Vacation Pt 1

As I am sure they were for most, vacations were something that my entire family very much looked forward to. Typically we would travel up to Maine because the rents were cheap, we’d be able to visit some old family friends, and it wasn’t crowded like other local vacation spots such as Cape Cod (and we certainly didn’t have the money to fly the family anywhere – my first experience on a plane was on my honeymoon). My Mom would start researching where we would stay around January or February. This one particular year she found the perfect spot.

“Dick- this sounds great. Lake Osapeke. Converted Boy Scout cabin – sleeps 12. Lake front property. Basketball/tennis courts. Animals welcome. Only $150/wk. It’s almost too good to be true!”

But true it was. My parent readily forwarded the down payment and off we would go to Lake Osapeke, Maine, home of the mosquito, and the northern most southern state in the union. The reservations were made, the down payment sent, and six months later the station wagon was packed, the roof rack filled, and 4 kids corralled one-by-one through the bathroom. The kids were packed as elaborately as the luggage: Keith, and Amy in the backseat, Beth, golden retrievers Candy and Missy, and I crammed into the very back of the wagon along with pillows, sleeping bags, and a plastic lawn & leaf bag full of towels and bathing suits, and other clothes that wrinkles were not a concern. The finest clown car in Ringling Brothers Circus had nothing on the Goodwins. Ready to go…

Well, almost.

My mother approached me with IT: The Dreaded Spoonful of Raspberry Jam.

“Open up Ralphie – before we go I want you to eat a spoonful of this delicious jelly.”

“Yuck – I’m not taking medicine.”

My mother knew that I would never swallow a pill for my car sickness; it made me gag. Mom had figured this out after spending a winter pondering why penicillin didn’t have the quick effect on me that it would the other kids. Not until months later in a spring cleaning did she move the bed to find all of the pills stashed under the mattress).

So, Mom would grind up a pill in jelly and try to convince me that I, and I alone, should eat a spoonful of jelly just prior to a long trip (she cleverly tried this ruse very year). I glanced down on the spoon with contempt, and could see the crushed white pill shining through the rubbery purple mountains of jam.

“There’s no medicine in this jelly. Just eat it so we can get going!”

“Uh uh,” I didn’t even like raspberry. Couldn’t she try putting it into a peanut butter sandwich?

“C’mon Ralphie, just take the pill! It’s hot!” yelled Keith from the backseat.

“Now, Ralph,” my mother intoned.

Despite the glowering resentment growing from the inside of the Ford, this time I was determined. “Na uh,”

“It’s not medicine!” my Mother clung to her ridiculous lie.

The others groaned there displeasure with my resistance until finally the law was laid down.

“Don’t make me come back there and give it to you.” Dad’s booming baritone threatened from behind the steering wheel.

I certainly didn’t want that. Certain of hurling, I swallowed the mouthful, gagged a couple of times to make my point and to make my sisters squirm. Mom slammed the back door shut, jumped into the front seat, and we made our departure from 7 Pine Grove Road.

By the time we hit the Pike the smell of Dad’s fresh coffee and the not-so-fresh odor of his 2nd Chesterfield Regular permeated the air as the wind rushed through the open windows. The first arguments of who was touching who had just begun to surface when Dad broke into his first song, “Lucille”. By the time we’d hit the halfway mark, all the Goodwin standards would be covered: The “Sound of Music” songs of “My Favorite Things”, “Climb Ev’ry Mountain”, “I Have Confidence”, “Do-Re-Mi”, “16 Going on 17” and “Edelweiss” (Mom’s favorite); Simon & Garfunkle’s “Sound of Silence”, “Feeling Groovy”, and “Keep the Customer Satisfied”; novelty songs “The Witch Doctor”, “The Rubber Tree Plant”, “…and they Swam Right Over the Dam”, “Ants go Marching”, “Sixpence” (featuring the kids yelling the always hilarious “Dad’s drunk!” instead of “Dead drunk”), “Dip, Dip and Swing them Back” (the song Keith learned at camp one year), and “Mares Eat Oats”; and of course “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” (my personal favorite, any time of year).

By the time we tired of singing it was time for Dad to step up with the Dad Greats; “Wagon Wheels”, “Without a Song”, and the show closing “Old Man River”, which Dad marveled us by shouting out “Tote that Barge! Lift that bail! You get a little drunk, and you land in jaaaaiiiiil”.

