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FAMILY VACATION
Few events leave such an indelible impression on our young memories as that of the family vacation. From the time we were all kids we learned to look forward and anticipate the much heralded family vacation. Of course as we get older and become parents we look forward to sharing the same golden moments with our own children. I still treasure my fond recollections of our early family trips.
It really didn’t matter where the actual destination was, the excitement built with each passing day. Our parents saved and planed for the trip all year, and then marked off the days until the big event. The trip became bigger than life. The fun we would have, the time together. I think the excitement of the upcoming trip helped Dad get thru his grueling daily work schedule. Vacation is a time for us to all get away from our daily routines and just have a good time.
As I look back some of our trips went off without a hitch and others were more reminiscent of the Chevy Chase Vacations with the Griswalds.(on their way to Wally World) It reminds me that despite our best plans, most thing seem to take on a life of their own. Over the years we had taken many fun family vacations together and they all have a special place in my memories. Perhaps this account of one of our trips will trigger some of your early memories.
My Mom and Dad could be seen huddled over the kitchen table on many nights planning, plotting, and rehearsed the trip down to the smallest detail. In the days and weeks leading up to the big day, we were frequently reminded about the trip, and our bad behavior was often cited as a reason we would not be going. (usually coupled with a threat to leave us at our least favorite aunt’s house. It seems like I never really knew if I was actually going until the very last minute).
As the big day approached, Dad would be totally prepared. He would have the car washed, gas tank filled, the tires checked, and seating arrangement selected. Dad was without question the captain and Mom, his trusty first officer, as they ran thru the requested drills in the driveway. He would review and assure himself that everything on his carefully planned check list was ship shape and ready to go. You would have thought he was planning a military invasion.
On the day of the trip we were awaken at the specified time (O’ dark thirty) and given exactly half an hour to eat and get ready. It was imperative that we set sail at the exactly the appointed time.(you would think we would miss the high tide or something). We were then all scurried out to the car, still half asleep, and had to assume our pre-assigned seating arrangements. Although technically we were all assigned our own space, the plan unraveled immediately as we all got in the car with our own “must have” belongings including blankets, pillows, and toys.
We filed into the car that was loaded to the max with suitcases, blankets, and provisions for the long trip to Florida. Everything was in its assigned place and according to the pre-determined load chart. I can remember Dad checking his watch and sighing with relief as the car wheels left the driveway at exactly the planned departure time (I only wish today’s airlines could match his precision)
Dad, had carefully planned the road trip and had his navigator (Mom) standing by with compass and map to insure that we did not deviate from the plan. He had vigilantly planned the number of miles we were to transverse each day and had pre-arranged where we would stop for the night. Rest stops, stretching, and bathroom breaks were carefully planned to coincide only with fuel stops, so as to conserve time and insure that we arrived on schedule.
I think the early departure time was derived with the plan that the three of us would fall back to sleep and not awaken until rest stop number one well behind us. As fate would have it, the best made plans were soon to be led askew. I don’t think we had even crossed the county line before the inevitable monkey wrench was thrown into the mix. I was soon awakened by the sound of my younger brother making the rather fearful statement that he needed to go to the bathroom.
At first I believe that my father had chosen to ignore the timid request, but perhaps he did not hear it. Unfortunately when a 7 year old has to go, there is no such thing as waiting. After the 3rd , and much more urgent request, it was evident that his needs had to be addressed. Dad, was evidently prepared and was not about to be so easily diverted from his careful plan. With a grin, he reached under the seat and quickly produced a soda bottle that he handed back over the seat to my brother. My brother just looked at the bottle and then up at my mom with a pained look on his face.
Well, I’m not sure how it works in the Navy, but in our household, the Captain was subject to being overridden by the first officer in matters that pertained to the children (and as I recall, a whole host of other family issues) and dad was quickly ordered to pull over at the first gas station. He immediately realized that Mom had pulled rank on him and reluctantly pulled over at the first gas station. At this point, there is some unknown universal force that somehow requires all of the cars occupants to now need to use the bathroom, when only moments ago they were fine.
We were quickly back on the road again and I watched as the speedometer climbed well past the speed limit, with dad nervously scanning in all directions for potential speed traps. I think he was determined make up for the unexpected stop. Besides in all of his travels he had never received a ticket on the parkway.(Seems like everyone in Jersey was always in a hurry and rarely abided by the speed limit. especially “Rocket Ship Rocco” as we lovingly referred to him as)
The next few hours were relatively uneventful until the three of us were fully awake and full of energy. I guess there is another type of universal law that prohibits kids from sitting quietly for long periods of time. In any case we quickly became bored with the confinement and seating arrangements and as kids are want to do, we soon began picking on each other.
