The Family Vacation

One of the great afflictions visited upon Americans, especially men, is the advent of a family vacation. It’s now that time of year. The torture chambers are heating up.

A genius coined the cliché, “Nothing’s fun for the whole family.” The clue came from Clark Griswold, “This is no longer a vacation. It’s a quest, a quest for fun. I’m gonna have fun and you’re gonna have fun.” Fun is a mandate!

Remember last summer’s family vacation? The time you left La-Z-Boy comfort to endure a pilgrimage to the beach, or mountains, or, heaven forbid, a Disney cruise. How’d that work out for you? Still tortured by the nightmare? You’re not alone.

Past pain has no recall. Face it; leaving home is tough, especially for men. They toil late into the night preparing for the trip, praying for divine intercession. Asking for anything to cancel the agony of a grueling road trip.

But here you are, planning another one. You plead, “But honey, we can’t afford to be gone a week.” It’s a weak lament, but you give it a shot.

Your wife snaps, “Really? Then you decide. It’s divorce or murder. These children are driving me insane. I’m not putting up with them another minute. You stay home with them. I’ll go to the beach.”

That’s pretty much how it goes. So you book the trip, send the deposit, clock out at work. The office staff offers condolences. You hear whispers in the background, “Poor man, he might not survive this one.”

You’re running late, as usual. A last-minute gym workout. A short jog. The last pull from the ATM. You finally get home. You look at the foot-high grass, remember the homeowner’s association citation. You curse it. Gotta mow it now. The mower won’t start. You leave it in disgust, an appetizer for the kudzu.

Inside your home you hear shouts. Glass breaks. Doors slam.Your skin crawls. Luggage is piled at the back door. You haul it out, cram it into the SUV, strap bikes to the roof and shove the dog inside. The family watches your manic efforts. Nobody speaks. It begins to rain.

Like a family of itinerant gypsies you speed to the interstate. You know the rule: arrive after dark at posh resorts. Maybe nobody will remember your band of urban misfits.

The interstate is a parking lot. Nothing moves. You squeeze into a slot in the slow lane. The AC quits. An hour to get two miles. Your wife complains. Back-seat voices whine, “How much longer? We’re hungry.” Minutes crawl by like hours.

An eternity passes in agonizing traffic. Ahead in the darkness the Yellow Arch appears. They see it. “Drive thru, drive thru.” Their shrill voices split your ears. You queue up with other vacationers. The takeaway line stretches for miles.

Hours drag by. Lamentations wail from the back seats, “Are we there yet? I need to use the bathroom.” You try to Zen out as you drive through the darkness. You remove the crumpled picture of the vacation nirvana you clipped from the brochure, toss it out the window.

Blue lights appear in the rear view. They summons you over. The officer drags a crumpled bike to your door. You beg forgiveness; promise a better tie job next time. Your wife is writing something. You glimpse the words, “Last will and.…”

You finally arrive after what seems like a week inside the insufferably stuffy car. Beach front condo. First class. Relief at last. The family bolts from the car, rushes inside, cranks the AC to freezing. The TV blasts. It’s just you and the luggage.

Some teenagers straggle by. They help unload. Their efforts cost a crisp Ben Franklin. Somehow you find a bed, collapse into a coma for three straight days. You finally wake up. You forget the misery, grab your golf sticks, find a course. Things start looking up.

The vacation passes quickly. Your budget is blown. So what? Everyone had fun. Wife got a tan, children made friends, weather was perfect. You played golf. Life is good. Time to go home while you’re ahead.

Such are the rituals of family vacations. Somehow we survive, refreshed from the short respite. Home looks good again. We promise ourselves to never again endure such trauma. Utter nonsense.

Family vacations…buy the ticket, take the ride, and make some memories.


Bud Hearn
May 22, 2015