One of the glorious things about vacations is the traditions. Not only was it pretty much the one time of year we’d get to drink soda (multiple cases of Fanta would be purchased once we were up there), but a bathroom and coffee stop at Howard Johnson’s provided me the opportunity for Archie Comics and HoJo’s own salt water taffy (during the rest of the year I was much more sophisticated and read only serious comics like Spiderman, X-Men, and the Fantastic Four).

Finally, after all the songs were sung, the taffy eaten, and “How many more miles?” had been asked for the 573rd time, the weighed down Ford groaned onto our first Maine dirt road, which was the sign that we were almost there. The excitement was palatable. Arguments were forgotten and faces pressed against the windows to take in the view of pine trees as far as one could see broken up by the occasional shack or a 1950’s model car up on blocks. Then we passed the sign that told us we were really almost there – Jimmy’s Variety Store. Every lake region has a multitude of these – a small variety store that sold all the basics from milk and bread for the kids to night crawlers for the fish.

Now the anticipation was really building – we were almost there! As we approached we came across a clearing that was apparently once a tennis court, only there were many cracks in the cement and there weren’t any nets. No matter – likely those weren’t our courts, and, even if they were, we didn’t have any serious tennis players in the bunch – basketball was our game.

Those courts were next, again displaying the cracked cement with 3’ grass clumps protruding. The rusty backboards hung from the slightly leaning poles like monuments to a once great but past civilization. The nets were missing here as well, which would have been ok if only the rims were there.

“Those are probably the old courts kids – don’t worry. ‘sides that, you’ll probably be swimming more often than not,” Mom countered. She was right of course – we could play basketball all day long back in Medfield, but if you wanted to swim you had to go up to the Medfield Swim Pond, which was affectionately known as “Polliwog Pond” when it was open a couple of times a year.

Now the wagon pulled to a stop next to a large cabin with the number 7 hanging upside down by a rusty nail. The screened in porch had lost its battle to the mosquitos long ago, as the happily buzzed back and forth through the gaping holes. “Ok you kids you have to help us unpack before you go down to the lake” Mom yelled after us as we ran down to the lakeside.

“Cool – look at the float!” Amy shouted. Sure enough – 20 feet out there was a wooden float built of planks and empty gallon jugs that called to us. Keith had his sneakers off and was already wading in the water as I leaned up against a wooden post and took in the sight. Two weeks of swimming, eating junk food, swilling soda’s and generally living the life of Reilly. The shortest two weeks outside of Christmas had begun, and I was ready.

Amy stared at me from behind, mouth agape. Her brow crinkled as she stare.

“What?!?” I demanded, “What did I do?”

“Swim at your own risk!” Amy warned, pointing at me.

“Whaaat? Yeah, right, like I can’t swim”

“No, that’s not it – that sign your leaning on – it says “Swim at your own risk!”

Amy was not pointing at me, but at the sign that I was leaning against. When I stepped back, I saw the hand written words “Swim at your own risk” was painted on it. I quickly glanced at my brother wading in the water, sure to see an eruption of bubbles such as I had seen in a movie they showed us in science class the previous year of a cow entering an African river only to be disintegrated by piranha.

No bubbles. But from the look in Keith’s eyes, he’d seen the movie too. He jumped out of the water, glad to see his feet still intact. What we weren’t as happy to see was a small worm-like creature clinging to his ankle.

Leaches.

We ran back to the wagon and was handed luggage as we explained the sign to the folks and how Keith has nearly lost an appendage. They exchanged knowing glances like Dragnet’s Joe Friday as they loaded us luggage to trudge in.

As you entered the cabin you were immediately deposited into the kitchen. The first thing that was evident was wood. It was everywhere – wood floors, wooden walls, wooden counter tops. There was a large two basin sink and a 3’ foot portable gas stove sitting next to it on the counter top. The walls were around 8’ high, but the ceiling was open so that you could see the rafters extending high to the underside of the roof.

The rest of the cabin consisted basically of 5 rooms: The master bedroom (or, at one time, presumably the head counselor’s room), a bathroom consisting of sink and toilet (it had a fenced-in, cold water only, outside shower), a small living area with two couches, a wicker chair and a wood stove, and two large bedrooms with three set of bunk beds each. Because of me penchant for sleepwalking, I was not allowed an upper bunk, so I threw my pillow on the bed under the one that Keith had already crawled on to. The girls were set up in a similar scenario in the other bed room, although when the older kids arrive later in the week we were told it may be rethought.

