Summer vacation trips taught lifetime of values
A dad’s brilliant strategy endures
This time of year, as I hear folks planning vacations, I think about how my parents managed to provide a trip for our family each year. We didn’t have a lot of money, so my father’s vacation from the Kress Box Co. in Pittsburgh was a big deal. Going on vacation was a sign that he was approaching the dreamed-of middle class.
My dad had grown up poor, the oldest of six, and he supported his siblings when his father died. So he had to finish school while holding a job making corrugated boxes. My father loved to swim, so the beach at Lake Erie was our destination for one week each summer. We stayed at a modest family-style motel that had a kitchen across the lawn for families who cooked their own meals. That was us. The motel and gas were all we could afford.
Years later I understood how hard it must have been for my folks to face four kids who, of course, wanted treats like other children.
Our drive north from Pittsburgh — before there was a highway — was long, and we passed a dozen ice cream stands and burger joints. And then each day at the beach, we were tantalized by snack bars and candy shops.
My father had a brilliant strategy to manage our endless desires. Before we left to go to Lake Erie, my father would sit us down and present a “deal.” His deal was this: If we did not beg on the way to Lake Erie, and if we did not whine and cajole while we were on vacation, then on the day we drove home, we — the kids — could command my father to stop any place we said. He promised that if we were self-controlled, that on the ride home we could make him pull over anywhere — as often as we wanted — and he’d buy us anything we wanted to eat.
The crazy thing is that it worked for years. And it worked to my father’s benefit. He had no whining in the car during the three-hour drive to Erie and, for the most part, we were good on vacation, too — reminding each other every day of all the ways we’d indulge on the way home — how much ice cream and how many hamburgers we were going to eat.
My father kept his word. We’d start the drive home and as soon as we saw the first ice cream stand we’d scream, “Stop the car!” and my father calmly pulled over. We’d pile out and he’d give us a twenty-dollar bill and say, “Buy anything you want.” So we ran to the counter and got banana splits and hot fudge sundaes and potato chips. My dad smoked a cigarette and my mother read the paper. We’d get back in the car feeling like winners.
A few miles later we’d spot a burger joint and scream “Burgers!” and again my dad pulled over, gave us some cash, and we’d each get a burger and fries and slump back to the car. I don’t think we ever stopped three times, and I don’t think my father ever spent more than $30.
Now that I am past his age, I feel a pang realizing how my father must have felt trying to afford those vacations. But I think, too, of all we got from those trips.
My father’s deal, while smart for him, taught us the wisdom of patience and delayed gratification, and gave us so much joy as siblings.
My father had a brilliant strategy to manage our endless desires. Before we left to go to Lake Erie, my father would sit us down and present a “deal.” His deal was this: If we did not beg on the way to Lake Erie, and if we did not whine and cajole while we were on vacation, then on the day we drove home, we — the kids — could command my father to stop any place we said.