That was not the case for me when I was in my teens. I couldn't wait for this summer tradition to end. And apparently so did my parents.
The photo above is from a motel in Cooperstown, New York and it was the location for my family unit's next-to-last summer sojourn together. I was twelve and, despite the obvious focus on visiting the Baseball Hall of Fame, I wanted to be elsewhere.
And apparently so did my parents.
This wasn't always the case.
For us, summer vacations had been a big deal. You saw that from my father's Technicolor photos that I offered here last week. Dad was always off the last week of July and the first week of August. Our holiday fun was crammed into that two week period. A trip to Radio City Music Hall. Rye Playland. A baseball game. And usually a drive to someplace different for a few days. We never got on a plane. A vacation locale had to be something you could get to in an automobile.
Of course, those destinations were usually done in tandem with another family. Some unit of parental friends who had kids. So, it was ready-made fun for all. Mom and Dad had other people to talk to. I had other buddies to play with. Virtually all of those trips invariably ended with somebody being mad at somebody else. And my mother would make the official pronouncement that we would never be vacationing with THEM anymore.
These other families probably had the same feelings about us, because these group treks ultimately stopped. Maybe their kids wanted to be elsewhere, too. Whatever the case, the sole vacationers at this point were three people. Me, my mother, and my father. A situation that clearly reminded me of my status as an only child. All I had to talk to in the car was my parents. All they had to talk to in the car was me. And each other.
None of this bode well for the future.
But, almost gallantly, Mom and Dad tried to press on. We would be going to Cooperstown, New York. Home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Given my new love for America's sport, this was a great choice on their part. I couldn't wait to walk on Doubleday Field, where the game was allegedly invented. I was dying to see all the plaques in the Hall itself. And buy some nifty souvenirs.
Plus it didn't look like that far a drive for me to be cooped up in the back seat of that year's family Buick.
At least, it didn't on the map.
For some reason, my father, who was usually buttoned up on the driving part, opted not to drive up to central New York State on a highway. He used back roads that seemed to add a week to the trip.
Oh, look. A farm house.
Oh, look. A farm house.
Oh, look. A cow. And another farm house.
I fell into a coma.
Meanwhile, my mother was equally as pissed in the front seat.
Oh, look. A farm house.
Oh, look. A farm house.
Oh, look. A cow. And another farm house.
She wanted to put my dad into a coma.
When we finally arrived within the city limits of Cooperstown, another glitch raised its ugly head. My folks hadn't exactly done their homework on lodging possibilities. Given it was summer and close to that year's Hall induction ceremonies, rooms were scarce. We found up at the motel shown above. I'm sure it's been upgraded since.
Back then, there was no air conditioning.
Well, we didn't have at home either. But, here in hot and sultry Central New York State, we wanted it. Badly. But, we have few other options. This would be our pressure cooker for two nights.
The tension was as thick as the night air. After the day of repeated farm houses, my parents were exhausted and wanted to go to bed. The only child was once again reduced to finding his own fun.
I turned on my transistor radio and was transported to a magical world. For some reason, you can pick up lots of out-of-town baseball game broadcasts at night. I figured that this was because I was in Cooperstown, the mecca of all baseball. Indeed, it was more likely that the calm night air allowed radio signals to travel further. Nevertheless, I was in heaven.
Wow, it's the Pittsburgh Pirates game!
Wow, it's the Cleveland Indians game!
Wow, it's....
A voice came from the dark on the other side of the room.
"GO TO SLEEP!!"
I must admit that I thoroughly enjoyed our visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame the very next day. I savored every plaque and piece of memorabilia. I took several weeks of allowance and purchased some baseball books from a local souvenir vendor. And, while I couldn't actually walk on Doubleday Field due to some ill-time sprinkler activity, I sat in a dugout and pretended to be Yogi Berra.
Even my mom seemed to enjoy the day, despite the fact that this was a good two decades before she became a Met fan. She probably was simply happy to be out of the rotisserie grill that was passing for our motel.
But I could feel some friction going on between Mom and Dad. They said little to each other in the car going home. Except for one terse suggestion from my mother to our driver.
"Take the highway home."
If this was the next-to-last family vacation, you probably will want to know about the last one. The excursion that killed it for all time.
Come back next Sunday for the details.
Dinner last night: BLT sandwich at Blue Plate.
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