Summer Break For Everyone

 It's summer, but only for a finite time. Our end date is only about 6 weeks away and given that I live all year for these precious weeks, I intend to enjoy them as best I can. Rather than days spent in a coffee shop writing, I opt for days spent at the beach, or hours flipping through the current Food and Wine while Mary and Kate splash every bit of water out of their blow up pool. My responsibilities are on summer vacation as well (you should see the laundry room) and that is just fine with me.

My notebooks are full, I keep scribbling away, but evenings that used to be quiet writing time are now spent in the park listening to music or at the harbor watching an outdoor movie, or sometimes reading on the front porch, when it's not 97 degrees outside. I'm on summer break, right along with my children who squeeze every bit of summer out of their days. I'd hate to miss that.

Painfully Accurate Forecasting

The day before we left for Michigan Kate hugged me tightly and then threw up all over my feet. Apparently she was not feeling well, and she then passed that feeling on to her sister. Our favorite summer holiday started on a bit of a "sour" note.

We leave soon for a short end of summer getaway and guess who is sprawled in bed, head in a bowl, body full of fever? It's Mary's turn to kick off this vacation but if history has taught us anything she won't be alone for long.

Jack calls me paranoid and while I'd really like to agree, it's hard to call my fears baseless and excessive; our children get sick at almost every inopportune moment presented.

Kate spent two weeks this summer at what Jack and I called smart camp: a three hour per day gathering of six and seven year old children wearing glasses. I hesitated, the sessions she wanted ran in the weeks immediately before we left for Michigan. Eeek, exposure to that many children right before vacation, never a good idea, but I turned off the crazy voice in my head and enrolled her. See above.

This past week we have had three events well stocked with germy children: two birthday parties and on Sunday, 30 people, including children, at our home for an end of summer soiree. The timing concerned me, so close to vacation, but our calendars were full and surely this madness would not strike twice in one short summer. See above.

There is a certain empty validation in finding that I am not paranoid but rather, scarily accurate in my illness forecasting. Most regrettably we are raising social girls who truly delight in the presence of other children. They actually look forward to school and the sharing of their days with so many small germ carriers. It's torture, allowing them this childhood access to friends, but option B, sending them to school in togas fashioned from Lysol Germ Killing Wipes seems extreme, but not completely unthinkable.

Beach Necessities

We needed a vacation. Jack was having one, hours away on his annual four day weekend golf bender, and the girls and I were left at home with all the responsibilities of summer. We were ready for a day at the beach but this time we chose a one hour drive over a 15 minute walk. There was no planning, and very little actual thought beyond wanting to see the view from the other side of the water.

Bag packed, dog walked, children in the car, and one hour later we were as far away from the city as you need to be if you only need one day of vacation. We remembered bathing suits, towels and sunblock; we forgot pails and shovels and the big blue umbrella.

"Girls! We forgot your sand buckets!"
"That's all right Mom, we have these cups from Starbucks, they'll work".

Really?

They did. We had a nice sandy picnic, we played in the water, and for several glorious hours, we built a sand village with nothing more than the plastic cups we had accumulated throughout the day. For the first time in months, the girls collaborated, rather than argued, and worked well together to create a neighborhood of small sand huts, with no worries as to whose turn it was or whose bucket was last used for water, the usual banter of the beach architecture.

As one who has gone to great lengths to limit the amount of toys we own, who firmly believes that the best tool for play is a vivid imagination (and a sister), the Starbucks cup sand suburb was reassuring. My children might understand. While they will always want, they don't always need; adorned with shells and rocks and feathers, it was simply beautiful. A fine reminder to their mother who usually brings scoops and shovels and castle shaped buckets to the beach, all we really need is six hands, a few plastic cups and
time.

For one day, we had all the time we could need.

