Family Vacation
When a memory is this good, you can recall every detail—50 years later
By Ron Ciancutti
I sat on my knees in the deep back seat of dad’s new 1965 Galaxie 500 with my chin on the rolled-down window sill. I was 5 years old, but I always had a window seat because I got car sick. Dad worked at Ford, so we always drove Fords. “A man supports the man who feeds his family,” dad would say. I opened the glove compartment once and saw the emergency-flasher light switch mounted there and decided (since it read “EMERGENCY”) it was evidently some kind of police flasher and siren. I told myself that dad must be some type of secret agent for Ford Motor Company. He actually was a metallurgist, which I had no idea what that meant, so secret agent was the shortest line between two points. When you’re 5, you can come to conclusions like that … and then ask what’s for lunch.
Photo: © Can Stock Photo / epantha
So, I did.
OK. Dad’s a secret agent. “Are we stopping for lunch?”
“Sure,” my mom said, turning around to smile and look at my two sisters and me. “That’s part of taking a vacation.” Her big cat-eye sunglasses often scared me when she turned around fast. Ah, the sixties.
The exterior of the 500 was burnt-orange—the same as the vinyl interior. It was one of those cars that made you feel like you were on a boat; the suspension was very robust. As we hummed along the Pennsylvania back roads, the summer breezes blew through the car, mixing with the smoke of dad’s cigarette, which he dangled out the window with his left hand. The muffled sounds of the radio played, and Mom affectionately touched dad’s shoulder as he drove. It was nice to see them so happy together. I think that image of him in his new car, pretending not to be a secret agent, having mom clearly in love with him, wearing sunglasses, and hanging a cigarette carelessly out the window was my first model of the man I wanted to be someday. He had everything under control. He was cool and had a great reputation as a “stand-up” guy—a term back then that described one as a reliable, solid, dependable man whom others admired. To this day, I can recall how important that was back then.
Old, But Familiar
We were heading to an old-fashioned “resort” of sorts, that was quickly falling out of style. Compared to the new water parks and insanely-fast roller coasters that were emerging, this little lake park was a cherished treasure that still had bathhouses, a small amusement park, games, a boardwalk, and a classic relic of a hotel where guests were served breakfast, lunch, and dinner as part of the room fare. Is it any wonder I grew up to be a hopeless romantic? My folks thrived on memory-filled places such as these. Families were lined up in an enormous hallway before being led into a cavernous dining room—often with other families—and giant bowls of food were served by uniformed waitresses. Everyone dressed nicely, the waiters were in suits, and our new dinner mates often became short-term friends whom we ran into all week. My sisters retained some of these friends as “pen pals.”
When we pulled up to the hotel—which was just outside the boardwalk—a bellhop would come to the car, remove our bags, and take them on a dolly to the front desk. Dad would park, tip the bellhop, and then pay for the week’s stay—in cash (I thought that big wad of bills was so cool). It was all so impressive. At 5 years old, I didn’t notice the hotel was ancient, there was no air-conditioning in the rooms, the hallway floors tilted and rolled from years of lakeside warping and buckling, and the mattresses swallowed the occupant like a taco since they were so soft and past their prime.
Falling Into Routine
We had taken this trip before, so we knew the routine. Everyone washed up, unpacked, and went down the thick, green-carpeted stairway out the front door to the massive porch filled with chairs. “Dinner line begins at 7:00,” the desk clerk reminded mom as we walked by. She nodded and smiled, knowing we were going to have tonight’s dinner standing up, not in the dining room. Minutes later, I was holding a paper cone full of French fries swimming in vinegar and salt. The boardwalk was a smorgasbord of food delights. Dad had been thinking about that Italian sausage drenched in peppers and onions since we got in the car yesterday, and my sisters and I were holding chili dogs in both hands with similar anticipation. Mom kept her dignity until the funnel cakes were served, and then it got ugly. With powdered sugar on her nose and oily fingers, she was 11 years old again. I remember the satisfaction of the food, but more important was the camaraderie of the five of us just enjoying each other as we ate and the sun setting on that grassy midway; the lake breeze cooling our heads; the distant tones of the carnival barkers drawing people in to take a chance at a game; the lights from the rides blinking and illuminating my smiling sisters; best of all—the feeling of not having to be anywhere else but where we were right then. We didn’t stress over foreign cartels, deceitful politicians, or the changing sexual persuasions of Hollywood’s newest sweetheart. We had the security of being a solid family unit, knowing we had a good life. Dad was going to provide, and Mom was going to keep us on the straight and narrow; we were going to get good grades, nutritious meals, and protection from bad things like foul language and things we were too young to see yet. It was an age of innocence that wasn’t anxious or frantic. I didn’t know the top pop-music performers, nor did I care. Athletic heroes hit home runs; they didn’t have shoe contracts. And this little vacation held nothing more than the promise of time together, doing leisurely things and enjoying life. I don’t think I’ve experienced that kind of inner peace since. Mom decided we could rinse our hands in the lake, which was just 20 steps from the boardwalk. We walked to the moonlit beach and removed our shoes. We strolled through the lukewarm summer waters, reaching down to clean our hands and delight in the splashing waves. Dad positioned himself farther from the shoreline and set two long logs at a 90-degree angle. He’d gathered all the elements of a fire and soon had it blazing. We sat with our backs to the logs, feet extended to the fire. The waves were rhythmic and consistent, and the carnival atmosphere playing on the boardwalk made for the finest background sound I could have imagined.
Before we all nodded off, dad Dad smothered the fire in sand, and we ascended the hill to the hotel. We washed and brushed before bed, and I went to the window where I could look through the trees at the distant lights on the midway. The breeze from the lake was heaven. I can say no trip or adventure since those days ever included the peaceful solitude that washed over me on that good-old family vacation.
Pass It On
Those memories are almost 55 years old, but they were so good and rich that I can recall them like it was yesterday. Since then, I have lived a whole life with a favorable balance of success and failure, but I also have become a father of five and a grandfather to 16! Sure, I owe them bountiful holidays and solid family leadership, but more than that I owe them a path to dream. And dreaming is the product of associating memories with wishful thinking. When I build that roaring blaze in the backyard fire pit and watch as the kids are drawn in, smiling, preparing their marshmallow sticks, I know that I am building a memory. When they look up from the foul line during basketball games and see me and Grandma in the stands, I know why smiles appear on their faces. When one of them mentions a big class project and they see Grandma and me sitting in the parking lot after school where their mom usually sits, they know they are coming to our house to get that project done. These are expressions of love and illustrations of priorities I want to be sure are ingrained and fortified.
Ron Ciancutti worked in the parks and recreation industry since he was 16 years old, covering everything from maintenance, operations, engineering, surveying, park management, design, planning, recreation, and finance. He is now retired. He holds a B.S. in Business from Bowling Green State University and an M.B.A. from Baldwin Wallace University. He is not on Facebook, but he can be reached at ron@northstarpubs.com.