Fam-i-ly Va-ca-a-a-a-tion

Family vacation. Those two words are as American as apple pie and the fourth of July.  I have many memories of my dad packing up the car in preparation for a trip.  I remember wondering with not a little trepidation about where we kids would sit after he was done.  It was when our family of five grew to six that things really got interesting.  My youngest sisters would each be at a window in the “station dragon,” snugged tight in a car seat or booster.  I would be wedged with tight-fitting precision between them with the task of doling out snacks or calming them down when they got fussy.  Elissa, poor, poor Elissa, would be stashed in the “way back,” the third row seat of the vehicle that was really the trunk and that faced backwards.  With her were the worldly possessions of six people—Dad, Mom, and four girls. The strategy was usually this: all items were lined to the left and right, so Dad could still see out the back window. Suitcases and bags were on the bottom, pillows piled on top. Elissa was crammed in the center of the detritus. I actually think she enjoyed riding in the moving fort. If I didn’t get carsick, I might have liked it, too. At least her suitcase companions didn’t whine.  One way to keep the younger girls quiet was to play their favorite cassette tape; the theme song still plays in my head every time Mark and I take a trip with our kids.  “Vacation, oh yeah, fam-i-ly vaca-a-tion, oh yeah, a fam-i-ly vaca-a-a-a-tion is he-e-e-e-re.”

Oh, oh, oh.

I tend to sing the chorus when things get especially hairy in the minivan—such as when three hungry, tired, and stir crazy children are forced to sit in stop and go traffic for three hours at the border of Canada and the U.S. (but that’s a story for another post).     

By the time I was in high school and could drive, we took vacations in two cars.

We always went to the ocean.  We visited beaches from York, Maine all the way to Sarasota, Florida and a half dozen in between.  There was the trip to the Jersey Shore, when we stayed at a dreadful motel called La Vita.  It had fake palm trees around the pool, green indoor-outdoor carpeting on the balcony, and a mattress that sunk to the floor when you climbed onto the sleep sofa. My sister Elissa and I shared the one bedroom with a queen bed; the room was so small you had to get into bed in order to shut the door to the room. The first morning we woke up to the sound of garbage trucks and their drivers’ dirty mouths.  But no matter how gross our accommodations or how grouchy we all felt at each other while getting there, an ocean beach on any part of the east coast was an endless stretch of freedom.  The grownups set up camp with chairs and coolers stocked full, while the kids played in the waves or sand or tide pools, and ate snacks and drank juice boxes all day. In the days before much sunscreen, our pale bodies cooked in the sun until our skin blistered and peeled; at the end of the day we’d squeeze neon green or electric blue aloe gel we kept cold in a fridge all over our hot skin, strip down to our underwear, and stand in front of a fan. We took long walks on the beach at sunset and watched the Earth’s natural rotation turn the sky deep shades of purple and coral, the rhythmic crash of waves the accompanying soundtrack to the show. 

To this day, I feel like I can breathe better when I’m near the ocean (or Lake Michigan!).  It’s not just the salt air and the cool palette of greens and blues and tans (my favorite colors, incidentally).  It’s the space.  The vast expanse of sand meeting an even vaster expanse of water. And on the other side of that water are places I may never get the chance to see, but there they all are nonetheless, just an ocean away.  And under the water…well, there are worlds under there, too.  Every once in a while we’ll catch a glimpse—the back of a whale cresting, the dorsal fin of a dolphin breaking a wave, seals playing just beyond the surf. We squint, and stare, and point, just for a glimpse, a hint that there is so much more than the small, compartmentalized universes we create for ourselves in our day-to-day lives.  It’s magical, really.  The wildness of it all never ceases to enchant me. It reminds me that the control we think we have is really just an illusion.  The earth, Creation is wild and powerful and threatening and beautiful all at once.  Life is unpredictable and unleashed; and though we strive to make it otherwise, we will never fully succeed. It makes me grateful that someone else in control of it all.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

So no matter how many arguments, punches thrown, food thrown, hair pulled, Rosenschontz-saturated, whine-filled car trips we had to take to get there, family vacations always filled us with excited anticipation.  If getting there tested the strength of our relationships, arriving reminded us why we cared enough to risk them in the first place.  Space to play, beauty to absorb, and a whole lot of laughter to share together.

What are your memories of family vacations?

(And when you get a minute, check out my bookshelf.  I've added three great summer reads for the littlest set. Great beach reading!)