Two Hours From Home

From the front porch of our apartment, planes that have been routed over the water fly just north of us, on approach to O’Hare. On clear days I can make out the markings on the tail, American and United the most common, but it’s Alitalia, Aer Lingus and Lufthansa that always take me away. To the girls I will say “where do you think that plane has been?” but it’s really a game for me. It’s easy to see myself inside the plane, so eager to be on the ground after seven hours in the air. When asked to prepare for landing I reach under the seat to push my almost finished book back into my once organized bag. Now full of airport magazines, shortbread and a tea cup I’m worried might break, it’s a disheveled mess. I’m ready to be home but full of adventure, and soon will be ready to go again.

When my friends played Barbie, I played flight attendant. On a flight to Florida I found, in my young flyer activity pack, a shiny gold pair of Delta wings. It was as if I had been handed a magic superhero cape, assigned as an apprentice to the brave cabin crew. Certain that I had been singled out from all other able bodied eight year old passengers , and would be called upon to help should an emergency arise, I dutifully studied the evacuation procedures in my seat pocket, and wore my wings on every flight thereafter, until the back fell away and the gold shine fell flat. From then on flying outfits were carefully considered, so as to be flight crew appropriate; always a skirt, best to have a short jacket, for showcasing the wings, and if possible, a coordinating beret. The Pucci designed Braniff uniforms directed my young fashion sense; at ten I ached for turquoise pumps.

My grandparents took me to Europe when I was twelve, first to Vienna followed by a cruise down the Danube, through Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Romania, Russia and finally Turkey. From the roof of our hotel, Istanbul at night was, and remains now, one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. My grandmother took me on an Istanbul city bus, my father on the Mexico City subway, all so very far away from my suburban childhood, and all preparing me for the requisite six week post college Eurail-facilitated sojourn, with not one sense of where I was going. Occasionally lost, and eventually found, I discovered that German food was not my favorite, beaches in Italy are beautiful, and England really did feel like home.

Our first trip together, for many couples a quick weekend excursion, was a hastily planned, and then executed, trip to Italy. Decided upon after finding flights to Rome less expensive than to Denver, our intended destination, my future husband and I took off without one reservation. There was no itinerary, nothing beyond landing in Rome, and leaving from the same spot 12 days later. He was new to this kind of travel, having never before left the states; an emergency passport, one worn copy of Rick Steve’s guide to Italy, and we were as prepared as we wanted to be. Traveling is an interesting way to get to know someone, traveling sans itinerary in a country where your combined knowledge of the language amounts to buon natale, pesto and Prosecco, is an entirely different definition of getting to know you. In ten days we knew, not how the other squeezed the toothpaste, but more importantly, that traveling was something we could do together forever.

We got married. We amassed frequent flyer miles and spent long romantic dinners planning our next adventure. We went to England, Ireland and Mexico. He got a taste for adventure, I got pregnant. Nine months later there were two babies; we sent American Airlines a birth announcement and waited for their Advantage numbers to arrive in the mail.

Their first flight was at three weeks. Bundled and carried, they slept the entire time. After that, flying was easy. Dallas, Boston, Phoenix, Ireland, Philadelphia, Denver, Puerto Vallarta, for two years, two glorious years, we flew wherever we wanted, with little effort and little discomfort. And then it happened, vomit. Once, twice, three times, every time; one of our frequent flyers had developed a horrid aversion to air travel.

Three years ago we went on hiatus, our flying days over until someone either outgrew this affliction or grew old enough to be heavily medicated for the entire flight. We began searching for getaway options within two hours, by car, from Chicago. For a brief time I explored the idea of moving the entire family to Boston, or London; so much more to see, I believed, in our two hour road window. My husband, with an office in downtown Chicago, protested. Nearby vacation choices were limited; we considered Wisconsin, dismissed Indiana and settled on Michigan.

