Todd pointed out, “You know it’s early when you can still taste your toothpaste (from brushing before bed).” We have the routine down. We’ve been doing it once, twice, even three times a summer for as long as we can remember. We set the alarm for 3:30, but you know what it’s like the night before a trip. A million last minute additions, regardless of how organized you think you are this time. We stayed out with our friends later than we should’ve the night before. And I can’t help but check the clock throughout the night. Wondering if we got it all. Hoping, but never really sure till we get there. Inevitably I wake up before the alarm, forfeiting my last few minutes of sleep, surrendering to the dark morning when no one ought to be up for more than a bathroom break. But I shower and summon Todd that it’s his turn. I wake up the older boys so they can shower as well. A 13-hour summer road trip requires this kind of preparation. Even the little kids know the drill and dress for the day through mere slits of their heavy eyes, carrying their pillows and blankets to the blackened van, a small cave of familiar comfort enveloped in a sea of stars and silent night sky. We pack the cooler with grapes, lunch makings, lettuce from the garden, water bottles, and yogurts. A last walk-through to ascertain that toilets are flushed and lights are off. We’ve been known to leave the glue gun plugged in for a day, and we’ve made a last-minute return for a forgotten item only to notice the front door wide open. So we carefully lock up, hoping our house will remain intact for the week. As we settle in for the drive ahead, intent as can be expected at 4 on a weekend morning, we petition Heavenly Father to watch over us on our journey.
The town we know so well looks eerily different at such an early hour, and we can’t help but wonder where our fellow drivers are off to. Before we even reach the highway, all is calm in our van and most of the kids have surrendered. Occasionally they’ll stay awake and chat for awhile, but not for long. I, too, succumb for an hour or two. By 6:30 Todd needs a snack, maybe a Dr. Pepper if it was a late night. Even pregnant, I’ve climbed all over the van, my yoga for the day, collecting various snack and comfort items for family members. By 7 or so we need gas. Everyone stretches, and I hand out breakfast as we carry on: yogurt, cereal, muffins, fruit. I take a turn for an hour or so while Todd rests uncomfortably and shallowly. The kids continue their oblivious slumber for several hours, allowing me time to listen to my own cds, heavenly to be on nearly deserted roads alone with my thoughts. As the day wears on we stop for sandwiches and gas. The kids talk with us, we listen to music and audio books. We make our way through several Dr. Peppers, handfuls of trail mix and sunflower seeds, cookies and sticks of beef jerky. Some fruit, though never enough in my opinion. Todd spoils the kids with gas-station sodas and treats. I sometimes take a turn in the back seats and let one of the kids play co-pilot. Avery, our 13 year-old daughter, dreads these road trips and the accompanying concoction of sweaty sandals, Funyons, beef jerky, and Zac Brown band. But we laugh, knowing this is the fodder of fond memories she’ll one day treasure.
Somewhere along the road we lose an hour, but after 13-14 hours we pull off a dirt road and onto Todd’s parents’ driveway, a little piece of paradise, a cabin on a lake. They’ve put so much work into their home and land, flowers welcome us from every angle, and their garden is in full bloom. It’s a welcome sight, we are thrilled with the change of venue for the week and enthusiastically embrace the parents we haven’t seen in nine months or so. It’s a toss up as to what we are more thankful for: to be out of the van or for a homemade hot dinner waiting for us. We chatter happily, catching up on one another’s lives, easing back into the family dynamic. The boys and dads effortlessly talk fishing and continue the tradition of playing games late into the evening with popcorn and Dr. Peppers; any other dad/uncle/aunt/cousin who’s around joins in. The womenfolk might watch a girly movie or read, basking in a free evening void of real-life obligations. It soaks in. We’re finally on vacation.
The week unfolds in a predictable but unstructured rhythm. We all sleep in much later than normal, what with the vacation mood, fresh air, time change, and late gaming. But Todd and I sneak out each morning for a 3 mile walk to the lake down the dirt road, plastered with bug spray to abate the tenacious mosquitoes and larger-than-life biting flies. We slowly make our way on the sparsely traveled sandy road, noting the occasional deer or snake accompanied by the cacophony of birds and insects in the background. We’re home by 9 and wake up our contented sleepers, indulgently basking in their new vacation schedule.