“Joyce, did you remember to get the blue steam?” I heard Dad call out as I thumbed through a “Casper the Friendly Ghost” comic on my bed.

“No, I thought you got it.”

Dad appeared in the doorway. “Ralphie, it looks like your mother forgot the blue steam. Let’s drive up to Jimmy’s and you can run in and pick up a bucket.”

“Can I come too, Dad?” Keith beamed.

“Sure”

“What’s blue steam?” I quizzed. I was 11 years old and was pretty worldly, but this was new to me.

Dad frowned and looked at me disappointed, “It’s for heating an unheated cabin. You put it under the house, and at night it keeps it from getting too cold. It may seem warm now, but these Maine nights can get pretty darn chilly.”

As we boarded the station wagon, it occurred to me that maybe we should pick up a couple of buckets for our unheated bedrooms in the winter. On the short trip over, Keith seemed pretty excited, ok almost too excited for him, and gave me lots of advice on what to ask for when we got to the store.

“So remember Ralphie, ask for the blue steam. And just a regular bucket – if we don’t stick around we don’t want to waste it,” he instructed, “The blue steam.”

Ok, enough already. I’m not a moron. It’s not like I’m going to ask for the red steam. And what’s with Mr. Helpful all of the sudden? Since when does Keith take such a big interest in me, other then when he’s spitting chewed up ice cubes from a straw at me?

Jimmy’s was your typical Maine variety store. Everything you could possibly want, from night crawlers to Budweiser to pop-tarts, all crammed in a 8x10 room, crowded onto ancient shelves. Everything, that is, but blue steam.

After leading a fruitless search, I finally looked back to my eager brother, “What does this stuff look like anyway?”

“Ask the guy! Just ask the guy!” Keith demanded.

The ‘guy’, apparently Jimmy, looked to be about a zillion years old. Despite the hot August weather, he wore a red flannel shirt and overalls, with a dusty Red Sox cap covering his bald head.

“Blue steam?” Jimmy’s thick eyebrows perched. “What the heck is blue steam?”

“You know, the stuff you put under the floor to heat the house” I looked back to Keith for support, but he was suddenly gone around an aisle, inspecting the latest in Pet Rock technology.

“Son, I think somebody’s pulling your leg. I’ve run this store for 15 years, and ‘fore that I was a general contractor. I never heard of such a thing.” That’s when I heard the sound of muffled laughter from the Pet Rock department.

I’d been had.

“Crazy kids – I don’t know where they get such ideas,” Dad’s voice suddenly boomed from behind as his giant hands clutched my shoulders. “Hey, we just rented the old Boy Scout camp on Sander’s – the tennis & basketball courts look to be in pretty bad shape. Do you know if there is another set of them somewhere?”

“Nope, sorry mister. And you gotta be careful with the swimming over there too. Leaches, ya know.”

“Yes, we saw”

“The key is to take the row boat and swim off the dock – ain’t no leaches out there.”


“Did you get us the blue steam?” Mom smiled as we entered the kitchen. Apparently I just had fallen for the “initiation” that Dad loved to play on anyone gullible enough to fall for it, which included all of my older brothers and sisters before me, not to mention a half dozen of other various tagalongs.

“Very funny” I mused. But certainly everyone in the room felt it was. Personally, I couldn’t wait to try it on the next person who visited.

We were instructed to put our suitcases next to the bureaus but not to unpack, as Mom and Dad were going into town to not only pick up some groceries for the next couple of days but also look into another place to stay. We were also told that under no circumstances were we to go into that water, or at least until the old man had a chance to inspect the boat.. This wasn’t really necessary – I’m not sure if a killer piranha was worse than leaches. Besides that, I had pretty much decided that there probably were piranhas in there, considering how the rest of the place had turned out. My Mom thought the place was too good to be true, and she was right.


Propped up on my elbows and depressed, I thumbed through an “Archie & Jug Head” anthology comic when I heard Keith exclaim “Cool!” above me. Briefly forgetting our dilemma, I jumped off the bed to see what had excited him, and to my surprise saw him sitting on the top of the wall, legs dangling. As I scurried to the top bunk, Keith stood up and pulled himself into the rafters, and like a spider crawled across a beam to my sisters’ room next door. This was cool indeed, and I hurried after him.

Below us Amy looked up and laughed as I took a right and headed towards the bathroom, where Pooh sat on the toilet.

“RALPH! Get out of here!” Beth screamed as she attempted to cover herself without standing up, nearly slipping into the bowl. “Mo-omm! Ralphie saw me naked!”

