How I Spent My Summer Vacation Part II

  There was no such thing as daylight savings time in Texas in 1961. Darkness came quickly. It’s said that everything is bigger in Texas. That is certainly true of the night sky that expands to infinity in the Lone Star State. Huge bright stars swirled overhead that appeared to be close enough to touch. With the light rapidly fading in the west, the back seat in the car was pulled down so my brother and I could sleep on army sleeping bags that my dad laid out for us.  After a few songs, led by my mother, sung around the propane stove, we were bundled into our car bed for the night.  My sister and parents would sleep in the tent.  The windows of the car were vented so there was a bit of breeze flowing through our sleeping chamber in the muggy night.

  It didn’t take long before I heard it-the unmistakable whine of a mosquito. 

  “Ouch!”  My brother yelped.  “Something bit me!”

  I slapped my ear.  “Me too!  Daddy, there’s mosquitoes in here.”

  “Damn!”  From the tent I heard my dad curse and the sound of a slap.  “Jesus, Betty, there’s mosquitoes the size of DC-3’s in here.”

  “What’s a DC-3,” my brother inquired.  From the tent I heard my sister begin to cry.

  “I need the flashlight-they’re biting the baby.”  I could hear my mother moving around in the tent.  “Oh shit, look at this!  She has welts the size of golf balls. Where’s the mosquito repellant?”

  “The drug store was out. What? It’s a popular item.” I could hear the exasperation in my father’s voice over my sister’s wails. A flash of light and a magnificent clap of thunder drowned out the end of my father’s explanation. One by one the stars winked out, their light extinguished by roiling storm clouds. Within a few minutes of the thunderclap the heavens opened and water poured down as if from a thousand buckets.  The thunder rumbled again, the sky split by lightening.

  “Daddy, I’m scared,” my brother called out into the din.  The water drummed onto the roof of the car, effectively muffling any comments from us.

  “I don’t think I like camping,” I whispered to my brother.

  Apparently, neither did my parents as within minutes of the downpour’s commencement, our camp was being loaded into the car wherever the equipment could be crammed. 

  “I’m squashed,” my brother whined.

  “It won’t be for long.  We aren’t going to camp. We are going to a motel, my mother stated firmly. She slammed the passenger side door and settled my sister, who still whimpered as she rubbed her eyelid, swollen shut by insect bites onto her lap.  Water dripped from my mother’s soaked head, as she fumbled in the side pocket of her purse for a cigarette.  She punched the cigarette lighter in the dash and held it up to the smooth paper tube of tobacco.  There was a tiny audible swoosh as the tip of the cigarette ignited.  She put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply.  “I’ve had enough camping for tonight.”

***

  We crossed into New Mexico at Clovis early the next morning.  We kids weren’t awake to celebrate crossing the state line. The three of us slept through the trek across the desert in the cool of the morning. A few miles out of Tucumcari the elevation began to slowly increase.As we climbed higher the air grew thinner.  Scraggly pine trees replaced the monotonous prickly pear cactus and mesquite trees, dotting the landscape with black twisted trunks, dusty dark green branches signaling an impending change of topography.

  We stopped for a late lunch at a roadside rest area just outside of Santa Fe.  Not the type of rest stop we are used to today, air conditioned, equipped with modern bathrooms, and vending machines.  The rest areas of the fifties and sixties normally offered a pull over off the state road to park the car and a picnic table and a trash can under a tree.  If the traveler was exceedingly lucky, there might be an outhouse maintained by the state available for use.  No frills, but they were good for kids to blow off steam and dig a snack out of the cooler.  They were also good for allowing the dog to heed nature’s call. Which our dog, Teddy did, cheerfully lifting his leg on every blade of grass or rock available.

  “We’ll camp in the mountains tonight,” my dad announced at lunch.  “Look -- over there!”  My eyes followed where his finger directed.  “Do you see it?  See the snow along the horizon?  That’s  snow at the top of the peaks.”  I squinted my eyes and could vaguely make out spots of white in the distance.

  “Take a deep breath kids, smell the pine.  We’ll be in the foothills in an hour.”  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “We won’t get there if we don’t keep moving.”  My mother was packing up the cooler.  “I am ready for cocktails in the Rockies.  A highball in the high country,” she laughed to herself.

  “Can we play in the snow tonight?”  My brother looked hopeful.

  My father laughed, “Oh, those mountains are a day’s drive away, son.  We will be up there tomorrow, no snow tonight.”  My brother’s face fell in disappointment.

    “Come on, load up,” my dad ordered.  We all piled into the car and the journey was enjoined again.

  About twenty minutes later I glanced into the back of the car where my sister was looking at a picture book and singing softly to herself.  “Daddy,” I asked.  “Where’s Teddy?”

  “What do you mean, where’s Teddy,” my mother answered.  “He’s in the back with your sister.

   “No he’s not,” my brother had turned around to verify my statement.  “He’s not anywhere,” his voice rose, infused with panic.  “Where’s Teddy?”

 “Oh, Lord, we must have left him at the rest stop!”  My mother shook her head in aggravation.  “Honestly, I have to take care of your sister.  The least one of you two can do is be in charge of the dog!”  Her eyes bored into me.

  “I thought he was in the car,” I wailed tearfully.  “Anyway, he’s his dog!” I threw my brother under the bus. “He should take care of him!”

  “Turn the car around, Daddy,” My brother was in three alarm fire mode, tears running down his face. “Hurry up,” he sobbed.

 “Okay, okay-I have to find a place to turn around.”  Annoyed, my father pulled over onto a gravel side road.

  “I wonder if he will even be there.” My mother grumbled, her plan of sitting in the mountains with a gin and tonic in hand, enjoying the scenery dashed for the moment.

  “Did someone take him? Does he think we left him?”  My brother, tears dripping down his face, snot bubbling out of his nose, was in full out mourning, certain that his dog, the puppy he received as a birthday present was gone forever.

  “We won’t know until we get there,” my dad answered him.

  By this time I had been overtaken by the heebie- heebies, having cried myself out of breath, guilt consuming my nine year old soul. I should have kept an eye on the dog. Why didn’t I?  No answer conveniently presented itself.

  After what seemed to be an eternity we found ourselves back at the rest stop we had left forty minutes before.  My brother and I flew out of the car as soon as we could throw the doors open.  No dog was waiting within sight.

  “Teddy, Teddy,” we chorused, fear distorting our voices into screeches.  My dad added his whistling ability. (Whenever it was time for us to come home for dinner or for the night my dad’s custom was to stand on the porch and whistle for us.  Other kids had a bell that their mothers would ring.  We had a dad that whistled.)  My brother ran aimlessly in circles, crying for his dog, flapping his arms in helpless abandon.  Abruptly a furry brown creature hurtled out of the bushes behind the rest stop yipping and yelping around my brother. Muddy, cocklebur covered, Teddy was found.