Vacation Memories

Vacation Memories
 

(the ones that don't make it to Facebook)

I’ll admit it: I’m a sucker for tourist-trap roadside attractions. 

As a kid, our family road trips often took us down I-10 in Arizona where The Thing? lived. Those giant yellow billboards sucked me in every time. They started slow, appearing several miles apart, but rapidly increased until they practically screamed at you.

Each trip, I’d think this had to be the time we’d stop. I mean, how could anyone drive right by “The Mystery of the Desert” without pausing to check it out. Sadly though, each time, my practical parents zoomed right by The Thing? as if the billboards didn’t even exist.

At some point – after Al Gore invented the Internet – I finally learned the secret of The Thing? and have even seen pictures. I’ve still never actually stopped though, as my road trips these days don’t often take me in that direction.

My husband and I did stop at another roadside mystery from my childhood -- The Hole in the Rock in Utah. We paid way too much money to tour a house hacked out of rock that would have bored me to tears as a child. It was mildly interesting as an adult but nothing close to what years of hype had made it out to be in my mind.

Disappointment doesn’t stop me, though. I still get sucked in by screaming billboards. And, with the perk of adulthood, I now actually get to decide to stop.

When I saw the first billboard for Georgia Peach World, I gave it a quick glance, not realizing more were coming. The second one was more interesting and by the third one, I was hooked. I had to stop. I couldn’t live another day without seeing the wonder that was Georgia Peach World.

 “Let’s stop,” I said.

Bill sighed. He knew my obsession. 

“Next exit,” I said.

“We can only stop if there’s a place to park,” he said.

“Sure, sure,” I answered with confidence. I mean Georgia Peach World had to be as big as Costo. At least. Acres of asphalt for the parking lot. A restaurant. Maybe even some sort of arcade.

 “We can’t stay long,” Bill cautioned.

“Fine,” I said, drumming my fingers against my leg in anticipation. Once he saw how cool it was, time wouldn’t matter.

We pulled off the interstate at the right exit and I whipped my head back and forth looking for the giant building I’d seen in my head. Instead, Bill and Callie burst out laughing as we pulled into Georgia Peach World and stared.

We filled the parking lot, the store not much bigger than the RV. I didn’t even want to get out but the laughter of my family was giving me a headache.

Callie tumbled out behind me and stuck her smiling head in the hole of the picture sign to ensure we’d remember our Georgia Peach World experience forever. Then, she dragged me inside and we perused the single aisle. The dude behind the counter was friendly enough and we did suck down our free peach slushies, but otherwise decided – in all of the world of Georgia peaches, we really didn’t need anything.

Bill still hadn’t stopped laughing when we climbed back in.

“You could have stayed longer,” he gasped between chuckles.

When I didn’t reply, he gave Callie a high five. “I’m glad we stopped. Definitely worth it.”

In spite of my disappointment, Bill loved Georgia Peach World. It’s a memory we won’t forget and, honestly, it won’t stop me from being sucked into the next roadside attraction. I mean, Kansas Corn World might be the best thing ever and I won’t know if I don’t stop.

But, it was time for better fun. We quickly moved from peaches to the beach.

Callie and I love the beach and couldn’t wait to hit the sand and the water. Beach food is Bill’s thing, more than the actual beach or ocean. Shrimp, oysters, clams, even a real Dippin’ Dots store. And he didn’t have to drive. He seemed happy enough. We should have left it alone. But, we didn’t.

 “Don’t you want to get in the water?”

“I’m not the top of the food chain in the ocean,” was his logical reply.

“How about a walk on the beach?”

“It’s just a bunch of hot sand.”

After a couple of days, though, we wore him down. He agreed to jet skiing. 

As he walked down to the beach, I noticed his footwear.

“Why are you wearing socks to the beach?”

“I forgot beach shoes.”

He walked faster so I dropped it. I stayed with the shoes as he and Callie took off on a jet ski. They were all smiles when they returned, until it was time to put back on the non-beach-friendly shoes.

