Ye Olde Family Vacation

Originally published August 2004

Ah, the annual family vacation. Load the car up with coolers, destination-appropriate gear, 2 kids who can’t go 4 1/2 minutes without lunging for each other’s throats and parents who, after packing the car, are balancing precariously on the double-edged sword of personal nervous breakdown and complete marital collapse. That’s right, throw ‘em all in a car together for 4–6 hours and watch the fun fall right into place.

My memories all start with The Man, The Myth, The Legend: my father. The last of the great multi-taskers. That man could simultaneously yell at my mother, read the map (which was, incidentally, why he was yelling at my mother), drive and threaten the two of us with grave bodily harm. Generally something about having to pull the car over, counting to three, and enough pain that our grandchildren would walk with limps.

Mom had the map (see above), which sounds harmless enough unless you know that this woman’s personal creed is, “Often wrong, but never uncertain.” The words ‘I’, ‘Don’t’ and ‘Know’ are all in her vocabulary, but never in that order. She will sooner tell you California is just east of Pennsylvania—complete with elaborate directions, landmarks and places to stay along the way—than tell you she doesn’t know how to get there.

My brother and I would pile into the backseat, immediately etching out imaginary lines the other wasn’t to cross. And before we even made it to the first stop sign, his index finger would be at the very tip of my eyelashes wagging spastically, complemented by the all-too-familiar sing-song of “I’m not touching you.” We didn’t have Travel Boggle or Travel Connect Four our only travel game was Put-Gum-In-Your-Little-Sister’s-Hair-And-Laugh-Til-It-Hurts-While-Mom-Tries-Everything-In-The-Cooler-Including-Peanut Butter-Ketchup-Mayonnaise-And-Other-Assorted-Condiments-To-Get-It-Out-But-Only-Makes-Things-Worse-When-Seagulls-Begin-To-Dive-Bomb-Because-Your-Little-Sister’s-Head-Is-Now-A-Tasty-Treat-For-Birds.

Sound familiar? Okay, maybe not that last part. Indeed it’s a Rockwellian dream for the 21^st century. But I fear the 21^st century has something else in store for us. It would seem the traditional family vacation is on the verge of extinction.

The culprit? Those über-roomy mini-vans that are so decked out with bells, whistles and micro-chipped gizmos they practically drive themselves.

Siblings no longer have to put tape down the middle of the bench backseat. No, they’ll be relaxing comfortably in their Honda-approved Captain’s chairs with optional drink holders. Co-existing peacefully, maybe even sharing (have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous, sharing!). And the insanity doesn’t stop there.

Paper maps? What the hell are those? No, no we have On-Star, thank you. Well, here’s a question: What happens if the entire GPS infrastructure unravels? (It could happen.) Where will these children be then? Lost, that’s where. (I’m flashing back to my own struggle with digital-clocks and Velcro laces—throngs of hapless children wandering about unable to tell time or tie our shoes.) And honestly, what’s a glove box for if not improperly folded maps? And don’t say gloves—nobody likes a smartass.

Oh, and since they’re everywhere else, let’s go ahead and put TVs in the car and don’t forget the headphone jacks. Interesting concept: bring families together through isolation. Hmmm. 20 years ago that kind of thinking could’ve saved me a lot of stitches. A lot of stitches.

And what will the psychiatric community do with this new found push for familial harmony? We’re going to have legions of unemployed head-shrinkers in the near future, because there’s not much room for therapists in this world if you cure family dysfunction.

The mini-van must be stopped, folks. It’s that simple. And not just for the sake of people who flirt with the idea of going a wee bit faster than the speed limit in the left lane, but for society and for the children. I implore you, do it for the children.

It’s been a long time since my family embarked on a summer trip together and, frankly, there’s a really good reason for that. But give me the good old days in a dark green, fake-wood paneled ’72 Vista Cruiser with the sunroof in the backseat. More than just a station wagon it was a haven where children could go to the “way back” and beat each other’s brains out “just because.” That is until the car would come to a screeching halt in a cloud of gravel and Dad would growl from the driver’s seat, “I’m going to count to three, and if I get to three…”

Fortunately, for my grandchildren, he never got to three.