible to make good time is my wife. Not all of her, mind you; just her bladder. That part must be about the size of a marble, judging by the frequency of our pit stops.

Whenever we pull off the highway for yet another pause for the cause, I will helpfully point out that we wouldn’t have to stop nearly as often if she didn’t drink quite so much caffeinated diet soda.

“Most people would be drinking something a lot stronger if they had to ride with you!” she’ll reply.

“Where did you learn to drive? At a school for the blind? We almost needed a shoehorn for some of the merges that you made. And pulling out in front of oncoming traffic muttering ‘He’s got brakes’ isn’t exactly safe driving!”

As one can imagine, that type of stressful situation is compounded exponentially when you toss young children into the mix. From the backseat comes such stimulating repartee as, “Mom! He’s on my side of the seat!” and “Mom! Make him stop looking at me!” and “Mom! Tell him to quit breathing!”

If it were up to me, parents who are vacationing with young children would be allowed to slip a calming agent into their kids’ juice boxes. The vacation experience would be a lot quieter and much less stressful. Maybe the stress would be reduced to the point where Mom could cut back on her consumption of caffeinated diet soda.

My wife and I somehow managed to pull off an ideal family vacation when our two sons were grade schoolers. We began our journey to the Black Hills at 5 a.m., when the boys were still sound asleep. After trundling their limp, slumbering bodies into the backseat, we headed for the Hills.

It was blissfully quiet in the car for the first few hours of our drive. The boys eventually awoke and declared that they were hungry. After purchasing a round of French toast sticks for everyone, we were soon back on the road.

We made such good time that we arrived in Hot Springs much earlier than expected. The boys and I were thus able to spend the afternoon taking exhilarating, watery plunges at Evans Plunge.

The whole family was exhausted when evening arrived. After bolting down another fast-food meal, we were ready for bed.

But there was a problem. A convention was being held in town, and all the local hotels were full. We finally found a vacancy in a hostelry that was so shabby that even its roaches refused to stay there.

The hotel’s walls were thin and the night was chilly. The room’s sole source of heat was a propane thingamajig that produced approximately as much warmth as a birthday candle.

Not that it mattered to the boys; they fell asleep the instant their heads hit the pillows. My wife looked at them tenderly and murmured, “This is the best family vacation ever!”

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy,” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.