After a few admonishments from dad, our level of banter had increased to quite annoying levels, even by my standards. We were soon threatened with the age old parental threat of “don’t make me pull this car over” If we had been at the house, everyone would have simply retired to our own rooms and the situation could have been easily diffused. (or Mom would have lovingly administered the “wooden Spoon”) There was something about being in the confines of the now overloaded car seemed to magnify every sound, slap, pinch, giggle, and whimper. However, I think it was the last round of “ I got you last” that probably put dad over the top.
Dad was never much of a hitter but it was clear he was reaching his boiling point when we noticed a few quick one handed slaps being carelessly dealt out over the back seat with no real intended target. Although he never actually reached us, it was clear that he was willing to throw a shoulder joint out trying. Mom, for her part, was not so much trying to stop him, (I think I recall her saying..”not in the face..not in the face” )as she turned and quickly silenced us by giving us the evil eye stare.(the kind where she her whole head would shake) She had again over written Dad’s plans and made him promise to stop every few hours so that we could run around and get rid of some excess energy.
For the next few hours Mom tried every motherly device in her book of tricks to keep us amused and quiet. We were issued coloring books, sang songs (yes..even the perennial and irritating 100 bottles of beer on the wall), counted passing Volkswagens, re- arranged seating assignments a few times, and ended up with last ditch effort and psychological best seller…”lets see who can be quite the longest.”
I can remember being awakened again as we crossed the Georgia state line, by the sound of a siren and some flashing lights. I guess dad had decided to make up for some lost time by running a few miles per hour over the speed limit. It didn’t take him long to discover that the Georgia highway patrol was not quite as tolerant about speeders as the troopers on the old Garden State Parkway were. Dad was visibly upset but kept his Italian temper under control and was not about to talk back to the very serious trooper as he wrote out a ticket. Especially with the recent vision of the chain gang workers we had just passed along the roadway. (a quaint old Georgia tradition)
Shortly after we got back underway, I was again alerted, this time by the sound of the cars transmission crying out like a scolded cat. The big green Plymouth Furry had picked this moment to “go on the Frits” (I’m still not really sure what that means). In any case, the car would operate normally if we stayed below 40 miles an hour (which was the equivalent to sacrilege to a driver like my dad, who really belonged on a race track or the autobahn ).
He tested the limits of the “tranny” time after time, hoping that maybe the problem would just “go away by itself” (I had very little mechanical knowledge at the time, but I somehow doubted it would) but of course it would not. The frustration level increased ten fold as dad was forced to adjust his travel speed to the new 40 mile an hour limit (he had on occasion been known to exceed that speed while still in our driveway). The thought of us being broken down on the side of the road in an unfamiliar state ran thru all of our minds.
I’m really not sure what bothered Dad more, the fact that we had been irreversibly thrown off his well planed schedule, or the fact that he faced a large repair bill at some unknown gas station. To be honest, the combination of the two had caused him to become a little irritable (and I say that quite charitably). In any case, he made the decision to push ahead, even at the cost of frying the car transmission. He was taking us to Florida and would not be denied.
In any case we all celebrated as we eventually crossed the Florida border to the sounds of the back seat chorus announcing “we’re here..we’re here”. Well it turns out we were not there, because my grandparents house was down towards Miami. The next 5 grueling hours made me wish we had stayed home, as everyone’s patience was worn razor thin at this point.
We finally arrived, spent and exhausted with the interior of the car looking like a hurricane had run thru it. The back seat was a maze of blankets, fast food wrappers, lost shoes, and stinky socks. Somehow I knew that this trip was not quite as advertised (and made a note to complain to my travel agent) and after a few fun days in Florida (and at the transmission shop), we would be treated to a repeat performance on the trip going back home. I guess that’s why to this day I hate road trips. I’d much rather suffer for a few hours next to a perfect stranger, in a crowed airplane seat, eating salted peanut. But maybe things haven’t changed so much, because the last time I traveled, I still ended up getting my seat kicked every few minutes while the 3 kids behind me played “got you last” …Kids will be Kids…
Please feel free to contact me at: pooritalianboy@gmail.com
P.I.B.
