Rollicking Family Road Trips

Margo Oxendine, Contributing Writer

Margo Oxendine

What are some of your fondest childhood memories? My bet is they include the family road-trip vacation.

Remember when the family and more belongings than might be imagined were packed into the station wagon, and you hit the road?

Oh, those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer — remember Nat King Cole warbling it on the car radio, while Dad drove and Mom handed out snacks?

Here is the tale of a mom and six kids (alas, Dad had to work) who embarked on a marathon driving/ camping/lakeside/Big City road trip.

Ambitious? Some might call it daft. I’ll admit, “Daft” was my first thought.

I am childless. I do not like to camp. I enjoy road trips, because I can load in all my foibles — four pillows, six books, cappuccino machine — and be blissfully alone. If I feel the urge to “camp,” well, I can find a cabin by a lake. If I feel the urge for heated pools and room service, they’re just off the road.

I am leery about traveling with anyone — we all have our quirks, and one of mine is this: I enjoy silence. Road trips with girlfriends can be fun — the driving can be shared — but after a while, I get hoarse from yakking, and my ears get tired of listening.

My friend with six kids surely longed for a little silence on her road trip to countless state parks and Smokey Mountains and, finally … Atlanta. There is nothing that could lure me to Atlanta. If one must arrive in Atlanta, there is every reason to depart with dispatch.

Imagine the logistics of traveling with six youngsters aged 4 to 14, three girls, three boys. Imagine the packing lists, and the organization. And then, imagine loading the car. In this case, the “car” was the only thing it could be: A behemoth Suburban.

Don’t forget the coolers and snacks and lunch bags. We all remember: Ten miles from the driveway, we kids were suddenly hungry.

When my friend emailed me a photo of the meticulously packed Suburban, I wondered: Was the spirit of my father — the ultimate vacation-packing organizer —hovering over this task?

The gang brought just one tent for the seven of them. The kids practiced in the backyard for days, with a goal of setting it up in 20 minutes.

While the tent was advertised as sleeping eight, and “only” had to accommodate seven, it was tight quarters. “The babies were together in a bag,” my friend emailed. I chuckled for days about “babies in a bag.” It was sweltering. The campgrounds were rife with noisy, late-night revelers. This is not conducive to getting six children settled snug in their bags. I am certain my friend’s family paid back the party-people when they emerged at 6 a.m., racing to the potty and roaring to get started cooking breakfast. The frying pan that accommodated a meal for seven is a cast-iron sight to behold — taller than some of the kids.

Imagine the curiosity our merry band lent to the camaraderie of the campground. Think of the tent flap opening at dawn. One kid emerges, rubbing his eyes. Then another. And another. And so on. Surely, it was akin to a clown car. Let the camping circus begin!

Along the way, there were lots of dips in lots of lakes, lots of hamburgers and hot dogs and chili. Lots of water slides and sandcastle-building. Lots of gleeful squeals. Lots of keening, cranky whimpers.

Naturally, it wouldn’t be a family road trip without a sick child. That happened on the most arduous drive of the trip — hundreds of miles of highway, with countless roadside stops for quick upchucks and frantic restroom dashes.

When one of the babies is sick, my friend found that all the older kids rally ’round. Mom explained to the kids that the day ahead required as much patience as they could muster. They rose to the task admirably.

“We had to stop a zillion times so he could use the bathroom, and we were well behind schedule. But the older set was incredibly kind, caring for their brother with a great depth of empathy. Not a single complaint or fight or selfish word,” my exhausted friend wrote at 12:17 a.m.                

Are you smiling right now? I am. In retrospect, room service and heated pools don’t hold nearly so much potential for excitement.

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