“Mom’s not here, and I didn’t see you naked!” I didn’t, and I certainly didn’t want to, but the opportunity to tease my little sister was too much to pass up. But Amy yelled at me to get out of there and I scurried off, swinging off the rafter onto Amy’s bed next to her, giggling.

We spent the rest of the afternoon climbing in the rafters. Before long we heard the station wagon pull back into the driveway and Mom and Dad entered, arms full of groceries and arguing. Dad claimed that he would be getting 100% of that money back for this Goddamn place or he would ring that sonovabitch’s neck. Once they settled into the kitchen and started emptying the bags, we shouted out “Surprise” from high on our perch, which, it turned, wasn’t such a great idea to do to someone who had driven 6 hours to what turned out to be a dump. After a couple of choice words from Dad and Mom, we came down.

Saturday night is hot dogs and beans night in New England, and we were New Englanders. Amy and I set the table as Mom cooked it up on the portable gas stove when Keith came barreling in from outside.

“Well, your Mother and I have a place that we are going to go check out tomorrow, so don’t get too infatuated with this dump,” Dad warned. Dad liked to use words like “infatuated”, which, while I hadn’t heard it before, I could figure out what it meant from the context. Dad so loved “big” words that he routinely had a “word of the week” for us to learn and use. As a former “morning man” DJ, Dad loved the English language, and had often bragged to us about his degree in the “Spoken Word”. To this day I am not sure if that was some sort of certificate he had earned, but it sure seemed real enough to hear him talk about it.

The next day after Mom & Dad left to find a new place, and, after a quick inspection from Dad, we took the row boat out to the dock that floated about 25’ from shore. We crawled onto the floating construction and, after cautiously dangling out feet over the side, slowly discovered that the leaches did not indeed like deep water – they seemed to hang out in, at best, waist deep water. So, we spent most of late morning and early afternoon diving and swimming off the floating dock, then took the boat back in and spent the rest of the afternoon climbing exploring the rafters in the camp house.

So there was no basketball, no tennis, and plenty of leaches, but provided you knew the rules of camp this was a pretty cool camp after all.

Or at least until Mom and Dad returned from their search.

It was about 5:00 when they returned, Dad carrying a bag of groceries. “Ok you guys, we’ll eat dinner here tonight, pack up, and tomorrow morning we are heading out to a brand new vacation house!”

“Oh man!” I contended, “but this place is so cool.”

But, even after we explained all of the extra benefits that we’d discovered, my folks were unimpressed. They were not about to spend good money on a place that was so poorly misrepresented. We argued and argued to no avail – we would leave in the morning.

Heads hung, my siblings and I headed back to our rooms to start packing and perhaps take another swing through the ceilings. My folks were on edge and continued to argue about whose fault it was in choosing the camp while Mom prepared hamburgers on the grill.

Keith and I threw our dirty clothes into a bag while planning our strategy to escape one last time out to the row boat for an hour or so of diving (perhaps after our food “went down” after dinner so we didn’t die of cramps).

That’s when we heard the crash from the kitchen.

By the time we bolted around the corner, we found Mom and Dad standing on either side of fire jetting out of the wooden floor. Someone had knocked the gas grill off the counter, and flames now shot up 3 feet from the floorboards. Anger gone, Mom and Dad stood on either side of the 3’ wide conflagration, shouting out “Dick” and “Joyce”. Keith grabbed the empty cooler and bolted out the kitchen door headed for the water, followed by and empty handed Amy. Candy and Missy did the best they could, as they barked at and cowered from the inferno. I turned towards the road, and ran as fast as I could down the dirt road towards Jimmy’s variety to seek help (which was 2 mikes away), Beth following me and calling out for me to “wait!” and “slow down!”

It seemed as though I had run for miles and was down to a stumble when I heard the sound of tires on a dirt road behind me. I turned around to see the station wagon pull up beside me. “Get in,” Dad shouted through the window, “The fire’s out. Beth put it out with a blanket.

Beth? Two adults, two teenagers and a preteen, and the 8-year-old knew how to put out a gas fire. Apparently she doubled back when she couldn’t keep up and showed up in the kitchen with her sleeping bag draped in her arms.

After dinner we repacked the station wagon with everything but night’s necessities. Tomorrow we would leave my most memorable two-day vacation, the cabin with the neat rafters, the barren courts, the leech infested beach and the combustible floorboards.

It could only be anticlimactic from here.