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Living
Together . Summer
Vacations There's a commercial that's been making the network rounds lately. It shows a car-full of family tooling down the road. In the front, Mom and Dad are happily singing some tune that, as we notice, is driving one of the kids in the back half mad. He lethargically bangs his head against the window, with a look that says, "Abduct me, now! Please!!" Of course, the other kid in the back is smiling happily, looking out the window. Why? Because he has his headphones on and can't hear the grueling sounds emanating from the front seat. He's in his own little musical world. The message: Your tune-out-the-parents machine?!? Don't leave for vacation without it!!! Such scenes notwithstanding, summer vacations are a staple for most families. With weeks or months of planning in advance, somewhat reminiscent of military operations or the organization of a vast convention, the day finally arrives that everyone has been anticipating since long before the first warm weather. Of course, the tone and timbre of that anticipation varies from one member of the family to the next. For Mom, the prospect of summer vacation is always a little like Pisgah. She can sense the Milk & Honey of The Promised Land just over the horizon, a blessed interlude of family togetherness, a respite from her role as chauffeur, chief cook and bottle washer to, at long last, come into her own once again as the spirit and glue of family bonding. Cheerleader, she begins to chant rhythmically about the delights that await them at their vacation destination. It scarcely matters whether it's the sun-burnt shore, the tick-infested mountain cabin, or the mud pool known as Aunt Lottie's farm. For her, there is no question but that this vacation will be the one that cements the family together, once and for all, brings them to new heights of mutual appreciation, tolerance, and joy in one another's company. Of course, being Mom, she is not a cheerleader only. She is also the competent coach. Like any wife and mother, she knows that even the talents of the best father and husband, even the most promising prospects of childhood perfection, can often be wasted without proper coaching, and some disquisitions on the spirit and meaning of team play. Thus, when the time is ripe, she will begin to instill in her tribe the knowledge and virtues necessary if this vacation is to turn out the way she knows it ought to, and not like last year's -- a testament to what can happen when irritation and misunderstanding prevail. She faults herself for that one, though. So this year's coaching will start earlier, with short wind sprints together to the supermarket for a special meal, and scrimmages to the movies for flicks the whole family can enjoy. And all the way, she's taking notes. This year, she tells herself. The playbook will be ready and everyone will know the plays. It's a good team, she adds, and, without so much as flinching, she convinced that it's true. Dad hasn't been thinking much about last year. Instead, he's been planning the best route to get the family quickly and safely to their destination. If I get off two stops early and take 439 North, we can probably save half an hour. But when he does think about last year, he imagines that, whatever problems arose can be readily solved by puttering in the garage. In the spirit of the hunter, he's been stalking the dense shelves of scraps, scouting the old coffee cans of nuts 'n' bolts. Then, with his prey clearly in his sights, he reaches into his Craftsman toolbox, remembering last year's problem with the broken tent stake or the stopped-up cabin showerhead. Not this time, he thinks, as he stows away a pipe wrench or fashions homemade stakes out of hardwood scraps. Not this time. When the day arrives, he's up before dawn. ... He takes his checklist from the kitchen table where he composed it the night before, after everyone else was sleeping and the house was quiet enough to think in. He goes outside, opens the back hatch of the vehicle, then quietly raises the garage door and begins to load. The supplies have all been neatly stashed in one corner, the one closest to where the Jeep or van is parked, so that there'll be no wasted steps, only the steady and methodical packing. He prides himself on being able to fit more in the back of his rig than most men could in a 12-foot U-Haul, and with the new waterproof roof luggage this year, he's convinced that, if need be, they can survive for months on the road without ever seeing home again. And finally, just to prove that he's not been oblivious to his wife's coaching, when he's done, he goes inside, puts the coffee on, and begins to make a hearty breakfast for everyone. What more? he thinks, but only rhetorically. The kids, on the other hand, have been