Memories in the Midst of the Mess
“Best day ever!”
That’s what the kids in the above picture – my siblings and cousins – are thinking.
And our parents? Well, that’s easy. “We’re exhausted. And sun burnt.”
There’s one other thing the kids probably have on their mind:
“We’re hungry!”
////
I’m not sure how my parents did it, but as a little kid growing up in the middle of Nebraska, we made regular family trips to southern, sunny California to visit our cousins. Traveling 1,500 miles, with five boys, navigating four flights, and clunky suitcases – in a pre-wheels-on-luggage era.
And we did this with ridiculous regularity.
From my perspective – and I’m guessing the perspective of my four brothers and three cousins – it was an always welcome week-long, crazy kid camp featuring:
Amusement Parks
Zoos
Studio tours
The ocean
Relaxed schedules
Food, food, food
And unrestricted playtime as our cousins’ home turned into a mini-dormitory for eight kids – the older ones being lucky enough to sleep on cots in the garage. We never got to sleep in our garage back in Nebraska. But then again, our garage didn’t have the ping-pong table that our cousins’ garage sported.
My dad and his brother, Uncle Jack, had one primary task during our week-long camp. They were the keeper of the schedule. The ever-important logistics guys who were charged with mapping out schedules and figuring out transportation for our small army of 12. And they did so with military precision. The fact that my uncle was a banker and my dad was an accountant came in handy.
As for my mom and Aunt Margaret – they were the designated cooks (sexist, I know – but this was the sixties!). Drafted. That meant while nearly everyone else was creating chaos, they were the two you could almost always find in the kitchen pushing out one of over 250 plates of food for our hungry mouths during our extended stay.
Cook. Clean. Play. Sleep.
And truthfully, it was probably more like: Clean-up, Cook, Clean, Pack-up, Play (whew!), Unpack, Clean-Up, Cook, Clean, Clean again, Sleep (briefly). Repeat.
I never thought about it then, but that must have been their world. I’m sorry they never got to play ping-pong.
And in my memory bank of childhood fun, never a complaint from either of them about how exhausted they must have been.
Memories. I guess they can be a messy thing.
But the nice thing is – long after the mess is gone – the good memories never go away.