I'm not sure who invented summer vacation. It must have been some delirious Southern schoolteacher, who on the verge of a seasonal breakdown proceeded to stuff her portfolio with Disney stock and buy a one-way bus ticket to Vegas. Fate intervened when fame and fortune took another bus and the schoolteacher eventually took a job selling lottery tickets.
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Years after the "runaway educator's" strategically incorrect sabbatical, the idea caught on among our country's educational elite, who themselves began seasonal timeouts to avoid the stench of sweaty students simmering in non-air-conditioned classrooms. Thus, in true Darwinian fashion, the traditional "summer vacation" evolved.
I purposely avoid the popular parental guilt trip-driven theme park faux adventures. Maxing-out perfectly good, high-interest credit cards while sweltering at Florida's "Wonderful World of $10 Hamburgers" (corporate greed capital of the universe) is not my idea of getting away from it all.
"What's in your wallet?"
Vacation is defined as "a period of time devoted to pleasure, rest, or relaxation." Vacationing with children redefines it as "a period of time devoted to pain, exhaustion, sibling discord, maternal meltdown and imminent fourth-quarter insolvency." Few are the brave souls who can survive a week trapped in cheap motel rooms slumbering aside their ungrateful offspring.
The lighthouse at Oswego, N.Y.
For the past four years, my family has vacationed in a quiet New York town we once called home. In summer, it's a lovely location nestled along the shores of Lake Ontario. In winter, it becomes a rusted Paradise Lost -- saline streets lined with sinister, sand-wielding snow plow drivers stewing over illegal street parking perpetrated by drunken college students.
Sunshine offers sweet salvation to an area where 150-plus inches of snow falls each winter. Summer is much more than a season, it's a celebration.
If I were granted a second childhood I would spend it here -- a place where kids can still walk to the movies and play unmolested in public parks. Admission to the city swimming pool is $1. Ice skating will cost you 50 cents. Familiarity breeds contentment in a community where folks don't feel the need to lock their doors. Neighbors are your friends and friends also happen to be your neighbors.
Friendships can endure, even from 1,400 miles away, but there are inherent risks in becoming emotionally attached to a once-a-year vacation destination. Change is inevitable. Sometimes change is not your friend.
Two weeks ago, shortly after arriving at our summer home away from home, we learned the sad news. My son's friend had passed away. His 11-year-old body succumbed to an asthma attack in the early morning hours of Christmas Eve. A winter storm had just dumped its lake-effect load before his mother and older brother rushed him a few blocks to the emergency room. But the doctors couldn't save Cobi Christian Ferris. There was no holiday miracle.
It's difficult for children to comprehend why some Christmas gifts will never be opened. I explained to my son that bad things can happen and we may never know the reason in this life. The best we can do is hold onto each other, and our memories.
The next day we shared stories of the soccer team on which my son Walter and Cobi met. His mother Kaycee was their coach. We had just moved to the area and friends were in short supply. Walter recalled how Cobi roared with laughter one rainy Saturday morning when an official mistook a camera flash for lightning, and immediately halted their game.
Later that week I sat on the front porch of a dear friend, who also happened to be Kaycee's next-door neighbor. We sipped wine and snickered about trivial matters of small-town pursuit. Kaycee said she'd been to the doctor and he asked how she was doing. "I'm not going to drive my car off a cliff," she said. "But ... as long as there's chocolate ... " Kamikaze mosquitoes stalked the perfect silence of that moment. Three single moms. Tearful smiles. Farewell hugs. The bittersweet comfort of knowing there will never be enough chocolate.
On our final day of vacation, incoming freighters dwarfed the harbor's lighthouse which still safely guides vessels into New York's inaugural inland port. As I drove away from Oswego, my three boys were fighting over the front seat of our rental car. Some things will never change, if I'm lucky.
More Outside the Box columns
Years after the "runaway educator's" strategically incorrect sabbatical, the idea caught on among our country's educational elite, who themselves began seasonal timeouts to avoid the stench of sweaty students simmering in non-air-conditioned classrooms. Thus, in true Darwinian fashion, the traditional "summer vacation" evolved.
I purposely avoid the popular parental guilt trip-driven theme park faux adventures. Maxing-out perfectly good, high-interest credit cards while sweltering at Florida's "Wonderful World of $10 Hamburgers" (corporate greed capital of the universe) is not my idea of getting away from it all.
"What's in your wallet?"
Vacation is defined as "a period of time devoted to pleasure, rest, or relaxation." Vacationing with children redefines it as "a period of time devoted to pain, exhaustion, sibling discord, maternal meltdown and imminent fourth-quarter insolvency." Few are the brave souls who can survive a week trapped in cheap motel rooms slumbering aside their ungrateful offspring.