thinking about this year's vacation on and off. The youngest one, with a blessedly short memory for anything other than what was fun, has told everyone at least a dozen times to remind him not to forget his water gear, especially the new mask and fins he got for his birthday. In fact, in an hour or so, he'll ask if he can wear them on the trip, and won't take 'No' very easily. The middle one, until recently so the other side of puberty, it was an androgynous coin-toss as to whether he or she was a son or a daughter, has only lately been seeming like something in there is beginning to awake. Last year he/she was perfectly content, like the youngest, to focus on fins and water-play. But now, things like a hairbrush or scented soaps and shampoos loom larger. ... And then there's the oldest, who, of course, like any self-respecting kid, doesn't particularly want to go, but who'll be satisfied enough if, once they get there, the rest of the family pretends like they're strangers. And so the morning of departure has arrived. ... Mom was bowled over by dad's magnanimous gesture of breakfast and a good cup of coffee. It redoubles her belief that this year's vacation will be the one to remember. Dad is feeling so competent in the extreme -- not only for the breakfast he's made and the emergency preparedness toolbox he's outfitted and stashed neatly away in the back corner of the rig, where it's instantly accessible -- he's certain that, with him at the helm, no harm can befall any of them. Even the kids, now that they've had some juice and pancakes and a chance to wake up, are actually looking forward to it, albeit for very differing reasons. And so, into the car they climb, Dad at the wheel, Mom in the navigator's seat, the kids in the back, dwarfed by the several tons of paraphernalia that will be accompanying them on this, what might as well be their maiden voyage. Dad puts it in reverse and gets ready to roll when, from the back, he hears "Stop!" Gently but firmly, he pressures the brake pedal, remembering that he meant to test it with the load on but forgot when he remembered at the last minute instead to put a pair of vice grips and some duct tape in his emergency toolbox. Nonetheless, he brings the rig to a safe stop several feet short of the road. Mom smiles broadly and turns. "What is it, dear?" she asks. It's the youngest. He forgot to go the bathroom. "No problem, sweetie," she says, and in they go. Meanwhile, Dad turns to the two remaining children and begins to ask what they're looking forward to most. But as he turns, he realizes that both of them are already ensconced in headphones, staring blankly out the window but nodding their heads to rhythms he can't quite fathom. So he turns back front and takes the map from the glovebox to check once more his Route des Voyageurs. Soon enough, though, Mom and the youngest are back and, again, Dad is overcome by a sense captaining their mutual destiny. "Seven-Thirty," Mom notes as they clear the driveway. "Not bad, right?!" And off they go. ... Not bad at all, Dad thinks to himself. Not bad at all. Before they reach the first turn, they hear, as if in echo, "Stop!" It's the youngest again. Dad, still the dutiful guardian, prepares to apply the brake once again. But then it's followed by "Stop, I said!" And a slight chill runs down his spine. Mom notices some of the color leave his face and quickly turns to the back. "What's the problem," she inquires, in so matter-of-fact a manner, you'd think this was her first family vacation ever. "Tell him to stop," the youngest says. ... From the looks on the faces of the other two, you'd think they weren't even in the back seat, but somewhere in a distant galaxy. But the inclination is to know that the middle one has just given the youngest a hard time in some way, by hook or by crook, or maybe just a disapproving look. "It's alright, sweetie," Mom says, almost autonomically, though with as much a hint of prayer in it as anything. She thinks to say We'll be there soon. But obviously it's much too soon for that. "Can mommy get you something to eat?" she asks instead. "How's about a cookie?" Thankfully, that does it, and she turns around again, face front. The color in Dad's face has returned, in fact, he's almost smiling as they head up the highway toward the interstate. Just let that showerhead try, Dad thinks to himself. Go ahead and try. And Mom? ... This year, she thinks. This year will be the one to remember. ... ... . ******* ******* If you would like to submit something for our Living Together section, don't hesitate to let us know. Simply e-mail us at livingtogether@downstreetmagazine.com. The e-mail should contain your name, address, and a phone number where we can reach you. You may also send a copy of your proposed article. 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