We hung out until the line at the water water spigot cleared. I rinsed my feet and started to move on.

“Hang on,” Bill said.

Turns out putting socks over wet feet isn’t fun.

I slowly turned back and hissed, “Just leave the socks off.”

 “Then I’d get my shoes wet. Let me lean on you while I dry my feet off.”

I looked around pretending he was talking to someone else. People awkwardly scooted around us, giving wary eyes to the crazy guy, standing on one dripping foot, a sock in his hand.

“Give me the towel.”

I had to do it, just to shut him up and get out of there. But then it got worse.

“Your turn, Callie,” he called out.

I tried inching away a small bit at a time as the line waiting for the water faucet grew. Bill, intent on getting every speck of sand off Callie’s feet before she could slip back on her sandals, didn’t seem to notice.

As he dried each toe individually, an exasperated woman asked, “Does she have an injury or something?”

He smiled at her, totally oblivious to the insanity of it all. “No. I’m just getting her feet clean. Can’t have sand in the RV, you know.”

At that point, I did walk away. 

When they caught up a few minutes later, Callie had one of those “why am I an only child?” looks on her face. Bill, happy his beach ordeal was over, asked. “What’s for dinner? Perhaps something from Georgia Peach World?”

The First Leg

There is no more relaxing way to start your vacation than piloting a gigantic RV down the Interstate, your loving husband in the co-pilot seat screaming, “You are going to kill us!”

I’d held off driving the beast as long as possible. When I finally did take over the wheel it seemed I was cursed. Each time, I’d start on a pristine empty highway. Within miles, herds of cars and trucks would appear over the horizon, quickly overtaking me, mocking me with their swift nimble ways. The semis shook me as they passed, the cars just made me wish I could speed like that.

Worse than the traffic, though was the road construction. Offering new obstacles and narrowed roads, each new orange sign rattled my nerves. It was while we were sailing over one of the “under construction” narrow bridges that Bill shrieked as I held my breath and tensed my knuckles.  We made it without a scratch but when Bill demanded the wheel, I didn’t object.

We pulled into the next available truck stop and determined, since we were stopped, we might as well fuel up. We knew the drill – no swiping a card at the pump in these stations. Instead you go in and pre-authorize.

I strode confidently into the station and handed the clerk my credit card. Now, let me preface this next bit by saying that I am very careful with my money. I pay my bills on time. Heck, I still balance my checkbook every month. I’ve never had a credit card declined.

So, when the clerk told me my card had been declined, I didn’t know what to do other than stare in horror for a second or two. The line of professional drivers was growing behind me, though, so I knew I had to come up with a better plan. I flipped out another card and handed that over.

When the clerk told me that one was declined, too, I felt the wind of a sigh from the six-foot, three hundred pound driver standing behind me.  The clerk gave me a skeptical look which I avoided by glancing at a text that had just arrived on my phone. As I read it, I breathed in relief. Fraud protection. My credit card companies obviously couldn’t fathom me at a truck stop in the middle of Kansas buying boatloads of diesel any more than I could.

After I assured them, via text, that I was doing the unfathomable, I handed my card back to the clerk.

 “Please try it again.”

He gave the tall dude behind me a look of, most assuredly,  shared annoyance but swiped it through the machine anyway. It went through, just as I knew it would. I hitched my purse over my shoulder and threaded my way back through the crowd.

I found Bill out at the pumps deep in conversation with one of the professional drivers. I heard snippets of conversation about the best place to buy diesel and the merits of various types of truck stops. When Bill said, “If my wife’s driving, you’d better stay out of the way,” the guy winked at me and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way, too.”

The clock was ticking so we didn’t stay long to chat. We’d shipped our daughter off to her grandparents several days earlier and allocated two days to drive from Colorado to South Carolina to pick her up. Colorado to South Carolina is a lotta hours if you are driving down the Interstate in a car at 80 miles per hour. It’s way more if you are going, optimistically, sixty-five in an RV.

