Memories of summer vacations are never the only thing we take home
By George Valadie
We love the beach. It wouldn’t be everybody’s choice for sure. But when we can, we do.
And it goes without saying we’re beyond lucky to get to go a little more than we used to. I loved working in Catholic schools, but there was a tradeoff: it’s never been and will never be one of those professions that allows for a lot of that sort of thing when you’re raising three girls.
Vocations aren’t usually conducive for vacations. Rather, our faith told us the long-term benefits would be unmatched. I’m just not ready to cash those in yet.
Nancy has loved traveling there for as long as she can remember. When she was young, their family of five went to Daytona every summer. And she can recall the tiniest of details as if they had taken one of those trips just last week.
She recounts riding for however many hours between two older sisters who claimed the back-seat windows, the breeze, and the scenery. She can still talk about the anticipation she felt throughout the sleepless night before and the splurges of after-dinner ice cream and nighttime swimming. A rented air mattress allowed her to surf the ocean waves that lapped at her dad’s feet. Each and every thrill feeling like her own 1960s version of Disney World.
Pop wasn’t the sort who was big on reservations, convinced he could find a better deal on his own. So, she remembers the motels where they stayed, driving past those that seemed way too fancy and the occasional joy that each exclaimed when he’d wave to everyone to come on in. “Is he kidding? You mean we get to stay HERE?!?!”
On my side, I’m not sure where my half of our mutual attraction comes from—our family went there only once. And four of our six nearly drowned in the Gulf.
Still, I do love to go.
In the pre-seat-belt world, two of us made the trip rolling around in the back of a station wagon. The suitcases rode on top, only for us to discover they weren’t made to withstand the rain. Baloney sandwiches for lunch. McDonald’s for dinner. And we loved every minute of it.
How odd is it that we both remember 10-cent ice cream cones and nighttime swimming as our never-forgotten highlights.
These days it’s just Nancy and I most times, but what we really love is when the whole gang gathers.
Those three girls we raised now have families of their own, so ironing out multiple schedules of work, summer practices, rehearsals, and the plans their in-laws make explain why our “one big party” is a one big rare occurrence.
But we pulled it off last week. All 14 under one roof.
I didn’t say it out loud, no need being the downer, but I’m thinking odds are better than good that it might have been our last such trip. No one’s dying or anything; it’s just that it gets ever more expensive and everyone’s schedules get ever more complex.
We’ve made this trip before and should know better, but still, we’re one of those families who only grocery shops after we get there. Stupid? Absolutely. Easier? Absolutely.
So, just after everyone arrived, four cars set out in four different directions, no one having talked to anyone.
And yes, that’s stupid, too.
The result was just what you’d expect: lots of this and none of that. Ten bags of chips, no bags for trash. Two mustards, four mayonnaises, and enough Sugar Pops to feed all the troops on the nearby base.
This year we also planned our first sunset family beach photo, complete with semi-matching color themes. “We want to match but we don’t want to be too matchy-matchy, right?” Whatever that means.
It was a Christmas gift from one of the girls. So, no, we didn’t plan groceries but we did plan this.
“What are we gonna wear?” was the predominant theme of our family text thread for the six months in advance. We (and I use the word “we” loosely) settled on khaki, white, and blue.
Six months out, the Farmer’s Almanac was checked for weather and time of sunset. Outfits were bought and returned. And bought and returned again. I packed two bathing suits and a book; one daughter brought five dresses planning to make a game-time decision.
Another daughter said, “I’m gonna PUT my husband in …” which tells you a lot about their house.
Oh, yeah, we also went to the beach we love—once. I guess we’re more of a “love the idea of the beach” family. If there’s no pool, we’re not going.
Nancy and I fully comprehend how blessed we are to have enjoyed this opportunity. Everyone came, everyone survived, no blood was shed.
Not all our vacations have been that fortunate.
I hope it’s not true, but we may have spent six months planning a photograph that will eventually fade, maybe get misplaced, or end up in a box somewhere.
But what won’t fade is all that happened around it.
The meals. The conversations. The late-night laughter. The small acts of patience required when 14 people share the same space for a week.
Maybe that’s one reason Jesus spent so much time around tables. He understood that relationships are where eternity begins to break into ordinary life.
An eternity that will cause us all to exclaim, “Is He kidding? You mean we get to stay HERE?!?!”
But vacations end. Children grow up. Schedules become impossible. But every now and then God gives us a glimpse of what we’re all really longing for: everyone gathered, everyone home, everyone belonging.
We love the beach. I can’t wait to see the picture.
But that wasn’t the only gift.
Dear God—Thank you for all you have given us! Not for the stuff (though that is appreciated, too) but for the people with whom we share it. Amen.
George Valadie is a parishioner at St. Stephen Church in Chattanooga and author of the book “We Lost Our Fifth Fork … and other moments when we need some perspective.”