Tag Archives: vacation

Why I Oughta…

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They only do these kinds of things because they love me, right?

Have you noticed that day three of any trip is when people wake up with a case of the crankies?  Our big obnoxious Catholic family is no exception.

I whine, “I wanted my egg ON TOP of my french toast,”  at my brother who is kind enough to cook breakfast-to-order for all sixteen of us each morning.

My sister is out of sorts because her towels are missing and she’s certain one of us is hiding them from her.  And, yet, when she tries to make me feel better because I’m missing my kids, I snap, “Can’t you just let me feel bad?”

My older brother is out of sorts because we’re all at the beach already and he can’t find us.  “You’re directions suck!” he says.  I lay the phone down and make him wait for five minutes while I slowly locate his son who knows how to talk “man” directions.

My younger brother is out of sorts because he wants us to play by the rules of the games and the rest of us want to make them up.  “You know, Anne Lamott has this great saying – W.A.I.T. = Why Am I Talking?” I say to him not realizing that I’m the one who should be taking the advice.

And yet, here we all are, a few hours later crammed around a dinner table eating mounds of spaghetti, laughing and telling goofy stories about ourselves.

We’re like a reality show for the bipolar set.  We wonder why in the hell we ever decided to plan a vacation together and in the next moment say, “You know, next time we should try upstate New York.”

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what it is about my sister, brothers and I that make us stick together when other families grow apart.  After all we’ve had disasters that would have blown most families sky high – deaths, tragedies, more deaths – and it only seems to draw us closer.  Personally, I think we’re all survivors of PTSD, but I’m not actually a doctor so I can’t be sure.

I have to go now because even though I got so mad at everyone for not guessing my Catch Phrase word last night I didn’t talk for thirty minutes, a new game is starting and I don’t want to miss it.

 

 

See the Amazing Dancing Chicken!

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It is hot and humid here today, which always reminds me of my childhood trips to the Lake of the Ozarks.  Every year my Aunt Kathleen, Aunt Betty Lou and Uncle Harold took all of us kids for a week to the lake.  None of these relatives had children of their own and God only knows what possessed them to take a bunch of wild ragamuffins with them on their only vacation of the year.  I always suspected it was to save us from certain death.  As the heat and humidity rose – so did my mother’s level of crankiness.

We stayed at an ancient resort filled with other childless couples.  At least I don’t remember any other kids being there, but we tended to scare most people away, so I could be wrong about this. Our only assignment each day was to leave the cabin after breakfast and not return until we were called.

On the last day of the trip Uncle Harold gave us $1 apiece and dropped us off in the old tourist part of town called Dogpatch.  I loved it.   The shelves of the little store were filled with shiny containers of old-fashioned candy.   Row upon row of salt and pepper shakers shaped like outhouses tempted me but were out of my price range.

In front of the store was a huge statue of Lil’ Abner.   He stood near a pool of water that was refilled by a giant water faucet floating in mid air.  Behind the store was a graveyard called Boot Hill.  An old cowboy boot stuck out of one of the graves.  As I hurried by, the boot moved back and forth.  But where I spent my time and money was on – – The Amazing Dancing Chicken!  I shoved nickel after nickel into the slot to watch the happy little chicken do her dance.  Oh yes, it was a magical place.

One year, as I stood next to the miraculous faucet pouring water from thin air, I was able to see the clear tube that held it aloft.  When I walked by the scary graveyard I noticed a rip in the boot, which exposed the mechanics making it move.  I was crushed…until I saw the sign “See the Dancing Chicken!”

I ran over to her box and slid my nickel in.  It dropped out to the change slot where a sign read .25 cents.  I begged a quarter from my older brother and pushed it through the slit.  My chicken started her dance about the same time that I noticed a hole in the bottom of her cage.  To my horror, I discovered that what made my happy little chicken dance was the fact that the floor heated up and she was jumping around trying not to burn her feet.

“Oh, no!” you say.  “How horrible!”

You’re right, it was.  So why am I sharing this story?  Because it’s hot and humid today and I’m cranky.