My family never flew anywhere; we didn’t visit foreign countries or even leave the state. Instead, each year we loaded up a small wooden trailer with our camping gear, secured the top with a tarp and rope, then piled into our 1972 Plymouth Duster and headed for the Oregon coast. More often than not, Grandma and Grandpa would follow along in their motor home. In less than a couple of hours, we would pull off Highway 101 in Lincoln City into our familiar stamping ground—Devils Lake State Park.
Setting up camp was always a sight to behold. Mom was very particular about the arrangement of the campsite. She called the shots and we scrambled to bring it all together. As a finishing touch, she always laid an old rug in front of the tent for us to wipe our feet on so we wouldn’t track in dirt and sand. She kept a broom just inside the tent flap in case some errant debris managed to find its way inside. I’ll bet money she was the only mom on earth to ever sweep the hard dirt ground “clean” of leaves and pine needles.
On the other hand, camping was one of the few times my sister, Andrea, and I were allowed to get dirty—truly, blessedly covered in sand and muck. In fact, if our particular campsite did not have an indigenous (and substantial) plot of sand, Mom and Dad would leave us under the watchful eye of our grandparents and drive to the beach to fill a plastic garbage bag full of powdery Oregon sand, hoist it into the trunk of the car, then bring it back. They would deposit their illicit treasure as a small dune (safely away from the entrance of the tent, of course), and each year Grandma Ann would supply us with yet another set of plastic buckets and shovels to build and destroy our empires.
My Favorite Sand Toy, Sisters
On our first day there, Andrea and I would always walk with Dad and Grandpa to the lake to scope out the fishing. Dad and Grandpa liked to go there as soon as possible to gauge how good the fish were biting. While they strode confidently to the end of the dock to survey the situation, Andrea and I would slowly inch along the length of the creaky metal ramp leading to the dock. I had to carefully fight the feeling of vertigo I inevitably got when I looked down into the hazy water. Once I made it safely onto the main dock and found a support to steady myself with, I loved to contemplate the carpet of lily pads dotting the edge of the lake. I would imagine leaping from lily pad to lily pad to get back to shore—somehow that seemed safer than climbing back up the swaying, narrow ramp.
On days when Dad and Grandpa would go fishing, Grandma, Andrea, Mom, and I would go into town and window shop. We would leisurely make our way up one side of the street then cross over to the other side and make our way back. The trinket shops were my favorite, poking through bins of spiraling seashells and dried-up puffer fishes. It was a yearly ritual for Grandma to stop at the candy shop and load up on a big bag of saltwater taffy. The funny thing was, she never asked us if we liked taffy (I didn’t), but I ate it anyway because that dumb taffy was all part of the experience. Back at camp, Mom would fry up fresh fish for dinner and we’d top it off with chocolate éclairs Grandma had bought from the bakery in town.
The nights were the best though. Andrea and I would sit and observe with rapt attention the ritual building of the campfire. Dad would chop slivers of kindling from one of the logs of firewood. Then we’d watch Dad and Grandpa ball up newspaper and arrange the kindling in a sort of teepee fashion. This was then covered with shreds of newspaper and lit with a match. Once the kindling caught fire, Dad would add some smaller pieces of firewood, poke it a bit with a stick, then add another piece or two and arrange it some more. I loved to hear the sizzle and pop of the damp, knotty wood and breathe in the smoky air. Dad swore that the wood we bought got worse every year: “It’s so wet, all it does is smoke, dammit!” Grandpa would take a swig of his beer and nod in agreement.
Grandma, Grandpa, Me, and Dad
Andrea and I would search the area for small twigs and splintered kindling to poke at the fire with. We loved to watch the tiny sparks of light fly out from the red-hot coals when we jabbed at them with the sticks; we’d wave the glowing ends through the air and draw pictures on our burned retinas like we did with sparklers on the Fourth of July. Grandpa would smile and tell us that girls who played in the fire wet the bed! Even though I knew he was teasing, I always was a bit worried that I might.
The last night of our vacation was always special. Mom would play her guitar and sing. She had the loveliest voice, and we would all sing along for what seemed like hours. I can still see the flicker of the firelight on her face as she sang. Her eyes sometimes closed, and she was so beautiful. Every time she finished a song we clamored for more, each of us having our own special request. Sometimes people from the adjoining campsites would come over to hear her; it wasn’t uncommon for her to draw a crowd.
And always, the last song was for Dad. She would sing the song about the Whistling Gypsy Rover. He was a man who won the heart of a wealthy young lady. Her love for him was so strong that she left all that she had behind to follow him. Her father became so enraged that he searched all the land for her. When he finally found his daughter and the gypsy rover, they were at a mansion where there was music and wine.
“He is no gypsy, my Father,” she sang,
“but king of these lands all over.
And I will stay till my dying day
With the whistling gypsy rover.”
I can still see the look in my father’s eye when he watched her sing that song. He must have felt like she was singing only for him. In my child’s heart I knew she was singing about their love; my father, the gypsy rover, and she, the fair young lady who followed her heart and was rewarded with love and riches. And while I loved that song, I dreaded its end. Despite my heavy eyelids and the dying firelight, I wished it all could go on forever. Afterward, Andrea and I would lay in our bunk cots and fight sleep, me poking her in the butt with my toes through the thin nylon of the cot above me.
I guess I never thought much about what made my family vacations special. Until recently, I don’t know if I could have even put my finger on it. But what was once elusive now seems so clear to me. Andrea and I were us at our best. Perhaps more importantly, we got to see our parents at their best.
We caught a glimpse of a more perfect version of our parents. We saw who they might have been without the disappointments, compromises, and contradictions. Dad was the sole provider he was raised to believe he should be. He was our protector and playmate. Mom became the famous singer she had always dreamed of being, her beauty spotlighted by the fire at night. She was also a caretaker and a friend. We managed to escape to a world, however briefly, where laughter was commonplace. There were no bills to pay, no overtime to be worked, no unreasonable bosses, and no cavities or calories. We played, sang songs, got dirty, drank soda pop, and had sugar cereal for breakfast. Quite simply, we were happy.
Family
