We all have our family vacation horror stories. They help cement us as a culture. And, this one is mine.
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It was the early nineteen seventies, and my parents decided that we would pack everyone into our Pontiac Bonneville convertible and head up the East coast. Now, the Bonneville was by no means a jalopy. It was pretty decked-out by 1972 standards. Being a convertible, it didn’t have air conditioning. But, it did have electric windows and a built-in 8-track player. So, we were riding high as we packed into the car fully equipped with our 8-track tape selection consisting of: Gordon Lightfoot Sundown, The Best Movie Theme Songs (think the theme songs from Patton, Doctor Zhivago — Lara’s Theme, and Love Story’s Where Do I Begin?) the Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid soundtrack included Rain Drops Keep Fallin’ On My Head, and, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.
About an hour into the ride the inevitable bickering ensued in the back seat. When instructed to stop our arguing, more imaginative means of psychological warfare were employed.
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Now seat selection in the back of the Bonneville was a crucial decision that required no less than one hour of pre-trip bickering and bantering. It will also become an integral part of our tale. You see; the Bonneville had a “hump” in between the two footwells for the bench-style back seat. With three of us kids riding in the back, that meant that the guy in the center would be required to either ride with his or her feet on the hump and knees in their chest, or with their feet sharing one of the footwells on either side of the hump. BTW: sharing is not something that any of us did well.
After what was tantamount to warfare followed by a treaty— it was determined that: because my brother Peter (age 5) had the shortest legs, he would draw the center position. My sister, Lori (age 9) would ride behind my Mom (Lita), on the passenger side. And, I (age 11) would ride behind my Dad (Terry), the driver. This positioning enabled Mom to have an easy view of me, and an unencumbered swing path in order to wallop me when (not if) I got rowdy. But, I was content with the decision and quickly made the proclamation that at no time were Pete’s feet to reside on my side of the hump during our travels. My Dad shook his head and (for the first of one hundred times during the trip) asked my Mom “What’s wrong with these kids?”
And so, we were off. Our AAA Triptik had us routed from Erie, PA, east to the coast. We would stop for an educational history tour of Boston, and then we would drive up the coast to Acadia National Park in Maine.
About an hour into the ride the inevitable bickering ensued in the back seat. When instructed to stop our arguing, more imaginative means of psychological warfare were employed. My sister burst into tears right around Hamburg, NY decreeing that: “Scott won’t stop looking at me!”
At that point Mom uttered the infamous words that ring in my ear to this very day: “That’s it! You look out your window! You look out your window! And, you look straight ahead!”
We traveled on in silence “enjoying” our family-together-time for the next few hours.
We were about an hour shy of Albany when it began to rain. No … actually it began to dump buckets on the highway. This wasn’t unusual since it had rained on every family vacation that I could recall. It was the “Barthelmes Family Vacation Curse,” and we had all come to expect it. But, this amount of water from the sky was precedent setting—even for our family. BTW: this rain storm would continue for the duration of our trip to-and-from Maine.
Not long after the buckets began to fall, Lori noted that her feet were getting wet. Mom and Dad excused this as dampness that had puddled following our recent rest area stop. Lori continued to complain, for which I quite naturally mocked her, and we are once again instructed that the rule of silence was in effect.
Mom deducted that the towels (provided for our stay by the Holiday Inn) would affordably and conveniently absorb just enough water to get us from one day’s accommodations to the next.
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The “dampness” soon picked up momentum, and within a short time, both foot wells on either side of the hump had filled with water. Pete couldn’t have been happier with his dry feet perched on the hump. And that’s when the giggles set-in. Now, my brother Pete had been an avid church-giggler for his entire short life. The smallest stupidest gestures on my part were often known to launch Pete into eye tearing, shoulder shaking, red-faced bouts with giggles that were highly contagious, and drove my parents mad.
It didn’t take long for Dad (who was straining to see the road through the rain) to ask “What’s so god damned funny?” I interpreted his inquiry as permission to speak.
