How I Spent My Summer Vacation Part I

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    Summer of 1961 began pretty much the way every other Texas summer began.  I was enrolled to take swimming lessons at the University of Texas, my brother was going to summer camp, and my one year old sister was being attended to by our border collie.  In the mornings my mother would turn us out into the yard with the dog and it was Teddy’s responsibility to keep my just toddling sister within the perimeter of our yard.

   

  One evening in early June, we found our mother hauling suitcases down from the attic.  “Grab your toothbrushes kids; we’re going to Colorado in the morning.”  Her face was flushed and her brown eyes snapped with excitement.  Nothing tickled my mother more than going on a trip.  “And guess what,” she added.  “We’re camping!”

  “Do we camp?”  I asked stating the confusing question, while frantically searching my brain for evidence of past camping expeditions - nothing presented itself as valid camping behavior.  Unless a camp-out in the back yard when I was five counted.  That foray into camping ended when my unshod foot, came in contact with the stake that was anchoring my dad’s old army tent. As a result, I lost any enthusiasm I might have been able to rustle up for camping.

   

  The fact that my family had never been campers didn’t deter my mother a bit.  “I grew up on a farm cooking on a woodstove in a house with no plumbing or electricity,” she’d rhapsodize. It was a frequent habit of hers-speaking of the good old days- simpler times, when women kept the home fires burning, children were seen and not heard, and men were men and peed outdoors.    “Come on now, get ready. It will be fun. We leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Why are we going to Colorado,” I nagged. 

  “Because your Aunt Shanna says it’s the most beautiful spot in the world.  We may buy a cabin  for summer vacations.  Won’t that be fun?”

  “I thought we didn’t like Aunt Shanna,” I muttered.

  

   Arms crossed, hands buried in my armpits I was not convinced.  Especially at the mention of my Aunt - unmarried, cranky and my dad’s only sibling-who, by the way, hated kids.   There was also the fact that Colorado was a place I’d never been. As far as I was concerned, if I hadn’t been to a place, it probably didn’t exist; not that in my nine years I had been to too many places.

  

   “I like Texas,” I added for a good measure. “I’d rather stay home.”

  “You don’t get to vote,” my mother snapped, tiring of the conversation.  “Go help your dad.  He’s packing the trailer with camping supplies.

  

  The trailer!?  We were taking the trailer!?  We never took the trailer.  The trailer was reserved for one thing and one thing only, the ultimate bug out. This could only mean one thing. My worst nightmares were being confirmed, nuclear war was imminent. As a veteran of many duck and cover drills at school and a thorough indoctrination of the consequences of living in a nuclear world, I was terrified.  Hair belching fire, I ran to the garage where my dad kept a trailer packed with essentials in case the Russians launched the nukes.

  

  “Daddy!  Daddy, are the Russians coming?” I shrieked.  With school being dismissed for the summer and no desk to hide under if the Ruskies were dropping the big one, I was utterly without protection. 

   

  My father looked up, surprised at the shrillness and urgency of my question.  “What?  No.  We are going on vacation.”

  “The Russians aren’t coming?  Why are we taking the trailer?  We aren’t bugging out?”  I asked, still unconvinced that we weren’t about to be vaporized, reduced to particles of dust in a mushroom shaped cloud.

  “Don’t be silly. But if the Russians did drop the nukes - Colorado is a good place to be.  No reason the Russians would bomb Colorado. We don’t have room in the car for all our camping gear.”  His logic was comforting. Colorado was looking slightly better.

***

 The next morning at five thirty we rolled out of the alley behind our house heading northwest.  Our destination was Telluride, a down on its luck mining town, population 500, tucked away in the southwestern corner of Colorado.  Once a bawdy and rollicking boom town the gold and silver had trickled out and the population with it. 

  Our station wagon was packed to the seams. If we had stashed one more item in that car, the doors would have blown off, rivets flying, strewing the blacktop with stuffed toys, graham crackers, underwear and loose shoes in the same way a circus clown car unleashes its load of pop-go-the weasel snakes. Up front my dad did the driving.  Mom slouched in her seat, working the New York Times crossword puzzle, one bare foot resting on the dashboard.

