Vacations Anyone?

The hot blog topic recently has been vacations--or rather the lack of them. Seems Americans don't take long vacations any more. Speculations abound at to why we don't vacation like we used to. Some say people don't want to come back to work piled up. Others say they can't afford the gas. Still others say they can't get that much time off from work. I think a lot of it has to do with the way we are raised to feel guilty for not being busy all the time. Any time we are not being productive is time wasted and well, shame on us. It's a pity, though. If God felt it right to rest after creating the world, why should we not rest ourselves as well?

We didn't take vacations much when I was a child. My mother didn't like to travel...or else she just didn't want to be in such close quarters with my dad for an extended period of time, I'm not really sure. Usually for vacation, we spent a week in Galveston, TX. We did that until I was about 12, then my parents discovered that they could rent an entire beach house on the mainland for the same cost as a hotel room on the island. The first time we rented a house, my grandparents split the cost with my parents. My older brother and I went down first with my grandparents. Then my parents and my younger siblings came down a couple of days later for the rest of the week. Eventually, as my younger siblings got older, the entire family would go for the entire week. We did this every other year until I was 20 or so and my parents split up. I don't know why we didn't go every year. Those off years, we didn't have a vacation at all...

When I was 10, we spent a week in San Antonio. That was fun, but the only really long vacation I remember was what my Dad called the Great Western Tour. It was only my parents, my older brother and me, because my younger siblings hadn't been born yet. I don't remember a lot of the itinerary, because I was only 4 years old, but that trip really stands out in my memory.

The trip started when we went to Dallas to my cousin Kathy's wedding. My brother and I were in it--he was the ring bearer, and I was the flower girl. I still vividly remember the wedding. I remember rehearsing with my little empty basket and someone telling me that tomorrow at the real wedding there will be rose petals in the basket. I was to scatter them up the aisle so that the bride would have a carpet of rose petals to walk as she came down the aisle. When I got to the front of the church, I was to go stand at a certain spot until the wedding was over. The next day at the real wedding, I walked down the aisle, scattering petals just as we'd rehearsed, and as I got to the front of the aisle, I saw my aunt (not the bride's mother, but my other aunt) gesturing wildly at me and pointing repeatedly to where I was supposed to go. I thought, "She must think I don't know where to go." But I did. Many years later, when preparing for my own wedding, I recalled this with my aunts, and we all had a good laugh about it.

The first stop on this trip was the Palo Duro Canyon in the Texas Panhandle. We camped there at least one night. Somewhere in the park, there was this rock at the top of a slope with a hole in it. It looked like a giant ring. My mother, my brother and I decided we would climb up the side of this slope and look down through that rock and my dad would take a picture. Now, it probably wasn't as high as I remembered, but I was a lot smaller then than I am now. Halfway up, I decided the climb was just too much for me, and I went back down. My mother and brother made it to the top, looked down through the rock ring, and my dad took the picture. They then climbed back down, and when they got to the bottom, they began rubbing ice on their hands. I asked what happened and was told that they'd gotten into some stinging nettles, and the ice was supposed to make their hands feel better. Even at that tender age, I remember thinking, "Boy, it's a good thing I came back down, or I would have gotten into those nettles, too."

That's about all I remember from Palo Duro Canyon. We headed west, and passed through Northern New Mexico. We camped for a few days at Red River in a really pretty campground that I remember to this day. I don't know where it was, but we were camped in a really private area. It's like we were the only ones there. We had a big blue cabin tent. No RVs for us! One thing I wondered about was why it was so cold in the morning when we first got up, but got so hot later in the day. I remember grumpily asking my mother this very question one morning as I wasn't wanting to get out of my nice, warm sleeping bag. I also remember sometime later in my childhood, when we went to Oklahoma, crossing the Red River and thinking that it was where we had camped that time. I'd gotten the river confused with the town. My dad explained that it was a different place, though, and I was disappointed.

Our campsite was near a stream, and my dad spent most of his days fly fishing. I don't remember if he ever caught anything, though. I was fascinated by the way he could keep that fishing line in the air for so long without it falling. I've fished in many different ways, but I never tried fly fishing. It just has a mystery, and an aura that reminds me of my dad. I can still see him out knee deep in that stream with the line floating above his head. My dad also took us to a fish hatchery and we saw the fingerling trout and fish of all sizes being readied to be released. I was fascinated by the gazillions of fish.

