I’ll argue that my husband had been aptly warned when he married me in 2007. His bride is a somewhat nomadic woman who loves New York City more than any hometown. I’ve been known to brave a Moscow March under the Soviet Regime and a Spanish-only retreat to Castro’s Cuba one January.
My husband’s idea of summer vacation is of a cozy cottage on the Cape. I am happiest camping under the tall trees in Vermont mountains than those found in our own backyard.
Gerry, our grandson Colin, and one of Colin’s best 10-year-old buddies braved the Green Mountains with me last summer. Sunset vistas from a mountainside campsite. Deer and squirrels nibbling as close to our toes as they dared. Gusty and brief showers ending in sparkly sunlight. Campfire flames accompanied by perfectly melted S’mores. Mornings replete with birdsong, softened by whispery breezes through the poplars, pine and hemlock. What can compare?
This past 4th of July weekend we planned to eagerly return to our mountainside campsite. We were not discouraged by dubious weather reports. Instead we armed ourselves with copious amounts of enthusiasm and valor. We packed the car to the gills. Soft bags of clothing were stuffed in each available space. Our sturdy Space Cadet car top carrier was perched on the roof holding the overflow.
We might have heeded the weather report and waited until morning. We might have turned around before we hit torrential downpours just 20 miles northeast. Yet, we were hearty, hardy, and determined travelers and we left on our three-hour trip mid afternoon on the 1st of July.
Even in my vacation reverie, snatched from car ride slumber, I knew that Gerry’s words “We’ve lost it” were extremely bad news. The not-quite-locked-down Space Cadet, buffeted by wind and rain, had finally rebelled against her load. Her lid had burst upward and she had carelessly spilled her guts onto the slick, wet, and crowded highway at the worst time of the day: the evening commute.
We braved a nerve-jangling stop in the breakdown lane and then forlornly watched our brave driver – husband and grandfather – retreat backwards and disappear around the curve and to seek out what remained of our rooftop load. The three of us helplessly left behind held our breaths as large UPS and Wal-Mart trucks whipped by at breakneck speeds. Our hearts sank as we imagined shreds of sleeping bags, tents, and towels pummeled into the tarmac of the busy highway. We anticipated turning toward home, sheepishly admitting defeat after the very best of attitudes and intentions. Worst of all, of course, we realized our champion was braving the speeding lanes of vehicles.
