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The oceanview vacation
In theory it must have made sense to my parents for them to pack up their three kids in a Chevrolet Caprice diesel station wagon, hitch the camper to the back and drive from Kansas to California to see our relatives. Have you noticed how anything can be perfect as long as it's still a theory? Little did we know that a trip that should have taken three days to drive from Kansas to California would take almost seven; that a Chevrolet Caprice diesel station wagon wasn't meant to haul a camper trailer through the Rocky Mountains; and that "99 Bottles of Root Beer on the Wall" will give Mom an uncontrollable eye twitch after the 110th singing. The vacation that was supposed to be relaxing and fun after a stressful Wheat harvest turned into the Bataan Death March of family vacations after the first blown headgasket in Cedar City, Utah. After two days, it was finally fixed and we were back on the road. But a few miles later, as we limped into Las Vegas, it was clear we had to leave the camper behind if the station wagon was to have a chance at all. So, we piled anything of value from the camper into the rear cargo area of the station wagon, locked the camper up and parked it behind the Silver Slipper Saloon in Las Vegas with a prayer it would be there on our return. By the time we finally rolled into our relatives' driveway in Thousand Oaks, Calif., we were running on shear stubborness. Dad had a perpetual frown from mechanical worries, Mom was upset over leaving the camper in Vegas, and my siblings were nearing full scale war in the backseat over who touched whom. (By the way, Mom, so you'll finally have the official story, James started it.) The excitement of seeing the beach was gone. In it's place was a kind of glazed acceptance of our fate. Thank heaven, then, for our California cousins. They took us in and showed us that California was worth the wait. That first night, even though we were exhausted, they took us to the beach to watch the sunset. Of all my memories of that trip, that one is the one I choose to keep in my heart. There was my Dad's cousin, Dr. Bob Kind, and his wife Marilee, standing at the water's edge with my folks and catching up on family news. You could see the tension ease out of Mom and Dad's shoulders as the sun dipped into the ocean. Meanwhile, my older siblings and our California cousins were helping me build my first sandcastle. I can still feel the sand squishing between my toes and hear the laughter from Joni and James as they competed to see who could build the tallest sand turret. Their backseat arguments were a fading memory. But, most vivid in my mind is the sunset. It tinged the water with colors I hadn't seen in my short lifetime. The reds were redder, the oranges were brighter and there were even some purples mixed in. The sky looked like you could step right out into Heaven itself. And, as we watched it, we all got quiet and just soaked it in, letting the colors heal our souls. I've never seen a sunset like it since. I'd like to say the vacation took a turn for the better after that, but we still had another vehicle breakdown, and other incidents along the way. Thankfully, though, our camper was right where we'd left it in Vegas, and we made it home just in time for the county fair. That return trip seemed easier, and I think it's because we had the reality of that one perfect sunset in our hearts, rather than just the idea. Recently, I was in Tampa, Fla., for an agricultural journalists meeting and our group took some time to see the ocean. It wasn't the Pacific, and it wasn't at sunset, but it was beautiful in its own way. Maybe if we'd had car trouble it would have been more appreciated. Hey, it's just a theory. Jennifer Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com.
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