Ahhh . . . Vacation!

I've been on vacation the past couple of weeks, and although my computer came with me, we didn't spend a lot of time together. My original plan was to finish my book, but Siffi (my gremlin) had other plans. I obviously failed to follow my own advice when dealing with a gremlin and obeyed her without fail. As if she'd put me in a trance, I was completely under her power. I can't say that this was a totally negative experience. I think perhaps that a little of the mogwai in her subconscious was at work or maybe it's that God can bring good out of everything.

I may not have spent much time writing, but I did learn a lot about choosing a wedding dress, what not to wear, living as little people in a big world, and parenting eighteen children all thanks to TLC. I traveled through time all over the world with The History Channel and hung out in Smallville quite a bit. I also read two books (Point of Origin, Patricia Cornwell and Broken For You, Stephanie Kallus). Of course, these things were just fillers. The main attraction was the ocean - the ginormous, beautiful blue ocean. I could sit on the beach and stare at it for hours. I want my very pores to soak in the reality of it, so I can bring it home with me. We saw dolphins playing, fish jumping, sea gulls, sandpipers, cranes, pelicans, a school of sting rays, and my personal favorite inhabitants of beach life - crabs (think Sebastian of Little Mermaid fame).

Our vacations haven't always been pleasant experiences. For years, friends quickly changed the subject when vacationing together came up in conversation. The highlight in this collection of less-than-relaxing vacations was in 1993 . . .

Marc was hunched over the steering wheel, every muscle in his body tense and wired. I sat beside him just as tense and praying under my breath that God would spare us from glaciation in this vast wilderness. Ami (9) and Nathan (6) sat in the back seat in utter silence after they had confessed their most abhorrent sins to one another.

“Ami?"

“Yeah?”

“Umm . . . your Barbie convertible is buried in the sandbox.”

“That’s okay. I’m the one who told Mom you sneak cookies.” She sniffled, and her voice cracked. “I love you.”

Just that afternoon, the atmosphere in the car had been so different. “Looks like we’re headed in the right direction!” Marc had chuckled as the snow began to fall. He is an avid fan of heat and sunshine, and the fact that we were headed south, leaving the frigid temperatures and icy precipitation behind us, made him downright gleeful. Planning to drive through the night, we’d picked the kids up from school that afternoon and merged onto I-70 along with other spring break vacationers. By morning, we’d be with my sister and her family in St. Augustine, Florida – sunny and warm and wonderful Florida. At least that was the plan.

The funny thing about life, and particularly family vacations (at least ours): it doesn’t always follow the script. Marc and I kept reassuring each other that we were headed south; thus, the snow had to stop soon. Yet the further south we got, the more intensely the snow fell. I can’t imagine how confused the poor geese must’ve been!

It was now past midnight. We hadn’t seen another vehicle for over hour, and we were driving in a full-blown blizzard. Snow covered all the highway signs like a warm blanket tucking them in for the night. “There!” I shouted as I pointed at what appeared to be the skinny legs of an exit sign up ahead. “You can just make out a strip of green at the bottom, and there are lights beyond it!” An exit - with lights - meant civilization and hope of survival. The exit ramp itself was indistinguishable, and we had no idea if it was to the right or the left of the sign. Marc gambled our lives that it was to the left. We should’ve gone to Vegas. He chose wisely.

This glorious ramp led to a hotel, gas station, and restaurant. We’d hit pay dirt in Chattanooga! Over the next three days, we became quite adept at such cultured recreational pastimes as hangman, tic-tac-toe, and trashcan basketball. Of course, THREE DAYS trapped in a hotel sans pool, game room, or even a lobby to speak of with a boy recently diagnosed with ADHD is another story. We each (including Ami) came dangerously close to a felonious act at some point during our stay. We chose instead to run races through the halls and stairwells. Our fellow-strandees seemed more than a bit irritated with us, but it was better than the alternative.

We dined on the sucrose, glucose, fructose, and lactose that the hotel vending machines offered and on the fine cuisine served at the one-star restaurant across the parking lot. Their array of gourmet entrees included: hamburgers a la pork sausage, grilled chicken breast a la pork sausage, sirloin steak a la pork sausage, and of course, pork sausage.