Few events leave such an indelible impression on our young memories as that of the family vacation. From the time we were all kids we learned to look forward and anticipate the much heralded family vacation. Of course as we get older and become parents we look forward to sharing the same golden moments with our own children. I still treasure my fond recollections of our early family trips.
It really didn’t matter where the actual destination was, the excitement built with each passing day. Our parents saved and planed for the trip all year, and then marked off the days until the big event. The trip became bigger than life. The fun we would have, the time together. I think the excitement of the upcoming trip helped Dad get thru his grueling daily work schedule. Vacation is a time for us to all get away from our daily routines and just have a good time.
As I look back some of our trips went off without a hitch and others were more reminiscent of the Chevy Chase Vacations with the Griswalds.(on their way to Wally World) It reminds me that despite our best plans, most thing seem to take on a life of their own. Over the years we had taken many fun family vacations together and they all have a special place in my memories. Perhaps this account of one of our trips will trigger some of your early memories.
My Mom and Dad could be seen huddled over the kitchen table on many nights planning, plotting, and rehearsed the trip down to the smallest detail. In the days and weeks leading up to the big day, we were frequently reminded about the trip, and our bad behavior was often cited as a reason we would not be going. (usually coupled with a threat to leave us at our least favorite aunt’s house. It seems like I never really knew if I was actually going until the very last minute).
As the big day approached, Dad would be totally prepared. He would have the car washed, gas tank filled, the tires checked, and seating arrangement selected. Dad was without question the captain and Mom, his trusty first officer, as they ran thru the requested drills in the driveway. He would review and assure himself that everything on his carefully planned check list was ship shape and ready to go. You would have thought he was planning a military invasion.
On the day of the trip we were awaken at the specified time (O’ dark thirty) and given exactly half an hour to eat and get ready. It was imperative that we set sail at the exactly the appointed time.(you would think we would miss the high tide or something). We were then all scurried out to the car, still half asleep, and had to assume our pre-assigned seating arrangements. Although technically we were all assigned our own space, the plan unraveled immediately as we all got in the car with our own “must have” belongings including blankets, pillows, and toys.
We filed into the car that was loaded to the max with suitcases, blankets, and provisions for the long trip to Florida. Everything was in its assigned place and according to the pre-determined load chart. I can remember Dad checking his watch and sighing with relief as the car wheels left the driveway at exactly the planned departure time (I only wish today’s airlines could match his precision)
Dad, had carefully planned the road trip and had his navigator (Mom) standing by with compass and map to insure that we did not deviate from the plan. He had vigilantly planned the number of miles we were to transverse each day and had pre-arranged where we would stop for the night. Rest stops, stretching, and bathroom breaks were carefully planned to coincide only with fuel stops, so as to conserve time and insure that we arrived on schedule.
I think the early departure time was derived with the plan that the three of us would fall back to sleep and not awaken until rest stop number one well behind us. As fate would have it, the best made plans were soon to be led askew. I don’t think we had even crossed the county line before the inevitable monkey wrench was thrown into the mix. I was soon awakened by the sound of my younger brother making the rather fearful statement that he needed to go to the bathroom.
At first I believe that my father had chosen to ignore the timid request, but perhaps he did not hear it. Unfortunately when a 7 year old has to go, there is no such thing as waiting. After the 3rd , and much more urgent request, it was evident that his needs had to be addressed. Dad, was evidently prepared and was not about to be so easily diverted from his careful plan. With a grin, he reached under the seat and quickly produced a soda bottle that he handed back over the seat to my brother. My brother just looked at the bottle and then up at my mom with a pained look on his face.
Well, I’m not sure how it works in the Navy, but in our household, the Captain was subject to being overridden by the first officer in matters that pertained to the children (and as I recall, a whole host of other family issues) and dad was quickly ordered to pull over at the first gas station. He immediately realized that Mom had pulled rank on him and reluctantly pulled over at the first gas station. At this point, there is some unknown universal force that somehow requires all of the cars occupants to now need to use the bathroom, when only moments ago they were fine.
We were quickly back on the road again and I watched as the speedometer climbed well past the speed limit, with dad nervously scanning in all directions for potential speed traps. I think he was determined make up for the unexpected stop. Besides in all of his travels he had never received a ticket on the parkway.(Seems like everyone in Jersey was always in a hurry and rarely abided by the speed limit. especially “Rocket Ship Rocco” as we lovingly referred to him as)
The next few hours were relatively uneventful until the three of us were fully awake and full of energy. I guess there is another type of universal law that prohibits kids from sitting quietly for long periods of time. In any case we quickly became bored with the confinement and seating arrangements and as kids are want to do, we soon began picking on each other.
