By Kathleen LaRocque
The innocence of an 11-year-old washes away during her 1950s family vacation as her worldview expands, her values reshape, and her eyes open to new experiences and ways of life, quietly challenging her assumptions and reshaping her understanding of America.
Times change. Attitudes change. Belief systems change. The norms, the events, the words, and of course the styles all change. Change is constant! Therefore, my memory of a childhood vacation is of a time gone by – the 1950s.
Mom and Dad surprised us three girls when they announced we would be driving from Cleveland, Ohio, to Sarasota, Florida, over Easter vacation. This was a biggie! Prior to that, the only place we had ever gone was Niagara Falls. THIS would be a TRIP!
First, I had to advise my school that I would be gone for more days than Easter vacation allowed. I guess that year I had a teacher from hell because she made sure I was overloaded with reading, and more reading, and even more reading of future chapters in all my textbooks to ensure I would have NO time for vacationing! Lucky for me, I was a quick, ferocious reader, and I could attack this agenda with gusto. Nothing would stop me from having this exciting adventure.
Departure day couldn’t come too soon. We got a late start, but eventually off we went in our big old boat of a Chrysler. Dad believed in big cars, and this was it. The front was a bench seat, so Dad was in the driver’s seat, I was in the middle, and Mom was in the passenger seat. My two sisters got the best of the deal. They got to hog up the entire back seat. Being the youngest has its advantages and also the disadvantages. But I loved being with my mom, so I settled in for the long drive to Florida. No superhighways back then.
I was content to just sit back and watch all the traffic. Mile after mile would bring us closer to our destination. Soon, a quick stop for lunch taught us that we would be eating at a Truck Stop. Dad claimed they had the best food at the best prices. Dad was not about to dally on the drive down. Rooms for the night would be costly for the five of us. So, we ate quickly and then got back on the road. Every mile we took was important in getting to our destination.
After traveling all day, I noticed that I had many questions, so I started asking them. “Dad, why does that sign say ‘soft shoulder’. What does that mean?” Dad was great. He was so eager to answer that question. Later, as we drove through the beginning dusk, I again asked, “Dad, why are there so many semis on the road this late?” “Oho!” He answered. “They have schedules to meet, and day or night, they travel as much as they can. Honey, they are called ‘nightcrawlers’.” Wow! I had never heard of that before. This was all news to me. First, soft shoulders, and now nightcrawlers. This was quite interesting.
Finally, we got off the road for the night. We had crossed over into West Virginia. Yet again, I experienced the disadvantage of being the youngest. There were two nice double beds. Mom and Dad got one. My sisters got the other. What about me? Well, they hauled in a rollaway bed for me. And that’s how it went for the entire vacation.
The next day, we had to maneuver through the winding, sometimes treacherous roads of West Virginia. How frightening. Every time we came to a hairpin turn, high up in mountainous territory, there would be a sign that said, “Jesus Saves”. I didn’t want Jesus to save me. I wanted to remain in one piece. Traveling through this state was a harrowing experience. Kentucky wasn’t as bad, but the waitresses had a funny way of talking. Their twang was like a new language to me. I persevered and soon processed what they were saying.
That day, we passed through West Virginia, Kentucky, the tip of Tennessee, and the bottom of North Carolina. We were definitely making progress. Dad was doing great. We hadn’t been lost yet.
I did have one more frightening experience in Fayetteville, North Carolina. We drove through a town, and of course, Dad stopped so we could eat. From our place at the table, I could see out at the town square. There was a most odd-looking structure, and the words on it were most astonishing to me. The words were “Slave Auction”. What in the heck was going on here? Seems it was just there. For no reason. Never torn down. I felt like I’d been hit on the head with a brick. We never learned this in school. There was nothing in our books about it. Yes, I knew there had been slaves, and they were freed by Abraham Lincoln. That was about all I knew. I lived in Ohio. Anything about slavery was far removed from me. Mom and Dad had a lot of explaining to do for me that day. My educational experience was coming alive on this trip.
Finally, this day came to a close. Another night, another motel. I was becoming a seasoned traveler.
