Once again, it’s the time of year when parents experience a
complete loss of their senses and decide it might be fun to take a family
vacation. This usually involves piling
the kids and other nonessentials into the car, and leaving all of the
essentials, like peace and quiet, behind.
My parents used to do this every summer. Sometime around mid-July, Dad would decide
that it was absolutely criminal for kids to grow up never having seen the Big Nickel
in Sudbury. Or the Big Tomato in
Leamington. Or Dead Rear, Alberta at
dusk. Then the maps would come out and
the red magic marker would trace the intended route, and Mom would start making
tuna sandwiches for the cooler.
It’s absolutely amazing what can happen to an otherwise
intelligent and amiable sales manager who’s confined to a station wagon with
two kids and a dog for thirty-six hours.
In fact, I’m convinced that General Schwartzkopf could not survive the
ordeal without becoming a sobbing slobbering wreck.
Like other families in the 1960s, we had what you might call
a routine for car travel. Dad drove and
yelled at the other drivers who were all lobotomy victims out on a weekend
pass. Mom also drove while Dad was
driving and generally dispensed useful bits of information and comments like “Eeeek”
and Wooo”. The dog would bark each time we passed another car, or he saw
another car, or he thought there might be another car within a six mile radius.
My brother and I played cretin games like “I spy with my
little eye” for the first half hour and then beat each other up for the next
thirty-five.
When we got to a ‘place of interest’ things generally calmed
down. This was Dad’s cue to get out of
the car to stretch and wander about with a blank look on his face. He would eventually stumble into another
aimlessly wandering Dad and they would begin an animated discussion on how to
get to the next ‘place of interest’. My
brother and I would whip through the ten dollar star attraction, and then hit
the tuck shop in search of sugar substances.
The dog loved it. It
was the highlight of his life, these opportunities to sniff dog smells and
contribute a few of his own. He was
probably convinced that these trips were entirely for his benefit – which isn’t
far off the mark, since he undoubtedly had the best time.
After the ‘Rest Stop’ – drolly named – we would pile back
into the car, where Mom would recommence Dad’s driving lesson, and my brother
and I would punch each other out in the back seat. This would continue in normal fashion until
the dog – having eaten unidentified ground goodies at the previous stop – threw
up in the car.
I refuse to perpetuate this ritual with my own family. Instead, I’m going to import lots of greasy, sugar-loaded
junk food and buy some DVDs. The dog can
throw up here just as well as in the car, so why leave home?