But then it was on to Colorado! This is significant to me because it is the first time I ever saw mountains, and the first time I ever saw snow. I knew what snow was, and had seen pictures and seen it on TV but had never actually seen any in person. I was amazed that Colorado still had snow on the ground in June, because well, in June in South East Texas, it's in the mid to upper 90's--if not hotter. But in Colorado, there were still big drifts of the white stuff on the sides of the road, and Dad would pull over from time to time and let my brother and I get out and play in it.

Somewhere in Colorado (or maybe it was still in NM, I don't really remember), I rode a horse for the first time as well. There was a place that gave guided trail rides and we went on one. My mother and brother rode on one horse. The employee there asked my brother whether he wanted to sit in front of my mother, or behind her in the saddle. He chose behind. I wondered why he did that, as all he would see was my mother's back. When the employee asked me whether I wanted to sit in front or in back of my dad in the saddle, I ran toward some ponies I'd seen tied there declaring that I wanted to ride one of them. They were just my size, I thought, and I could ride one of them. After being cautioned by the employee and my dad not to run, I was told by my dad that I had to ride with him because I was too young to ride by myself. I didn't think this was fair, because I'd seen another boy of about 8 or 9 riding on his own pony. I asked why he could ride by himself, and I couldn't. I was told that he'd been riding horses his whole life and knew how to ride. So the employee asked me again whether I wanted to sit in front or in back of my dad, I said in front. He picked me up onto the horse, and after a brief wait while everyone got mounted and ready to go, we were off. The trail led through the woods and across a stream. At the stream, the boy's pony stopped to drink, and the boy dropped the reins. He had to reach way down the pony's neck to get them, and I was sure he would fall off head first, but he didn't. He retrieved his reins and we were off again. My dad showed me how to hold the reins, and I steered the horse the whole ride. What I didn't understand then was that the horses knew the trail as well as the guides did, and I didn't really steer him at all. Too soon, the ride was over. "I didn't get to kick him!", I wailed. I hadn't needed to, my dad explained to me, because the horse was already going, and if I kicked him, it might make him run away.

The most impressive thing I remember seeing in Colorado was the Mesa Verde cliff dwellings. I vividly remember seeing the mesa as we approached, and walking the long ramp that led to the village. I thought it would have really been fun to live in a village in a cave like that. Some families had to climb ladders to get to their houses, which were stacked on top of other houses. There was a hole in the ground that was supposed to be a holy place. My brother went down into it, but I was afraid to. It was really dark down there, and I overheard somebody--a tour guide maybe--saying that in the old days, only men and boys were allowed to go down there. I didn't feel that I would be allowed to go into it. Ok, I was only 4. After I was grown, I discovered that this was a Kiva. I've always wanted to go back to Mesa Verde, and maybe someday I will.

We also crossed the Royal Gorge bridge, but I don't really remember much about it.

From there, we headed back East, and the next stop I remember was Dodge City, KS. I think I was a bit disappointed in Dodge City. It didn't look anything like it did on TV. I didn't see Marshall Dillon, but I did get to ride in a stagecoach, though whether it was authentic or a replica, I don't know. Funny, I was even disappointed in that, because they only drove in a large circle, and you couldn't even see the horses from inside it.

We ended the trip by going to Bartlesville, OK to visit my mother's grandparents. While there, we took a trip out to Woolaroc. I imagine it has really grown over the years, but what I remember most was seeing the buffalo and the deer in the wildlife park. After a few days in Bartlesville, we headed back home. We stopped overnight and stayed in a hotel. My parents had had their fill of sleeping in a tent by this time. When we got up that last morning to head home, we got out to the car to find little toys in our seats! My brother had an airplane, and I had a little brown horse with a black mane and tail. I still have that horse to this day, packed away. It is missing at least one leg, and I think his tail too, but I'll never forget my mom saying, "Daddy wanted to surprise you because you've been so good on this trip." I think that was the only time my mother ever told me I was a good girl. That evening, we arrived back at our home, and the Great Western Tour was over.



I hope you've enjoyed this account of one of the best memories of my childhood. If you've made it this far, I congratulate you!