Keith Welch: A past crazy vacation holds lasting memories
Vacations are mostly fun for a young boy. Some of the un-fun ones are remembered as painful, but time heals all wounds and perspectives
I always anticipated our family vacation trips, but one particular year almost negated the memory of previous destinations. Dad made reservations to stay in a remote cabin in Hackensack, Minnesota, for a two-week adventure.
The drive from Indiana to Minnesota in a 1965 Studebaker Station Wagon with seven family members was like being locked in a closet and forced to watch home movies during an earthquake. The kids continually fought over invisible seat boundaries, only declaring periods of "cease fire" to bring forth a quintet chorus of, “Are we there yet?” Dad silenced our repeated disturbances with the threat, “Am I going to have to pull the car over?” We were not sure what this phrase meant, since he never carried out the threat; but we suddenly became very quiet, not wishing to find out the answer, should he actually pull the car over to the side of the road.
Dad carefully held the direction paper in one hand, as if it were a treasure map, the other hand on the steering wheel, searching the outlying maze of Hackensack County roads, attempting to locate the unmarked entrance to our rented vacation cabin. He finally turned the car onto a remote driveway entrance.
The road behind us disappeared, evaporating in a cloud of dust. The car moved along the one-mile contoured driveway, resembling a roller coaster. The Studebaker easily coasted each valley of the drive and our stomachs caught up with us while the engine whined slowly climbing the steep inclines. Up and down motion of the drive almost resulted in a seasickness effect. Suddenly, we broke through the darkened forest to view the sun-enhanced blueness of a lake.
There was anticipation as we got our first glance of the resort cabin. We turned our heads, almost in unison, from the wonderful scenic lake view to the shadow of death cabin. The collective family gasp was like air escaping from a tire. It was obvious the cabin had been neglected for several months and a surrounding pastureland of grass suggested the lawn service contract had expired. The waves of the blowing grass were in sync with the waves of the lake.
The grassy green sea parted with each step as we walked in single file from the car to the promised land cabin. Once inside, animal defecation and mess provided further evidence of human inactivity. The cabin resembled George Orwell’s sequel to “Animal Farm.”
We were pulled back to reality by Dad’s enthusiastic voice, “Let’s clean it up!”
Cleanup assignments were issued by Dad in general-like fashion. My brothers and I were regulated to lawn service. There was no gas-powered lawn mower, only a gas-saving muscle-propelled push mower. I thought it was fun at first to push the mower, watching as the rotating blades sliced the top of the long blades of grass, flinging them through the air, gently floating to the ground and breaking the air with their natural fresh cut aroma. I felt like a mad barber with a pair of quick-snipping scissors cutting a head of wild green hair. I knew it was time to pass the lawn mower baton to the next brother as my arm muscles began to tire and my wrist became numb.
We were finally able to begin our restful vacation after the first long day of difficult work, but inactivity now seemed unnatural. It rained for the last two days there and firewood ran out. So dad tap an old rocking chair and said, “Well, look, the arm fell off,” and he threw it into the fireplace. That rocking chair became our source of warmth for our last night there.
The photographs taken of those two weeks came back from the photo lab out of focus and blurry, just like my memory of that time continues to be hazy. This vacation was probably one of the few times we were forced to do things together as a family. We fished, played table games and told family stories around the fireplace. It actually has become one of our best cherished and most recalled vacation times.
How can a pastime so bad become such a remembered good?
— Keith J. Welch is a resident of Holland. He has an MFA in creative writing and is a retired Salvation Army Major. Contact him at Keith.welch16@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on The Holland Sentinel: Keith Welch: A past crazy vacation holds lasting memories
