Published Wednesday, July 07, 2010 2:14 PM
Updated Wednesday, July 07, 2010 2:15 PM
I think the word vacation is derived from two ancient Etruscan words, “vay” – a long journey – and “cation” which, loosely translated, means, “to the far side of hell.”
I see these parents cruising along in their air conditioned mini-vans, their little darlings safely strapped in rear-facing back seats like midget astronauts – and they’re watching TV.
TV? In the car? Are you kidding me?
The very idea still astonishes the heck out of me even though I know it’s been done for nearly two decades; in fact, most higher-end vehicles actually come with DVD players these days, the better to keep the family’s 2.5 urchins quiet and happy.
I know sooner or later I’ll overhear some tale of woe, of what a horrible trip they had, of how awful it was when the little darlings finally ran out of DVDs -- and I laugh.
“They whined for hours,” the distraught mom might say. “And you just can’t put them in time out in the car, can you?”
You people have no idea.
Hearken back to the year 1970. My family is packed into a un-air conditioned ’67 Ford Vista Cruiser station wagon tooling down I-95. The only climate control devices are these ancient artifacts known as window handles, by which primitive man (or woman) would manually roll down the car window – all the way to the inside of the door, no less – in order to allow the blazing hot gasoline and exhaust fume laden air from outside to mingle with the even hotter, cigarette smoke and canine flatus laden air inside.
There are no shoulder harnesses or baby seats, no air bags or DVD players. There is an AM radio that occasionally picks up fading signals from some radio station on Planet Hillbilly, but mostly it serves as a sonic tachometer – you can hear the engine rpms in the static.
The only seat belts are in the front seat and they fit loosely over the lap, the better to hurl one face-first into the dashboard in the event of an accident. The back seat allegedly has seatbelts, but they have long since disappeared into the sticky, filthy vinyl and carpet netherworld between seat cushion, floorboard, and tailgate deck.
But forget the primitive safety features in this huge, gas-guzzling hunk-o-Detroit iron. We stood a better chance of getting killed in heavy traffic not because of the lack of seat belts and air bags but because of my dad’s colossal temper. That heavy West Point class ring swung through the back seat like an avenging boom at the slightest provocation.
To be fair, my dad really was a great guy and a wonderful father. It’s just that nothing makes a stronger argument for retroactive birth control than driving 500 miles through heavy holiday traffic in a un-air conditioned station wagon loaded with four shrieking kids and a gaseous dog.
By the time we’ve backed out of the driveway, we know this is going to be a 10-12 hour journey through the far side of Hell, just like the Etruscan word says. One sister is already too hot or too cold – the opposite of everyone else in the car – and we will know we have reached the halfway point when dad has to pull over so she and my other sister can perform their annual roadside barf ritual.
There will be no juice boxes and healthy snacks – although we may stop for the big orange belly washer and pack of Nabs that will jump-start the above-mentioned roadside ritual. And if you really get bored – and you will – Mom and Dad will fix that: they’ll stop at a produce stand for enough beans to snap and peas to keep the kids busy shelling for the rest of the trip.
The weird thing is, we all looked forward to this, no, we couldn’t wait, counted down the days and hours, to do this – even my Dad.
So it’s true; insanity does run in families.