After a few admonishments from dad, our level of banter had increased to quite annoying levels, even by my standards. We were soon threatened with the age old parental threat of “don’t make me pull this car over” If we had been at the house, everyone would have simply retired to our own rooms and the situation could have been easily diffused. (or Mom would have lovingly administered the “wooden Spoon”) There was something about being in the confines of the now overloaded car seemed to magnify every sound, slap, pinch, giggle, and whimper. However, I think it was the last round of “ I got you last” that probably put dad over the top.
Dad was never much of a hitter but it was clear he was reaching his boiling point when we noticed a few quick one handed slaps being carelessly dealt out over the back seat with no real intended target. Although he never actually reached us, it was clear that he was willing to throw a shoulder joint out trying. Mom, for her part, was not so much trying to stop him, (I think I recall her saying..”not in the face..not in the face” )as she turned and quickly silenced us by giving us the evil eye stare.(the kind where she her whole head would shake) She had again over written Dad’s plans and made him promise to stop every few hours so that we could run around and get rid of some excess energy.
For the next few hours Mom tried every motherly device in her book of tricks to keep us amused and quiet. We were issued coloring books, sang songs (yes..even the perennial and irritating 100 bottles of beer on the wall), counted passing Volkswagens, re- arranged seating assignments a few times, and ended up with last ditch effort and psychological best seller…”lets see who can be quite the longest.”
I can remember being awakened again as we crossed the Georgia state line, by the sound of a siren and some flashing lights. I guess dad had decided to make up for some lost time by running a few miles per hour over the speed limit. It didn’t take him long to discover that the Georgia highway patrol was not quite as tolerant about speeders as the troopers on the old Garden State Parkway were. Dad was visibly upset but kept his Italian temper under control and was not about to talk back to the very serious trooper as he wrote out a ticket. Especially with the recent vision of the chain gang workers we had just passed along the roadway. (a quaint old Georgia tradition)
Shortly after we got back underway, I was again alerted, this time by the sound of the cars transmission crying out like a scolded cat. The big green Plymouth Furry had picked this moment to “go on the Frits” (I’m still not really sure what that means). In any case, the car would operate normally if we stayed below 40 miles an hour (which was the equivalent to sacrilege to a driver like my dad, who really belonged on a race track or the autobahn ).
He tested the limits of the “tranny” time after time, hoping that maybe the problem would just “go away by itself” (I had very little mechanical knowledge at the time, but I somehow doubted it would) but of course it would not. The frustration level increased ten fold as dad was forced to adjust his travel speed to the new 40 mile an hour limit (he had on occasion been known to exceed that speed while still in our driveway). The thought of us being broken down on the side of the road in an unfamiliar state ran thru all of our minds.
I’m really not sure what bothered Dad more, the fact that we had been irreversibly thrown off his well planed schedule, or the fact that he faced a large repair bill at some unknown gas station. To be honest, the combination of the two had caused him to become a little irritable (and I say that quite charitably). In any case, he made the decision to push ahead, even at the cost of frying the car transmission. He was taking us to Florida and would not be denied.
In any case we all celebrated as we eventually crossed the Florida border to the sounds of the back seat chorus announcing “we’re here..we’re here”. Well it turns out we were not there, because my grandparents house was down towards Miami. The next 5 grueling hours made me wish we had stayed home, as everyone’s patience was worn razor thin at this point.
We finally arrived, spent and exhausted with the interior of the car looking like a hurricane had run thru it. The back seat was a maze of blankets, fast food wrappers, lost shoes, and stinky socks. Somehow I knew that this trip was not quite as advertised (and made a note to complain to my travel agent) and after a few fun days in Florida (and at the transmission shop), we would be treated to a repeat performance on the trip going back home. I guess that’s why to this day I hate road trips. I’d much rather suffer for a few hours next to a perfect stranger, in a crowed airplane seat, eating salted peanut. But maybe things haven’t changed so much, because the last time I traveled, I still ended up getting my seat kicked every few minutes while the 3 kids behind me played “got you last” …Kids will be Kids…
Please feel free to contact me at: pooritalianboy@gmail.com
P.I.B.
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