Now we tackled Georgia. Yes, I spoke too soon. Dad got lost. I should have known something was wrong when we passed a shack on a nondescript backroad, and there were farm animals milling about on the rickety front porch. “Dad, Dad! What are those animals doing? Why do those people have them on that porch?” Well, Dad gave me a ‘talk’ about poor people. I really didn’t know poor people. Back at home, all my friends, relatives, and fellow students had the same background as me. Even the movies I had seen never showed me poverty. Poverty was just a word to me. This was definitely not something I could process easily. It ruined my entire image of humanity.
Dad finally had to ask directions for the very first time on the trip. We all listened in amazement as a helpful fellow gave Dad the information. He talked like his tongue couldn’t get a grip on itself. He slurred something about turning here and there. Absolutely none of it made sense. He went on and on, still giving ‘directions’, and none of it was hitting home. Finally, when we pulled away, Dad just shook his head and aimed the car dead south.
Florida, here we come! Oh boy. Days of excitement, look out! Sarasota, Florida, we are here. First off, we all got settled at Town Hall Manor, where our cabin was located. We would be here for the duration of our vacation. Everyone was so helpful. And of course, the dreaded rollaway bed was brought in for me.
After unpacking and getting our bearings, we all wanted to go to the beach. That is what this vacation was all about. Oh! The fun we had. My sisters and I jumped the waves, we paddled, we swam (Well, they did. I didn’t know how to swim). We spent the entire day at the beach. I was always known as the brown berry…my dark complexion was in contrast to my two blonde sisters and their fair skin. We played all day and ate heartily that night.
Soon after, my sister Pat decided to take her shower for the day. Just minutes after she went into the bathroom, we heard a scream. She had turned on the shower, not expecting ferociously hot steaming water to come pouring out, scorching her hand beyond belief. Now we had the problem of hot water spilling out of the showerhead and no way to turn it off. My sister Yvonne managed to wrap all the towels around her hand, reach in, and stem the flow. Poor Pat needed all kinds of lotions to ease the burning sensation in her hand.
But that wasn’t the end of it. The next morning, my two fair-skinned blonde sisters were burned all over. Too much sun! No more beach for them for the rest of the vacation. Their skin was like burnt bacon. That meant no more beach for me! I was being penalized unjustly.
The sting of losing our beach privileges was hard to take. We had to hang around Town Hall Manor. We soon discovered that chameleons roamed freely on all the bushes surrounding our cabin. We caught them and delighted in watching them change color to adapt to the color of our clothing.
Mom and Dad tried to come up with an interesting excursion. They decided we would go to see the glass blowers. I noticed Dad observing the building for a bit before he took us in. Instead of getting to see glass blowers in action, Dad hustled us out. He had gauged the length of the building, and once we entered, he realized that there really wasn’t room for ‘glass blowers,’ and he deduced it was a tourist trap.
Yes, the rest of our vacation went that way. Nothing for us kids to do. But every evening, Mom and Dad went out – whether to the Greyhound Races or to some other exciting event. We were left to our own devices, but we made the best of it. We were so inventive that we were able to create fun and excitement day after day. Yvonne and Pat donned long-sleeved shirts so we could still run around outside.
We did get to go to Myakka River State Park, but boy, that was dull! Who wants to stand around looking at Spanish moss? Dad took our pictures and made us all put our hands up to touch the Spanish moss. Those pictures are ridiculous. Three lackluster sisters hanging on to green stuff.
When it’s all said and done, I learned more in my 11th year when vacationing than I ever could have in one year of schooling.
Coming home was uneventful, but it was exciting to be setting out for H-O-M-E.
The only outcome of the vacation was that when I went back to school, I was chapters and chapters ahead of the rest of the class. Mean teacher…
By Kathleen LaRocque
A Secret Energy Source
I wasn’t in Sedona chasing its famous energy vortexes. So, of course, I found one—at least in my imagination. It was on a path that was way less traveled, leading to what the locals call The Pyramid.
How could something so visible be invisible to the masses?
The first time I glimpsed the unassuming Pyramid was while hiking the backside of the Airport Mesa. This was one of the four main vortexes drawing the crowds. We started out before first light. The views were amazing. People we met claimed that the energy force they absorbed in past trips was felt even in the air on their flights home.