After a late breakfast of blueberry pancakes topped with fresh peaches, we get to to work splitting and stacking wood or weeding the garden. If it starts to rain we come in and play games or watch movies. We have lunch meat sandwiches or leftovers and do more of the same all afternoon. Maybe a small group will fish on a nearby lake. They might kayak or canoe. The girls worked on fairy houses all week. Even the older boys amuse themselves with Legos from their dad’s childhood, unconsciously grateful for a grandma with foresight. Last summer the kids created a treehouse teepee. Someone’s always up for a game. A puzzle patiently waits in the four-season porch if one of us needs a little quiet solitude. Nearly everyone is in the middle of a book, and we almost all end up snoozing at some point during the day. Our kids were fascinated by The Price is Right this past trip, the first time they’d ever seen anything like it. They think this is the answer they’ve been waiting for, all their financial woes abated. The news was also new to them. The girls and grandma and I went to “town” one day (population around 7,000; about 45 minutes away) to do some shopping and to check out library books and to spoil ourselves with lunch out. Todd, Avery, and I found some buys at garage sales and antique stands and stocked Andrew up on old dishes and kitchenware for college. He’s less thrilled than we were with the finds. We picked wild blueberries on the side of the road as a family. We went hiking and wading at a state park. We lounged and talked about the past. We contemplated the future over dinner. Grandparents can ask the hard questions while providing insightful bits of wisdom from pages of their personal histories.
Some parts of our week in Minnesota remind me of camping. Sand follows us everywhere. Instead of pretty-smelling lotions and straightening irons, our beauty routine simply consists of pony tails, braids, and bug repellant. We rarely feel squeaky clean except for after our evening shower; it’s just so humid and moist otherwise. We count on a combination of engine oil, campfire smoke, citronella and incense to mask the sweaty smells.
A large family group reminds grandma what it was like to cook for six kids and she itches to try her latest recipe finds on us. Vacation life revolves around meals, our only barometer of time. An early dinner allows maximum time on the lake for evening fishing. Remaining family members might gather around the small campfire with S’mores. Whoever’s left might watch the news or Weather Channel documentary or an old movie. Life is good.
No matter how late it gets, we can never fully fall asleep until the fishermen return to tell their tales and to show their wares. One night this trip we were incredulous as they related their story of the truck brakes giving out while backing down the boat ramp. Our 17-year-old son who had been directing his dad from the tailgate jumped off to the side right under the truck’s tracks as Todd swerved in order to stop the truck. We couldn’t believe his close call and are still overcome thinking about what could’ve happened. The rest of the week they only had the canoe to use, but I secretly liked having everyone around more instead of being a fisherman’s widow.
As the last of the daylight fades, there’s usually time for one more late-night game after they’ve cleaned their fish. We might drift off to the sound of grandpa’s late night news report, or maybe the kids will stay up late watching a movie or listening to the tales of the night. I almost always spend the last part of the day reading contentedly in the basement bedroom with the windows open to the crickets and frogs and loons. I never get better sleep than in Minnesota, cocooned in soft, clean sheets listening to nature’s lullabies, somehow completely exhausted from doing not much of anything, playing kid again, leaving the adult matters in the hands of someone else for a week.
Before we know it, we’ve spent our allotted days and always wonder why we don’t just plan two weeks instead of one. We finally get into a sort of rhythm, a routine of sorts, and it’s time to pack up for the trek home. Inevitable, yet regrettable. Because now we have to be the adults again and get back to our lives. Even the intermittent labor of splitting wood during a vacation hardly seems like work, everything is a bit more fun when it’s not your own house or yard or wood stack. But we know we can’t live in the North Woods of Minnesota forever; we’ve made our life here in Montana and a vacation, by definition, is temporary. But we restock the van with sandwich makings and rhubarb muffins and chocolate chip cookies for the ride home. We’ve picked up some wild rice, some cool burls for future knife handles (huge tree trunk segments that take up more than their share of the storage area), and of course we’ve got to make sure the cardboard and popsicle stick fairy houses remain intact. It’s easier to pack this time, we just collect everything that looks like it belongs to someone who lives at our house and squeeze it in. We’ll do the laundry when we get home, the kids will vacuum their rows of the van, the parents will call with a list of forgotten items. The light in our cool basement bedroom wakes us before our alarm clock, and as if on cue, the kids know what to do. We gather for family prayer with the parents, everyone still groggy from another late night, and climb into the capable van that has carried us across thousands of miles. I don’t sleep much this time, it’s already light and I’ve adjusted to the Minnesota time clock. I’m content to be with Todd, who I normally don’t see much during the week. We catch up on emails and messages as we regain cell service. We gradually start to remember what it is we do, we slowly feel our normal life return. And to be honest, we’d both be happy to put it on hold for just one more week. We already can’t wait for next summer. The drive might seem long to some, but it’s a road worth taking.
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