Planning the summer campaign

The first weekend of summer is when a lot of folks are coming to, or thinking about coming to, or wishing they were already in the North Country. Islands, lakes, mountains–take your pick. That’s right, baby—summer vacation.

But in my family, growing up, that’s when we would hit the road. About five minutes after the last day of school let out, my Dad would be organizing our escape. After 180 days of teaching high-school English in Brasher Falls, he would have tunneled out of the North Country if he had to. And after a year of school ourselves, we three kids we ready for anything, even if it meant sleeping on the rumpus room floor at the homes of far-off kin.

My family’s summer campaigns were planned with military precision. If you embark on a three-week raid 1000 miles west to the banks of the Wabash, you start with the largest station wagon sold in America — a Pontiac Safari perhaps — the one with the biggest V-8. Add roof racks, bike racks front and back, and a trailer hitch.

From the hitch you trail a 16-foot Grumman aluminum boat with an ancient 5-horse outboard, oars and a gas can. Until you arrive, this will be the cargo module. Fill it to the gunwales with clothing for ten days (there will be a laundromat somewhere), a cooler of perishables, a paper carton of canned and boxed food, beach towels, bathing suits, water toys, folding lawn chairs, board games, a badminton set, a croquet set, horseshoe stakes and shoes, three baseball mitts, assorted balls and bats, a lethal set of Jarts, two Frisbees, three Hula Hoops and a golf bag. And no, the B-B gun stays home. You could put your eye out. Tarp it over, secured with bungee cords, in case of rain.

Two bicycles on the front, one on the back. Canoe up top, bungeed to the racks and tied off front and back. Paddles and life jackets tied off inside it.

That just leaves the Safari, the interior of which is about the size of a NYC efficiency apartment. You put the expedition leader and his lovely number two in the front seat, along with Ray-bans, sunscreen, pipes and tobacco, a bag of road snacks, a monster size purse, plus a tote bag with a thermos of coffee and a cold pack filled with off-brand soda. The back seat held my sister, my brother and me, (quarreling over who had to sit on the driveshaft hump), books, puzzles, and a transistor radio (in case of musical disagreements fore and aft).

In the way-back, there was the tire well containing the spare, the jack, an emergency kit of random Craftsman tools, rain gear, extra shoes, flashlight, extra batteries, road flares, and anything else we remembered at the last minute that would fit. Above that were sleeping bags, pillows, blankets, and anything else we remembered at the last minute that wouldn’t fit in the tire well.

It would be ten in the morning before we finally hit the road. After sunset came the best part of the drive; the small FM stations signed off, leaving the airwaves to distant AM powerhouses blasting Top 40 hits across the whole middle of the nation. The cars on the interstate would thin out and you could watch the moon and stars out the back window and listen to Motown.

It would be two the next morning deep in the “are we there yet” of Ohio before we came to berth in the parking lot of an interstate service center for a few hours sleep. Mom and Dad would lay the front seats all the way back and sleep in place. We kids would put down the back seat and roll out three sleeping bags side by side.

Reveille came at dawn; The Farm Report saying sorghum futures were up. Breakfast, gas and back down the on-ramp. Vincennes, Indiana before dinnertime, or else. Aunt Jean had promised fried chicken, corn on the cob, cole slaw, sweet iced tea and apple pie when Dad checked in from the rest stop phone booth.

Safe travels everyone, and a warm welcome at your destination.

Tags: listeningpost, summer vacation