Matthew Weaver in his natural habitat

Zippin' along to the tune of tradition

Whenever I drive through Ritzville, my car inevitably winds its way to Zip's.

This is not a blatant advertisement for those luscious, luscious cheeseburgers.

I swear it's not.

It's a perfectly natural move for both me and my car to make.

You see, I inherited my wheels from my grandparents, Grandpa Harry and Grandma Margaret. My parents used it for several years once my grandparents became too old to drive, until I was old enough to take on the task.

Sometimes, when I'm particularly nervous about a trip, or particularly bored while en route, I like to imagine Grandma and Grandpa in the back or passenger seat, cheering me on, along with some of the other relatives who have since gone on ahead.

I have a special horn on my vehicle as well. It's one Grandpa had while he was driving it, and one which I specifically requested be reinstalled after I'd been driving along for about a year. And every time I let it blare, I like to think, it's a little bit like I'm honoring my roots. Goofy roots, but roots nonetheless.

Another long-standing tradition Grandma and Grandpa had was dining at Zip's in Spokane on a daily basis.

Growing up, it was a certainty around lunchtime, if we were up to spending time with the extended family, we could drive by and see Grandpa, Grandma and any other random assortment of cousins, uncles, aunts and relatives.

We'd order our burgers, our tubs of fries and, if we were lucky, Grandma would spring for milkshakes. Usually butterscotch, in my particular circumstance.

The tradition doesn't stop there. Maybe it wasn't a rare instance for Dad to bring home Zip's after work, but it always seemed like a special one. Like something magical was happening for dinner that night.

Even when I went to college, Zip's was one of the places to stop in on trips back, or those times when I and close friends happened to be in the neighboring college town, which had the restaurant.

Growing up with the food, imagine my reaction of flabbergastedness when I learned in school some people had never heard of Zip's before in their life.

How sad, I thought, how tragic. Like never eating a Twinkie before. They don't know what they're missing.

My best friend Tyson does, though. He's in Orlando, Fla., where they don't have a Zip's. Whenever I stop by, I try to call him on his cell phone. He's better off answering, because if he doesn't, I'll just leave him a message filled with the sounds of a french fry being consumed. He usually replies with an e-mail filled with a litany of profanities and curses too hilarious to repeat.

This is what friends do for one another.

When my family decides it's been too long between visits and we need to see each other, but no one's willing to go the full distance between Moses Lake and Spokane, we make arrangements to meet each other halfway. It's no coincidence halfway happens to be Zip's; I suspect it's something divine working its magic.

So, you see, the trek to the restaurant is only natural for me and my car.

We both already know the way.