Growing up my parents were really good at vacations. I suppose I look at childhood with a set of rose colored glasses, and I suspect we did without other things in order to make many of our trips happen, since money doesn’t grow on trees and what not. That and the military means we have friends in all corners of the globe, and the military gave us access to a lot of discounts…my parents earned an A+ on vacations. Some were big: we went to Australia when I was about 6 years old, week long ski vacations in Austria (to be fair, we lived in Germany at the time and drove to our destination), three wonderful (yet horrible) drives across the country that always coincided with a military move. “Why take free plane tickets to your new home when you can simply drive?!” says only my Dad.
Some of the trips have more hazy recollections. On one cross country drive we ended up visiting friends in Memphis (FedEx pilot central) over the Fourth of July. They had friends with a beautiful home on Mud Island which is how we ended up watching the most amazing Fourth of July fireworks on the banks of the Mississippi River. When the first Gulf War ended my Dad decided we needed to see the parade being held for the troops coming home. We loaded up the station wagon and drove to DC (we lived in Virginia at the time) and spent a fantastic weekend exploring museums and watching the parade. I won’t ever forget the feeling of walking into the Smithsonian and looking up at the huge whale suspended overhead, nor the excitement and pride watching our tanks and brave soldiers march down the streets of the capital. Dad took turns putting my brother and I on his shoulders and we waved American flags and we all got quiet when General Schwarzkopf marched by. (My favorite fun fact: did you know his Dad was the main investigator of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping?)
We drove to Flagstaff a few times, where we rented an A-frame cabin and “hiked” and made s’mores and generally enjoyed the outdoors. There were at least two trips to the Grand Canyon, during one of which we had a picnic on the side of the rim, something we all look back on with a bit of dismay. What exactly were we thinking with that dumb move? We camped once in Utah, again renting cabins with a huge group of families, and my brother had to sleep in a bunk so incredibly close to the ceiling he required help from adults to slide in and out. I ran into a moose on that trip, with my dog, and damn if you want to see a standard poodle run like the wind, I suggest bumping into a moose on a trailhead.
When we lived in Europe we took a lot of weekend trips. Mom or Dad would hear about some ruins or a battlefield or a similiarly historical site and we’d load up (wait for it…the station wagon) and drive to see it. We spent a lot of time driving, Dad with his beat up Thermos of black coffee, my brother and I one primary colored Sony Walkman, a pair of earbud splitters and a set of Wee-Sing-Along tapes. We drove to Disney and New Orleans, once we went to Rhode Island where we then took a day trip to Boston, and we once drove straight though New Mexico, stopping at some hole in the wall restaurant for food that my Dad knew about, promising us the best sopapillas of our lives. He was right, I’ve never had one as good before. Drives were sometimes timed so we’d drive past Harris Ranch in California and could stop for lunch, Mom and Dad got steak and my brother and I gorged on huge cheeseburgers.
Once we drove with my Grandparents to the site of the Battle of the Crater. I don’t remember Point A or B, but we decided a 3 hour detour to Petersburg National Battlefield Park was necessary. We were going to see this crater. We pulled up, the only car there, and all just stood. Finally my Grandmother announced “Well…this isn’t much is it?” This so called crater (I was imagining a hole that one could simply disappear into) was…a dip in the ground. I would not classify it as unusual topography. It was….a dip. We loaded back in (you don’t even need me to tell you it was a station wagon do you?) and drove on, all a little disappointed in the slight indentation in the ground.
Some of the best vacations were family reunions. My Dad’s side of the family got together every few years on St. Simons Island. We rented a house and spent way too much time at the beach, collecting shells, building sandcastles, playing volleyball. My Mom concocted elaborate treasure hunts (complete with buried treasure, I still feel bad for my Dad and Uncles for having to dig that hole to put the box filled with dollar store trinkets inside) and almost every night we’d load into mulitple cars (only one station wagon) to all go to Dairy Queen where some poor soul was in charge of ordering all 20+ blizzards. I got cookie dough every time. One night was always a huge seafood feast and once I got to tag along for the shrimp purchasing, huge bags of fresh Gulf shrimp that we’d divide up to boil or barbeque. There was always an evening we went out for Brunswick stew, which I hated, and to this day I can’t see it on a menu without shuddering. The house we rented most often was comfortable and large, with a tiny bedroom in the back that all the girl cousins piled into and we’d stay up late telling stories and reading books. Those trips were fantastic.
All of this rambling is brought to you by my ever deepening sense that I want Gracie and our little family to have some of the same memories. I don’t know if we’ll drive half as much as we did when I was a kid, but I am so excited for our family trip this summer that I might burst. Nothing particularly special has to happen while we are there, but the idea of spending time on a beach, eating ice cream with sticky hands and spending time together has never sounded so wonderful. I hope that when Gracie grows up she looks back on trips and places with the same fondness that I do now…although I doubt I ever drag her out to the site of the Battle of the Crater. Man, just a dent in the ground.
Also: all that travel and I’ve never been to Hawaii. What gives, man?