Vortexes here were popularized by a 1970s psychic, but the area was sacred to the Yavapai-Apache well before then. Each of Sedona’s vortexes is generally considered a center of concentrated Earth energy. When experienced, it may bring awareness, release, calm, clarity, grounding, and inspiration. The Airport Mesa vortex is known to bring clarity, motivation, and help with decision-making.
I didn’t feel any of it, until…
Long past any of the favored hot spots for experiences, my wife and I found ourselves alone on the backside of the mesa. The views here were less dramatic, but still beautiful to breathe in. We decided to stop hiking and just sit quietly for as long as the peace held still.
We stretched out under a lone bushy tree in the prairie, uninterrupted, and drifted into meditative calm, becoming one with the tranquil vista.
On my journey of the mind, I noticed, in the wide, open landscape, a humble disruption in the matrix. Subdued, inconspicuous, or unobtrusive were words that circled my thoughts from the elevated perch scanning the far-reaching view.
It was like the spirit in the sky led my aimless wandering eyes to a string of clouds that painted their way down to the horizon. From there, they seamlessly followed the landscape to the tip of the pyramid, then down its right side to a barren path of sorts that cut through the desolate desert floor as my eyes followed the way of least resistance. Then, the pathway unfolded up the mesa and viola – to my boots.
“Honey, I need to go …there!” And I pointed to the pyramid.
The next morning, we set out for my Vision Quest.
Hiking the Scorpion Trail to the Pyramid Mountain Trail, we were amazed that in the hours we spent here, we only came across humans twice, both times were local mountain bikers.
The natural red rock pyramid of Sedona is theorized to mimic the dimensions of the Great Pyramid of Giza. It is strikingly similar in base length and slope angle, but only about half as tall, so it is easily overlooked in the vast openness, where other geological formations draw much more attention. Still, the silhouette is curiously symmetrical, so much so that it’s hard to fathom its random rock formation rather than a deliberate creation.
I made it my walkabout quest to eventually summit the top of the pyramid, where I experienced my personal vortex. The magnetic pull it exerted on me and the connectedness I felt were otherworldly. And it has stayed with me ever since as a happy place I can retreat to at any time I want to summon its imagery.
By Frank Rocco Satullo, The OhioTraveler, Your Tour Guide to Fun
Around the spring equinox, Death Valley comes alive. But don’t expect to find huge crowds at the popular jaunts. Set out to explore the Racetrack Playa and its mysterious sailing stones, and paths may cross with one or two other souls, but that’s it.
Early spring heats up enough to feel that Death Valley vibe; otherwise, what’s the point? Granted, it’s far from its recorded record as the hottest place on the planet. It’s only about a two-hour drive from Las Vegas, so day-trippers come and go. The popular stops along a scenic byway will have their share of vehicles, yet it’s no problem finding a parking space, unlike most national parks and monuments. Traffic between the hot spots is sparse.
An ideal itinerary is spread over a three-night stay. That enables daylong treks to further out places few brave to go. The park covers 3.4 million acres and is the largest in the continental states. Warnings galore scare most people enough not to consider venturing far from Furnace Creek, the closest thing to civilization. Rough non-paved terrain frequently ruins plans when tires are slashed open by sharp-edged lava rocks. And if it’s a rental car, guess what? Most don’t even have a spare tire anymore, not even a donut! Death in Death Valley is something to consider! …Click here for the rest of the story and many more photos…
The nickname, The Quiet Side, rang a bell when we searched for a destination for our first empty nester vacation of length. Acadia National Park in Maine has two sides as opposite as our grown kids. One is all about activity and people. The other is laid back and …quiet.
But the available places to stay in the heart of it all were pretty expensive. That’s when our two laptops synchronized and found the same place by two different names on two different Air BnB platforms. Mine called it the Writer’s Cabin. Hers called it the Teacher’s Escape. We both heard the calling. More about this gem in a minute. Anyway, the serendipity (and bargain) of the moment didn’t escape us, so we booked it. …Click here for the rest of the story and many more photos…
At The Greyfield Inn
On Cumberland Island, Georgia
An Out of Ohio Special But with an Ohioan’s Perspective
In a world of tourist attractions overrun, there are still roads much less traveled, albeit the toll to ride them is a little steeper.