   

  My brother and I shared the back seat. We eyed the imaginary center line that marked a boundary that could not be traversed.  Our territory was defined - encroach into no man’s land at your own peril.  We each had our favorite comics and coloring books carefully packed in brown paper grocery bags.  Up front my mother had the game and treat bag.  If we behaved ourselves, the wonders of that bag would be revealed.

  

  Behind us in the back of the station wagon rode my sister, security blanket crushed to her little body, sucking her thumb, snuggled up next to the dog.

  

  The going was slow, punctuated by “are we there yets” and wails of “I can’t hold it any longer daddy - I need to pee.” By mid morning my mother had brought out the auto bingo and we were engrossed in locating spotted cattle (in Texas, not a problem) various types of road signs, and the rare out of state license plates. 

  

  My mother was the navigator as well as tour guide.  It was not uncommon for us to take a side trip of an hour or two to see a historical or natural sight.  She had decided the destination our first day out was the little town of Muleshoe in west Texas.  Was there excellent camping there?  Or a land mark of historical significance that was a must see? Nope.  She chose Muleshoe because she liked the name - you can’t argue with that logic. 

    

  We lurched into town late in the afternoon looking for a likely place to camp.  Since there was no state park or local campground - the RV not yet being in common use, my mother’s idea was to camp at the Municipal Park.  There were toilets, running water, and a pond.  What more did we need?

  We should have checked with the local law first.  In a small town, a group resembling a post war incarnation of the Joads, squatting in the park tends to attract attention.  My dad had barely unloaded the tent before the town marshal ambled over to our budding campsite to make our acquaintance.

  “What y’all up to,” he drawled, rocking on his heels, thumbs hooked in the front of the belt encircling his ample mid section. His holster hung down along his thigh, the butt of the biggest gun I had ever seen, more like a cannon, peeking out. 

  “Hey… Man,” my brother, age 6, addressed the officer.  My brother, during this period had the unfortunate habit of addressing all men whose names he didn’t know, generically as “Man.”

  

  The Marshal swiveled his head to examine him as if he was a slime encrusted creature from another planet.

  

  “Hey Man,” my brother tried again. “Are you a for real sheriff? Are you going to put us in jail? You sure got some handcuffs there.”

  “Well, that depends, son,” the marshal answered. “I am a for real sheriff and y’all are breaking the town ordinance.  Y’all need a permit to camp here.”  My brother stared up at the lawman, blue eyes round as saucers, blonde Dennis the Menace cowlick ruffled by the late afternoon breeze.

     

   “I am so sorry, Officer,” my mother answered. “We didn’t realize we needed a permit. It’s just one night.  The kids were getting tired, and you have such a nice park here.”

  

  “Whar yew from?”  He inserted a toothpick between his lips, and worked it around in his mouth.

  

   “My dad answered this time.  “We live in Austin.”

  

  The marshal thought for a moment. “Y’all with the university?”

  “Yes…,” my dad answered carefully, university types not being all together popular in west Texas.

    “I see,” the sheriff nodded.  “They got a hell of a football team down there.”

  

  My dad relaxed.  “They surely do.”

   

  “Okay.  You can stay tonight but you need to be outta here in the morning, first thing. Take care Missus,” he tipped his hat, “Keep those kids out of the lake-it gets deep quick.  Hook ‘em horns.”

  

  “Hook ‘em horns,” my dad’s answer trailed behind him.

  “What’s he mean, keep those kids out of the lake?  I want to go swimming.”  I scowled.  It was Texas, the day was hot and there was a body of water within 100 yards of our tent.

  “No swimming.”  My dad patted the top of my head.  “Go wash up.   Beans and hot dogs coming up.”  Annoyed I grabbed my brother by the hand and walked to the concrete block restroom.

  

  “Wow, we almost got arrested by a real sheriff,” my brother jabbered as I turned on the spigot.

   

   “I hate camping, and I hate Colorado,” I muttered.

  “We’re still in Texas,” my brother stated the obvious.

  “Then I’ll hate it when we get there,” I snarled as the water splashed down on our PF Flyers.