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I don't remember exactly how old I was at the time - perhaps 11 or 12? It was full-on summer time in rural Southeast Kansas. I grew up in an old house out in the country, and as a young boy I took full advantage of the freedoms afforded by living out in the sticks. I played outside all day long, didn't matter how hot or humid it was. At this particular time I was engaged in building a secret hiding place in the stand of trees in our horse pasture across the road. I'd found a nice little opening in a thicket, and was now clearing out the inside to have a place to sit and make command decisions in my frequent games of war with my sister and Tony, the kid who lived down the road. I spent half a day clearing out the sticker bushes, laying down the weeds, and then covering up the outside with vines and what small branches I was able to cut with my dull little pocket knife. By dusk I was hot, sweaty, scratched up by stickers, itchy all over from the chiggers, but I was satisfied with my work.
My sister would never find us in there.
<<< Fast Forward a Few Days >>>
I'm now sitting in the family car, heading south through Arkansas. We're on the first leg of our family vacation, on a big driving loop intended to skip through Arkansas as quickly as possible, to explore the mountains of Tennessee and Kentucky.
I'm itchy, not from the chigger bites and sticker bushes, although those are still making themselves known too. No, the source of my misery was poison ivy. It seems I would not be enjoying that Army Command Hideout afterall, as the primary construction material had apparently been poison ivy vines. I was covered with it - on my arms, my legs, my chest, my face. The worst of it was the big oozing blisters between my fingers. As a parent now, I can only imagine how thoroughly impressed my parents had been with me then for playing in poison ivy just before a vacation, although I don't recall them giving me too hard a time about it.
The drive through Arkansas was unpleasant for another reason. Over much of the way there was a persistant and pungent sulfur smell in the air, like a raunchy hard-boiled egg fart. No matter how tight we rolled up the windows we couldn't keep it out of the car. If someone had farted in the car it would have been an improvement.
We were passing through Little Rock Arkansas when the unthinkable happened. The car broke down. I don't recall what the problem was - at that age I didn't view it as my responsibility to care for those types of details. What I did care about was that two days of our vacation would now be spent in Little Rock, waiting for the car to be fixed.
After waiting for what seemed like days to get the car to a local mechanic we settled into a nearby hotel with a swimming pool. My sister and I passed the time eating Cheetos from the vending machine, watching cable TV in the room (a big treat! We didn't have cable at home), and swimming in the pool. We met another family with kids at the pool and played a lot with them. For some strange reason I remember that the youngest of them went by "Tater." This was my first real brush with people with a strong southern accent (Think Paula Dean - "Hey ya'll!").
I don't know how my parents managed to keep their sanity, but for my sister and I the time passed pretty quickly and we were back on the road before we knew it. We arrived to Chattanooga as the city was celebrating its sesquicentennial (150 year anniversary) with an outdoor concert series, and the only 2 things I remember about our time here were:
1) Being on Lookout Mountain, being told I could see 7 different states from one point on the top, and noticing simply that all the states looked the same from up there
2) Seeing Patty Labelle sing at the outdoor concert on the Riverwalk. (That part seemed a lot cooler at the time.)
Much of the rest of the trip was spent driving through the mountains. My Mom had this deathly fear that my Dad would "drive off the side of the mountain" and she was sure to read to him the speed limit signs as we went around every curve, just in case he'd missed it. I, for one, was enjoying the steep and curvy roads - I had no idea what Mom was worried about, and I would have been impressed had he tried to go a little faster. I recall Dad being a bit put off by all my Mom's "help".
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I can't help thinking now that things have come full circle. I am my Dad, and I also struggle to recognize the utility of my own wife's "help" while I'm driving. Bear with me dear, I'm telling you it's genetic...
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That family vacation wrapped up with no further dramatic experiences. We passed through Hazzard County Kentucky and did not see the Duke boys escaping from Boss Hogg in the General Lee (I was on the lookout for that). No more car problems, just me itching in the back seat, and learning from my Dad the right and wrong ways to respond to urgent pleadings from my future wife to slow down around the curves.
{To be continued...}
Thanks for the memory! Playing in the pool with the kids in Arkansas is something that really sticks out in my mind from that trip too. That and Patti Labelle!
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