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.
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