“The wells” laugh, laugh “are full” laugh, laugh “of water,” I answered.
“What do you mean?” Dad asked in an unbelieving and irritated tone.
Mom shifted in her seat to accurately assess the situation. “Oh geez Terry!” Mom exclaimed. “Why didn’t you kids say something sooner?”
“I did!” Lori complained.
“We weren’t allowed to talk” I laughed.
“Don’t be an asshole.” Dad retorted.
Peter was unable to contribute to the conversation as he was now gasping for air in between belly laughs.
We pulled off at the next exit and Mom launched into full-on McGyver mode. We stopped at a small grocery store where Mom purchased a box of disposable diapers. We sopped-up the water in the foot wells, threw out the soaked diapers, then applied dry diapers on top of the floor mats to soak up any incoming rain water. But, Mom knew that the diapers wouldn’t outlast the storm. She had ingeniously thwarted the problem temporarily, but she knew she would need a more affordable solution.
Our AAA Triptik included reservations at Holiday Inns throughout our trip. For us kids, it meant that we would have access to the Holidome indoor swimming pools at the end of our daily drive-time regardless of the weather outside. For Mom, our customer loyalty to the Holiday Inn franchise represented something else … a solution to the leaking Bonneville.
I should point out at this point in my story that my Mom and Dad are honest, church-going, God-fearing people. This is important when considering Mom’s rationalization for her now infamous strategy.
We swapped out our soaked towels all the way back. And, we returned the last of them to the first Holiday Inn from which we had absconded our initial soaker-uppers.
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Mom deducted that the towels (provided for our stay by the Holiday Inn) would affordably and conveniently absorb just enough water to get us from one day’s accommodations to the next. She would employ the towels at set increments throughout the driving day, gather the wet towels into a garbage bag, and deposit the drenched, logo emblazoned absorbents in the laundry at the next Holiday Inn. Mom deducted that it wasn’t stealing so much as transferring assets from one Holiday Inn location to the next.
In Boston, our dome-shaped see-through umbrellas bit it. They were no match for the torrential onslaught of the storm. So, somewhere between Bunker Hill and Old Ironsides, we stomped into a women’s clothing boutique dripping all over the place and asked the nice lady for some assistance. We were all fitted with what appeared to be the equivalent of a Cape Cod Sea Captain’s hooded rain coat. The men selected yellow coats. The Women selected light green. We walked out looking like some sort of a demented fishing crew and wore those rain coats as our uniform for the remainder of our trip.
Leaving Boston, we drove on toward Maine. The weather reports had confirmed that this little storm was—in fact—a hurricane. It was a nor’-easter that had socked-in the entire east coast. And, we were driving through the very heart of the beast. We were equipped with our fishermen’s coats, our soaked Holiday Inn towels, and the driving beat of Patton’s theme song blaring on the 8 track player.
In Maine, we saw what remained of Dow Air Force Base where my Dad had been stationed when my parents first got married. We ate pizza from their favorite shop which—to my taste—must have had elicited sentimental memories for them because it wasn’t that great. And, we climbed about 30 feet up Cadillac Mountain before the rain set back in, and we decided to get back to our hotel before the roads closed.
It was a long ride back from Maine. We did stop at the National Baseball Hall of Fame—which I loved! We swapped out our soaked towels all the way back. And, we returned the last of them to the first Holiday Inn from which we had absconded our initial soaker-uppers. We relied on what remained of the disposable diapers to get us back to Erie.
In the end—all-’n-all—it was a pretty great trip. Through all of the squabbling, the rain, the leaking car, and the embarrassing apparel—we had a good time. We had laughed through diversity. We learned about our country’s history. We saw a place that was special to my Mom and Dad, and we were better able to relate to the stories of their first years of marriage. And, we gained stories that we could continue to share and laugh about for all of the years to come.
Yeah … it was pretty great.
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Photo:Flickr/Dave_7