The first night we limped into Columbia, Missouri around 11:30, spent an hour catching up with my brother and his wife and then crashed in our home away from home on their driveway.

Around 4:30 in the morning, my bed started to move. 

“He can drive if he wants,” I thought. “I’m sleeping.”

It quickly became clear while they called this beast a land yacht, though. I was tossed around like a rowboat in a choppy ocean. I rolled from side to side and at one point my body even left the bed. So, after less than an hour, I reluctantly got up.

Fueled by caffeine and snacks, we made it four hours before our three hours of sleep the night before caught up with us. We pulled into a truck stop and, lulled to sleep by the hum of the semis next to us, slept for a couple of hours before once again hitting the road.

Around noon, I realized it was hopeless. “We aren’t going to make it tonight. Maybe we should find a place we can spend the night.”

“We’ll make it,” Bill said, his eyes resolutely on the road. “You drive for awhile while I sleep.”

“Right.”

I drove awhile, but refused to let him sleep. I wasn’t nearly that comfortable driving and stuff like road construction and towns and such kept getting in my way. Somehow I ended up driving through downtown Nashville and later through the twisty hills of North Carolina. 

“Let’s just call your parents and tell them we aren’t going to get there tonight.”

“We’ll get there,” he said, as if saying it would make it true.

So we kept driving and finally, finally, finally – around 1:30 in the morning – we pulled onto his parents’ road. His Dad met us to show us where to park.

Before Bill jumped out to say hello, he slung the walkie-talkie at me. “Listen to me,” he said. “I’ll tell you what to do. Just do it fast before Dad comes up with a different idea.”

I reluctantly climbed into the driver’s seat and started pulling into our space. Bill stood behind the RV watching the roof of the barn to make sure I didn’t hit it. His Dad stood in front watching everything else.

We were close. I could hardly keep my eyes open and could only think of my waiting bed.

“Go forward,” Bill commanded into the walkie-talkie.

I didn’t move. His Dad stood in front of me saying something else.

“Go forward,” Bill said, more urgently this time.

I sighed but still didn’t move.

“Dammit, go forward,” he screamed.

I picked up the walkie-talkie. “If I do, I’ll run over your father,” I said.

Bill came around to the front and got it sorted out. “If he saw you coming at him, he’d have got out of the way,” he grumbled as I pulled to a stop.

As I turned off the key, I realized we’d made it. Leg one completed successfully with no one killed or even hurt.

Still, I couldn’t help myself when Bill said, “See, I told you we’d make it tonight.”

“That was yesterday,” I said. “It is after midnight.”

The Shake Down Trip

For my husband’s first mid-life crisis, he bought a tractor. But that was several years ago and now, it seemed, it was time for another – mid-life crisis that is, not tractor.

This time, he wanted an RV. And not just any RV (cue the Tim Allen grunting) but a 36’, diesel-guzzling behemoth of a thing.

He pushed and pulled at my resolve, answering all of my concerns with slick well-practiced answers. Overnight, he had become an RV expert, talking about classes and basements and black tanks like he’d been dealing with them for years. I’m still not exactly sure how it happened, but several weeks later I found myself driving him to Wyoming and the next day driving behind him as he piloted the beast towards home.

“This isn’t so bad,” I tried to tell myself as I watched another wind gust sling him to the far side of his lane. “Heck, even the semis seem to know to get out of his way.”

My daughter called a few times from the co-pilot’s seat to ask if the tail lights were working and to request I drive ahead to check the headlights. I swung past as quickly as possible and saw her waving enthusiastically from the passenger seat while her father sat beside her, a death grip on the steering wheel, not taking his eyes from the road.

He spent the next few months making the brand new RV better. Naively, I figured we’d slap some sheets on the bed, store some food in the fridge and be ready to go. Not true. He installed a tire monitor, a central vacuum, a brake pedal for the engine brake. All good things, but why weren’t they there to begin with?

