It’s light until 10 p.m., the daytime temperatures are inching into the 30s, and we’re more worried about West Nile disease than pneumonia. All this can only mean that it’s time for that annual ritual of tender torture otherwise known as the family vacation.
With our family of six children, we’ve used our two-week holidays to create indelible memories—like the Oregon trip when we all ordered clam chowder, which proved to be lukewarm and laden with salmonella. Our time at the seashore was spent...well, never mind. And then there was the year we reserved a hotel in Waterton National Park, planning to do some hiking. Before we even unpacked, our teen-aged daughter decided to show her brother this cool self-defence move she had just learned. It worked even better than she had anticipated, and we spent the evening in the Cardston ER getting our son’s ear reattached. The ER at Salmon Arm took four hours to remove a fish hook from a thumb, but the Pincher Creek ER set a broken arm in 30 minutes flat, including paper work and a wheelchair ride to the car.
Not all our calamities ended with hospital visits. One August while we were driving across eastern Washington, the mercury soared to a point almost never reached in southern Alberta. We stopped at a convenient Dairy Queen for a cooling treat—the television ads claimed their Blizzards were so thick you could turn them upside down. This proved not to be true at 43 degrees.
Our boat has broken down on more lakes than I care to remember, and we’ve met the nicest people who towed us back to the dock when they could have been water skiing. One memorable couple was from Yellowknife, and told us how in the NWT they boated all night in the midnight sun.
Back in the 1970s and 80s, without seat belts, kid seats, air conditioning or small-screen movies, we would take off on trips of a thousand miles. What were we thinking? Oh, that’s right. We were trying to make memories. And we did, but not the ones we intended. Our second son thought Old Faithful was a disappointment, but loved it when Grandpa put him in the bucket of the front end loader and took him for a ride. Our youngest swears that her kids will never watch movies on family trips; they’ll be forced to play I Spy with My Little Eye, and the License Plate Game, and the Alphabet Game, and sing along to the Oldie station. Apparently she feels it builds character.
This year we’re gathering our kids and grandkids in a giant lodge for a week. This will involve sand and water and lots of soggy beach towels. Undoubtedly there will be sunburns and skinned knees. Meals will take hours to prepare and seconds to eat. Too tired babies will cry for long minutes while everybody offers suggestions that won’t work and finally will collapse softly on their mothers’ shoulders for no apparent reason. Milk will be spilled and marshmallows will go up in flames. After the little ones are in bed, someone will introduce a new card game, and the grownups will stay up way too late getting it down.
Cousins will get to know cousins, and with any luck at all, at least once we’ll laugh till we cry. On the way home, Grandpa and I will drive home alone, repeating all the clever things the grandkids said, and not once will anyone in the back seat whine, “Are we there yet?” or “Mom, he’s looking at me!” We’ll turn on the air-conditioning, play the Alphabet Game and stop at a fancy restaurant. No one will turn his cup upside down. We’ll have the best of both worlds. That’s the reward for surviving 40 years of family vacations.