On Monday morning, Tennessee opened their highways. Once again packing our bags and our car, and picking up our dormant hopes, we slid our way onto Highway 27. An hour later, the newscaster on the radio announced that the state had closed their highways again. The packed snow was now solid ice; but we soldiered on, weaving in and out, dodging frozen pot holes. Thirteen hours later, we’d driven 118 miles.

Another six and a half hours, and we’d covered the remaining 380 miles – miles that were gloriously absent of precipitation in any form. Our bodies were numb, but we’d arrived. Marc laid on the horn as we pulled into the driveway. My sister and her family ran out to greet us; we uncurled ourselves from the car and collapsed in their embraces.

After a dreamless sleep, we awoke the next morning ready for the beach, the sun, and Florida fun. Donning shorts that exposed our white, sun-deprived, obviously northern legs, we stepped outside . . . and immediately back inside, whipping the door shut. It was cold out there! Trying to comfort us, my sister assured us that it had been seventy and sunny just the day before. Yeah right.

Later that afternoon, with the cold of the morning a distant memory, Marc and Nathan decided to go for a swim. I know you’re thinking that it must’ve warmed up quite a bit. Oh no, no, no. They were just determined to swim. We didn’t drive through a blizzard to be stuck inside all week. Such was their reasoning. The fact that the thermometer read forty did not deter them at all. So while the rest of us stood around the pool wearing jackets, sipping hot cocoa, and keeping our goose bumps company, Marc and Nathan took a dive and slide, respectively, into my sister’s outdoor, unheated pool. A split second later they shot back out as if they’d hit a trampoline. They dashed inside while we, the spectators, meandered back in, our hands curled around our warm mugs of cocoa.

Another “must do” on our list was, of course, Disney World. We piled into our cars and off to Disney World we went. The good news was that we didn’t have to contend with long lines. The bad news was why – it was cold and raining. My sister had purchased our tickets beforehand, and we either went to the park that day or forfeited Disney World altogether. We made the best of it, wearing sweatshirts and rain ponchos as well as tennis shoes and socks that were thoroughly soaked. A little advice – don’t do Disney World in the rain. It really loses something.

By Thursday evening, we’d all but given up the vacation we’d imagined; and in a desperate attempt to salvage the week, the four adults decided to go out for a nice dinner. We’d leave the disappointments of the week behind us, enjoy good wine, good food, and good company. We piled into my brother-in-law’s car. He started up the engine and backed out of the driveway . . . straight into the side of a car parked across the street - ours.

“Just drive, Mike. Don’t stop. Just drive.” Marc didn’t even look out the back window. Mike hesitated. “GO!” Marc yelled.

Miraculously, dinner went without incident (though we learned that Florida does seafood much better than they do beef) as did the entirety of the following twenty-four hours, most likely because we stayed in the house, under covers, trembling in fear of the unknown evils that lurked outside in this malevolent state.

We packed that evening and said our goodbyes early the next morning. The driver’s door barely stayed latched due to the crunch from Thursday evening, but it would make it home. As we headed north, the road that less than a week before had been a sheet of ice, was clear and dry. We planned to drive straight through, stopping only to gas up the car. We wanted nothing more than to get home to the amiable north and back to work so we could relax.

Hour after hour, mile after mile, the drive home was smooth and quiet. It was bliss. Nearing a rest stop just outside Cadiz, Kentucky, we pulled off to use the facilities. As we rolled into a parking spot, a horrific metal-on-metal screech filled the air. I thought, “Oh man! Somebody’s got problems. Geez. That sounds awful.” The kids and I walked around the back of the car to make our way to the restroom. I stopped short. Marc was on the ground looking underneath the car.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Didn’t you hear that?”

“That was us?!”

Not only had the brakes gone out, but they’d gone out on a Saturday night at 5:00.

A couple of hours and what seemed like hundreds of phone calls later, the four of us crammed into the cab of a tow truck along with the driver and made a ninety mile drive to a mechanic who’d agreed to work on our car the next day.

When we finally pulled into our driveway on Monday afternoon, we stumbled out of the car and kissed the ground, chanting, like Dorothy, “There’s no place like home.”