He caulked all places the “basement” might leak and even drilled a hole so the cat could get to the litter box in one of the basement compartments.  Did I mention the cat? Did I mention I hate cats? Did I mention the cat was going to come on our big RV adventure?

Speaking of our big RV adventure, as with the RV itself, Bill doesn’t do anything small. Rather than a long weekend jaunt for our maiden voyage, he had in mind a multi-week, multi-state cross-country adventure. Not quite sea to shining sea but there is a lot of country in the middle. At least we agreed on a quick over-night shake-down trip before heading into the great unknown.

We chose a state park about an hour from home and made a Friday night reservation. We had big plans – archery practice in the nearby range, a campfire complete with s’mores, paddleboarding in the lake, followed by a leisurely drive home.

Friday after work, the three of us, along with the unwilling cat, piled into the RV and started the drive. We made it about ten feet before the trouble started. The cat yowled at the top of its lungs, pacing back and forth like a deranged, potentially rabid animal. I pictured it pouncing into Bill’s lap and gouging his eyes out, causing the RV to spin out of control, killing all of us except the cat, who would prance away from the wreckage with a smug twitch of its tail.

Instead, after a few yowls, it hid in a dark corner and sulked. Meanwhile, we turned into a street full of roadwork and low trees. A branch scraped the roof, a road cone disappeared under the front tire, but we pushed on. The interstate proved some relief. In spite of the traffic, the road was wide and people seemed to be giving us a wide berth. 

The vehicle heated up, so Bill reached over to turn on the generator. It started and stopped and started and stopped again. Sweat poured down his brow and the cat started up again with the yowling.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The generator won’t start. I’ll look at it when we stop.”

We drove in silence for a few more minutes before he turned on the blinker for an exit.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m stressed. I’ve got to stop.”

This after less than thirty miles. In less than a month, we were planning on trekking thousands of miles across the country.  

Callie tried to calm down the cat while Bill fiddled with the generator. He determined it was completely broken, although still under warranty. We got cold drinks out of the refrigerator and continued on our way, soon arriving at the state park. I laughed when I saw we’d be parking in the shadow of a Home Depot. If the generator wasn’t under warranty, I imagine we would have walked over there several times while Bill worked on fixing it.

Instead, I jumped out of the RV, taking my walkie-talkie with me to help with the backing up. It was a nice wide space with lots of room and we quickly got settled. As Bill hooked us up, a neighbor came rambling over.

“Backup camera broken?” he asked.

“No,” Bill replied.

“Then why the hell is your wife out there with a walkie-talkie?”

Bill’s answer was too quiet for me to hear, but the neighbor’s laugh echoed throughout the campground. On a normal day, it might have wounded Bill’s ego, but he was too distracted by the non-working generator to worry about it. Instead, he spent the rest of the evening with the hood open, his gaze fluctuating between the generator and its manual.

The sun set as we missed the window for the archery range and watched campfires appearing in the sites around us.  When it got too dark to see the generator anymore, Bill and Callie took marshmallows over to the neighbor’s fire and borrowed the heat. The neighbors probably figured that someone who needed a backup to the backup camera couldn’t possibly be trusted to build their own campfire anyway.

In the morning, after a night of cat pacing and meowing, Callie and I went paddleboarding while Bill used the dump station and continued to fret. Early afternoon, we started the drive home, stopping for food and Ikea. Things seemed to be looking up until we pulled into the homestead and opened the door. The overwhelming stench of propane hit us along with a fast hissing sound. Turns out the generator wasn’t the only thing broken. The propane regulator had decided to quit, too, taking out a fair amount of the propane with it. But at least we hadn’t blown up.

We pulled the RV into the barn and I escaped to the house. The cat went and hid, not knowing this wasn’t the end of its travels. Because, we’d signed up for our vacation days and bought Callie a one-way ticket to South Carolina. The clock was ticking. We were going on this trip whether we wanted to or not.