When we heard about the communal atmosphere of the Greyfield Inn on a mostly untouched Georgian Island and the jacket requirement for evening dining, I pictured a cruise experience where you may opt to dress up and dine with strangers at your table. The beauty is that you are not strangers for long. But this communal tourism experience was far more affable and enjoyable.
We stood at an empty dock in front of a tiny sign that read Greyfield Inn Ferry. A young man walked up and introduced himself as the captain of our private charter. We boarded with a couple of the staff members for the Inn. One wore a tee shirt: Save The Sea Turtles. When we docked on Cumberland Island, it showed no other signs of modernization. Several wild horses casually grazed in the grass nearby. It was shaded by live oaks draped in Spanish moss, highlighted with a hint of piercing rays that even the most talented painter may dream of capturing on canvas. …Click here for the rest of the story and many more photos…
“The Last Road Trip” is a
Farewell to Another Generation’s
Traditional Family Vacations
The all-American family vacation harkens images of the Griswold’s out on the open road trekking cross-country in a station wagon to the sound, Holiday Road. And it repeats with each generation. It’s a rite of passage that comes and goes in about a 12-year period from when the kids are old enough to remember something to old enough to fly the nest. But it goes by in the blink of an eye. Thousands of dollars are spent seeing places like Disney, Yellowstone, and countless other destinations and attractions. Littered along the way are tourist traps and roadside gimmicks to lure the weary family and break up dad’s power-drives to get somewhere special.
In the end, what does everyone remember? The moments between geological wonders and architectural gems. The unexpected.
After a dozen years of summer vacations, we decided to take one more before our daughter headed off to college. Some call this the senior trip. In all likelihood, it marks the end of an era. Never (most-likely) will just the four of us be packed in a car for two weeks, forced to get to know each other better. It wasn’t always rosy times, but even the meltdowns are remembered, fondly. Every trip, I’m good for one, earning the nickname – Travel Dad.
“Uh-oh, Travel Dad just got behind the wheel,” could be uttered from the backseat when I grumble out loud about a traffic situation.
Alas, it really is about the journey and not the destination. Here are some of the more memorable experiences our family had together over this blip in time. I’m sure our stories are your stories or at least they’ll get you talking about yours, too.
Our first real vacation had us flying on a small, bumpy flight with one row of single seats on one side of the plane. I sat in front of my six-year-old son and behind him was another six-year-old. The seatbelt sign was on. We descended before our stomachs. That’s when I heard two remarkable imaginations echo through the hollow tube with a play-by-play for everyone to hear. “We’re going to crash!” One boy yelled at the other. “Ah, that was close.” “Holy moly, there’s an alligator on the wing.” The plane bucked in the air and then tilted to turn. “The alligator is gone, but seaweed clogged the engine, and now it’s smoking.” I tried to squeeze my face in between the back of my seat and the metal wall with desperate “SHHH” noises, but these two were on cloud nine all the way down.
On a long driving day, we approached a small town I had read was one of the 100 you had to see before you died. The distance was deceiving, and it came in and out of sight as we rolled over hills and turns for about 10 minutes as we neared it. Coming closer, we “oohed and ahhed” looking for a place to pull off and snap some photos. In town, I had stopped and started at a few signs and lights before a flashing light caught my attention. When I found a place to pull over, it was revealed in short-order that this popping mad policeman was in silent, slow pursuit of us for …miles. After he spits his displeasure and ripe words at me he returned to his cruiser to write my ticket. That’s when my young daughter wondered out loud if I was going to prison. I unconfidently replied, no.
In a desolate part of the country, I was proud to have found a motel close to a remote national monument that Triple-A didn’t even know existed – and for a good reason. Our cinder block accommodations overlooked nothing for as far as the eyes could see. There was a cluster of puddied-over bullet holes head-high in the door. The “inn-keeper” fetched my son his bead (cot) from a shed and when she turned to leave, I asked for the room key. She said there was none. There was a pause between us before she turned away, laughed, threw her arms in the air and said, “Besides, where ya gonna go?”