From the front porch of our small town Michigan beach rental I see kites flying overhead, the nearest airport being over one hour away. My urban children, at home restricted to supervised play at the neighborhood park, are free to run from one end of the yard, around the cottage and back, shrieking wildly as they chase each other through the sprinkler. They kick balls, play hopscotch and lay in the grass creating animals and shapes from the infrequent clouds that float lazily by. We eat fresh blueberry ice cream (not a scoop of gelato to be found in the three block downtown area), grill hamburgers and savor the corn bought on Wednesday morning from the small farmer’s market. We trade in the city bus that takes us about our neighborhood for two wheels, bicycles being the only form of transportation required. Fireflies, s’mores and sand pails define our holiday; passports and guidebooks are left at home.

I never thought I would think that a small town by the beach, only two hours from Chicago, was the perfect vacation destination, but now I do.

Drivin' South

Having spent the last week traversing the south east, an area of the country relatively new to me, my previous experience only being flying over to destination points much warmer than home, I am left with several impressions, generally positive.

As we were promised, the drive through the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee was lovely. Sadly we raced through, ears popping with only mild screaming, on interstate highway, but the view from our windows was really spectacular. Not winding and nauseating like the Rockies can sometimes be, these mountains are somewhat squatty and easy to manage, with abundant trees and greenery, just wonderful to see.

The Gulf of Mexico has, without a doubt, some of the nicest beaches I have ever seen, and while I am not an expert, I am somewhat well beach traveled and was really overwhelmed with the sand and the clear water, simply beautiful. And as a bonus, we saw dolphins frolicking around just off shore on many days, whole families of them just dancing about in the water; the girls, and I, were enchanted.

For years I have lived under the delusion that I hail from the strip mall capital of the world, the Midwest. This is just not true; in four days I found myself trapped no less than four times in parking lots large enough to land planes, possibly an option as there were few cars using the vast space suited specifically for them, ironically in a community that accepts golf carts as a viable means of transportation . Clearly designed to alienate and confuse people, strip malls leave me bewildered and longing to use my feet. A quick trip to Walgreens stretched into a long afternoon when I decided, foolishly, to pick up sandwiches to take back to the beach. From the parking lot I could see the Jersey Mike's sign, only one strip mall over, closer than the distance I walk to the train in the morning. In no time I realized that making this trip on foot would be at great risk to my continued ability to live. Begrudgingly I got back in my car and immediately found myself in the drugstore drive-thru. Waving as I passed the window I turned out, where a no left turn sign sent me into the strip mall on the other side of the strip mall where Jersey Mike was making subs, or did it? There was a nail salon, a shipping place, a liquor store, and...a Subway, wrong chain. Walgreens was now behind me, a beacon offering a point of reference in a land where everything looked exactly the same, and I was lost, or more accurately trapped.

Aside from the beaches, the panhandle of Florida looks just like the suburbs of Chicago, or St. Louis, or Kansas City, with palm trees, convertibles, tan people, and, yes, golf carts.

Most noticeably, I am left to wonder what has happened to all the G's? In one weeks time we saw signs imploring us to go fishin', swimmin', and drinkin'. Flying behind a plane over the beach, a banner invited us to " a foamin' party". We were offered some good eatin' and dancin', and my very favorite, a restaurant whose name was Grillin and Cookin. This place didn't even bother using an apostrophe, to hint that another letter might have once existed at the end of the word, confidently asserting that grillin and cookin are actual words generally accepted in an English speakin' country. What have they done with all the G's?

My mother's mother, from Dallas, spent years begging me to slow down, my speech was too fast and hurried, she couldn't understand me at all, and I spent years trying, while quietly hoping that she could speed up, maybe take less than 7 minutes to describe tuna salad on wheat toast, but it never happened. I should have listened, foreseeing that one day I might like to have a cup of tea somewhere in Alabama.

Me: A cup of tea please, black.
Manager: Whasthat?
Me: Yes, a cup of tea, just black.
Manager: Begpardin?
Me: (slowly) Just a cup of tea please.
Manager: Aaaaahhhh, ti. Sweetin'?
Me: (lost) Right, tea? Sweetin'?
Manager: Mmmmmm, ti. Yew whant that with the sweetin'?
Me: Sweetened? No, no, just plain black tea.
Manager: Yew fram round hair?
Me: Pardon me?
Manager: Hmmm, I kneew that, I did. Evryone fram round hair prefirs sweetin' ti.

