As we arrive at a point on the calendar where there could possibly be more winter behind us than in front, I was thinking of family vacations we took when I was a kid. I’m sure I’ve written about this before, but it is what is on my mind, so it is what I must write about.

When I was about 11-years old we took a family trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota in our 1978 Ford Econoline van. Mom made curtains for the van and Dad took out one of the back seats and put a mattress in its place. They turned it into a camper…sort of.

One of the first stops we made when we got to the Black Hills was Pactola Lake, where we picnicked and swam. I swam. My brother Jarvis, whose hands rarely strayed from their firm grasp of the edge of the Bowbells pool, was content to stay on dry land. Most likely because he knew that as his older brother I was required by law to splash, dunk, and generally torment him if he were to set foot into the lake.

I remember this stop well because I “misplaced” the van keys. I got the keys from Dad so I could go up to the van and change into my polyester swim trunks. I had been swimming for a few minutes when Dad asked me where the keys were? Good question?

The general response for an 11-year old when asked such a question is a vacant, yet wide-eyed expression, accompanied by a shrug of their boney shoulders. This wasn’t the response my Dad was hoping for. Understandably irritated, he began cursing his favorite curses, and stomping around the area in search of the keys…while I swam. I was on vacation.

Mom, looked out at me on vacation, and said, “You could help.” Dad also looked out at me, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His face said, “If my cowboy boots and jeans weren’t so tight and hard to get off, I’d come out there and we’d have more space in the van for the remainder of the trip.”

So, I put my vacation on hold, and began slogging towards the beach with one hand holding onto my polyester swim trunks, which now outweighed me. When I got out of the water, I went to put my shoes on and found the keys, right where I had put them. That seems to be where things always are. I triumphantly said, “Here they are!”

Dad, relieved, but not in a congratulatory mood, responded along the lines of, “You couldn’t remember putting them in your shoe? Why did you put them in your shoe?”…so forth and so on (feel free to liberally sprinkle those sentences with your favorite curse words for a more realistic portrayal).

I don’t really think he was asking me questions as much as he was trying to make sense of the senselessness of his eldest son. Who, vacantly, yet wide-eyed, gazed at him, shrugged his boney shoulders, and resumed his vacation.

We never locked the doors to anything in Lignite, so I wasn’t used to the whole key business. I wasn’t allowed to handle the keys for the remainder of the trip, or any trip to come…ever. So it goes.

From Pactola we headed for Mt. Rushmore. It was while hiking around the Mt. Rushmore area that I proclaimed to my parents, “I’m going to live here someday.” I guess when you know, you know? I’m sure Dad would have gladly made that prophecy a reality then and there.

Many years later, while talking about that trip, Mom said that they ran out of money while in the Black Hills and had to call Grandpa Ardell to have him wire them some cash for gas money for the trip home. Adult problems that us kids were oblivious to at the time.

We went on a few family vacations when I was a kid, and I give my Dad a lot of credit for taking us knuckleheads anywhere. We were a pain, but he did it. He did it with some cursing, some gritted teeth, some PBR, but mostly, he probably did it for Mom.

He’d do anything for her, and she was always a source of calm and comedy relief when the wheels on our bus were about to stop going round-and-round.