There’s nothing like hiking to the top of a mini rock mountain searching for Petroglyphs when lighting strikes. What had been a careful ascent due to the multiple “Beware: Rattlesnakes” signs became a mad dash for the car. The winds and rain whipped up, but we managed to get to our four-wheel shelter before the brunt of it nailed us. Winds still churning albeit it not as powerfully, I rolled down my window trying to get a better look at an anomaly headed our way. “Roll up the window!” my wife screamed, but before I could, a wall of sand slammed into our faces and all over the car.
I withdrew some cash before stepping out of our hotel and into the early morning sun …and the chest of a homeless man. He asked for forty-nine cents or some odd number like that. I only had twenty dollar bills. When I said that I couldn’t help now but certainly would later, he yelled and threatened, “You won’t always be together,” waving his finger at my children in a threatening manner. Now I know he probably wasn’t playing with a full deck, but I couldn’t help myself. I stopped, turned around and said, “Did you just threaten my family?” He proceeded to shout at me and called me this and that for an entire block. He crossed a street, so we walked a bit more before we crossed. But first, I paused to see which way he was going to head on the other side. He turned and scanned my side of the street until he found me. Then he waved me over in sharp motions as if to say, “Bring it on!” I laughed to myself, and we walked away.
After police confiscated all of our water before entering a building (plus snacks, sunscreen, you name it), we walked for miles from one site to another on a record hot day all over a city. But if you ask anyone in our family, what was the best thing you ever ate on all of your trips, the answer is unanimous. Frozen lemonade from a food truck. We scrounged up just enough coin to splurge on one five-dollar frozen lemonade. The four of us lined the curb, each taking a spoonful of heaven and passed it down. We were that desperate and elated.
A cottage stay put us on what amounted to a cul-de-sac street in the woods with every cottage in the cluster having been rented out by college kids, partying like there’s no tomorrow. Every cottage except ours and one other, kitty-corner from us. Ours was remarkably soundproof so as long as we could sleep, I wasn’t complaining. But kitty-corner family had this to say, “In the middle of the night, my worst fear came true,” said kitty-corner dad. “Someone was banging on the back door yelling, ‘let me in.’ I yelled back, ‘You better get out of here, this isn’t your cottage, now go away.’ To which the drunk on the other side pleaded, ‘Come on dude, stop mess’n with my head and just let me in.’ This exchange repeated a few times before the stranger at the door fell silent.” The father of that family couldn’t open the door in the morning because the college kid had passed out against it.
While waiting at a street corner, a strange sight grabbed our attention. A lady was walking backward ever so casually at a pace somewhere between not too fast and not too slow. I quickly reminded the kids (and myself) not to snicker when she neared. We missed our “walk” sign and stood still, gawking, as her back-side passed us and now shown her front side. She kept walking backward, looking at us, us looking at her. She crossed a couple of streets as if she had eyes in the back of her head and finally turned a corner, all the while walking backward. When she finally tuned out of view, we looked at each other and said in unison, “Well, you don’t see that every day.”
The stories go on and on. There’s the time we were trapped on a back road trying to navigate through a herd of wild bison. There’s the coffee cart sermon from a crazed vendor talking about end times as he waited on a long line of snickering, but caffeine-addicted customers. The coffee was to die for by the way. Then there was the white-knuckle Cliffside drive up and down a mountain dirt road. Oh, and who will ever forget those black flies and cockroaches! Falling off a horse charging through the water was a good one. And there are the slap-happy moments where you laugh so damn hard you think you’re going to be asked to leave a restaurant. But the time together always leads to the most memorable times of all – conversation that tighten bonds in ways that only a family vacation can.
My favorite memory was from a generation ago when I was the kid. My mom was reading a plaque inside a museum aloud to my sister and me. We lost interest just like Dad and faded back. Filling the void came interested tourists hanging on my mom’s dramatic reading. Soon, we couldn’t see Mom because a whole horde of folks gathered around her. When she finished, she turned to see the sea of people gathered around her. Without missing a beat, she waved her arm and said, “Now if you follow me over here…”
And so it goes, another generation experiencing the all-American family tradition. Happy travels to you and yours.
By Rocco Satullo, The OhioTraveler, Your Tour Guide to Fun!