This was quite possibly the most patient person I have ever encountered. He made every effort to find me a plain black tea, which was no small task, and then we the tea actually appeared, delivered by another, it was, of course, sweetin'd. He apologized profusely and set off to fix the mistake himself. Black tea, while readily available in Chicago, is not usually delivered with this much personal interest and never with a smile so large.

Beautiful beaches, miles and miles of strip malls, no G's, and some of the kindest people I have ever met. Incredibly friendly, and genuinely interested in our family and curious as to what kind of insanity brought us to drive over 1,000 miles to their alluring corner of the country. We'll be back, and we'll pack our own G's.

Dudes of all Ages

There can be no greater way to illustrate just how far you have fallen into middle aged family'dom than to take your graying at the temples husband to Florida during spring break. A man who once thought of spring break as an all night drive to South Padre with 17 of his best friends (not one of which I have ever met or heard of apart from this story), a spur of the moment trip where the packing consisted of one large cooler, a pair of swim trunks and "dude, we'll buy whatever else we need there".

This spur of the moment trip was two months in the planning. There were two pieces of luggage, five canvas bags, three overnight stays en route, anti nausea medicine, coloring books, sticker books, and Jack's favorite, books on CD, but no movies. Three days down, two days back, and hours and hours of Frances, Paddington Bear, Madeline, Frog and Toad and Jack's personal favorite, Wiggleworms, "if all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops...".

This crazed spring break'er now walks to the beach with a bag over his shoulder large enough to pass as luggage on most European trains. This is a man carrying a beach umbrella, four towels, two sand buckets, two shell scooping nets, assorted digging utensils, two pairs of goggles, 17 varieties of sun block, two boxes of raisins, numerous crackers, extra sunglasses, sandals, two swimming shirts, and one soccer ball, but not one Bud Light. Please, he's matured, he now buys Sam Adams from the tiki hut, along with two virgin strawberry daiquiris, "umbrellas, yes please".

This slap in the face was tempered only by the discovery of the DBs, two dads similar in age, both receding at the hairline, dressed in alma mater visors and brightly colored flowered long shorts. One wore a shirt that said "You haven't been pucked until you've been Fudpucked", the other, quite simply, "I Like Beer". Standing for hours, feet in the water, they stood smoking and drinking who knows what from large plastic Fudpuck cups, seemingly oblivious to the family swirling about their feet. Able to crack their secret code, Jack and I watched as they nodded and grinned like 12 year old boys each time a pack of young bikini clad spring break girls walked past, ignoring them completely. The DBs, having spent the last twenty years perfecting the Cool Dude on the Beach High Five, raised their non plastic cup holding hands to slap each other high, celebrating, we can only imagine, their not being arrested for leering.

The college dudes appeared each day just as we were just packing to leave the beach, five of them, in various stages of recovery from whatever bus may have hit them the night before. Chairs lined up, save the one guy who never got a chair, ready to whistle at whatever young female form crossed their path. Whistle, yes, they did, painfully they whistled, most of them too dried up to make much sound. Thankfully by 2:00, when they surfaced, they were ready to start the process once again, and so dragged with them an enormous cooler full of Miller Lite, but apparently not one bottle of sunblock. What appeared on Day Two was not simply five hungover soon to be suburban dads, but five bright red and crispy versions of what appeared the day before, alma matter visors and common sense clearly distributed at graduation and not a minute before. From the shelter of his bright blue beach umbrella Jack smiled, whistling along, "if all of the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes...".

Confident that he is happy to have traded the 17 friends in the Chevy Nova for the three of us and our well stocked family car, we head to the beach for spring break. Although next year he might want to be more suitably attired, that "I Like Beer" t-shirt might be just the thing for Father's Day.