Road trips cannot only take you somewhere physically but they can take you back in time. This weekend our lowly Honda took me back 50 years or more. To the smell of the ocean, sunny days, sandy beaches, big cars and summer vacations with my parents. Names like Mystic, Old Lyme and Saybrook dance in the back of my memory like fall leaves in the wind. Turning and twisting, showing me the bright colors of my childhood.
When I was young my parents like to vacation by the water. For many years it was Connecticut, Old Lyme and Saybrook then it became Maine with Old Orchard and Ogunquit. The same ocean, different states and different memories. Connecticut was when I was very young. From the time my parent first adopted me to about 10 and then it was Maine for a few years. I even remember Wildwood, NJ being in there for a season with a rented house. There was New York and Lake George. New Hampshire and Lake Winnipesaukee. Always by the water, in motels and rented cottages. Just me an my parents.
The trip always started the same. My parents learned early on I would ask questions endlessly if allowed to do so. Taking a trip with a non-stop chatterbox especially a long trip as in 4 or 5 hours, would drive any normal person over the edge. So after our first outing my parents found it better for their nerves to keep me up very late the night before we set out on our vacation. Then we would leave early. I would curl up in the back seat amongst my pillows, blankies and stuffies and we would set off for our high adventure.
The back seat of our car became my traveling room. This was the days before seatbelts or carseats. Children rode unfettered in the back seat or the front seat. In the arms of an adult or stretched out asleep. I was a sleeper. Suitcases on the floor so if I rolled off the seat I wouldn't fall to the floor, I would just roll onto the suitcases with the front seat stopping me from going any further. I would sleep for the majority of the trip. In fact for most of my life I have been able to sleep almost anywhere due to that early training. Lulled by the sound of the tires on the road, by the passing of other cars and trucks I would sleep from state to state and wake up amazed if not somewhat bewildered that we were no longer at home.
Our cars where always big and we always had them for 10 years. I don't know why 10 years but I do know why there were big. Other than the fact that those were the days of outrageous consumerism my dad was 6 foot 5 inches tall. He only bought cars that could accommodate his size plus his hat. He was an executive in a small but rapidly growing company. He wore suits, ties, dress shoes and a hat. He shaved with shaving soap and a brush, wore Old Spice and his hair never touch his collar. The only time he wore short sleeve shirts and shorts was on vacation. His skin was as milky white as mine and we both burned to a glorious red if left out in the sun too long.
My poor mother's job was to attend to our needs. Vacations were never vacations for her. If we rented a cottage she cooked and cleaned there instead of home. My father could not boil water for the life of him. She reminded us to cover up in the sun, although she was a sun worshiper and never burned she was anchored with two pale lilies with fair complexions. Motels meant going out to dinner which I am afraid my father was not a big fan of. He liked meat, potatoes and a veggie. Never an adventurous eater he was well into his 50's (and we had been to Maine for several years) before he discovered he liked lobster. He yardstick by which he measured all restaurants was mashed potatoes. He would always ordered them and if he found them lacking we would never return to that restaurant. He was a world traveler and always came home a few pounds lighter than when he left because he found it hard to adapt to any cuisine but my mother's cooking.
Our vacations are just hazy memories and this weekend some of the earliest rose from the dust of my somewhat cluttered mind. Don and I visited Mystic Seaport. The last time I had been there (or Don for that matter) was some 50+ years ago. I vaguely remember the ship the Charles W. Morgan which is now undercover in a large plastic and wooden structure undergoing a major renovation. Instead of walking onto deck of the ship as it laid moored in the water, you have walk up 3 flights of stairs (did I mention I don't like heights?) to walk upon its deck as it sits upon land in it's protected cocoon. As you climb the stairs you can see into the very bowels of the ship. It's planking mostly stripped away and its very skeleton exposed to the world with modern day tools and equipment laying about ready for the skilled hands of the carpenters and craftsmen to bring it back to life.
It is a very different place now then it was back when I was a child. Motels, hotels and restaurants surround the area. There are buildings brought in from Mystic itself and other places. Repurposed and renovated to give you the feel of a New England seaside town. But it lacks something in my adult eyes that I saw there as a child. I am not sure what it is, maybe nothing more than an elusive dream. We see things so differently when young.
Don't get me wrong. I loved going there and feeling those lovely memories of childhood. Almost feeling once again what it was like to walk with my parents by my side. We can't go back in time but we can relish what we had and knew and hold those precious things in our hearts. We lose so many memories, times like this are like fireworks in the night, bright and beautiful for a moment and then gone. We think we will remember but we don't. Life moves on and we get caught in it's flow. Memories on top of memories, burying each other until some are lost forever.
It was a good weekend. I have come to the realization I don't have to remember everything. Memories are not all we are made of. We live each day and that is the wonder of it. Carpe Diem....seize the day not the memory of it, but the moment of it.
When I was young my parents like to vacation by the water. For many years it was Connecticut, Old Lyme and Saybrook then it became Maine with Old Orchard and Ogunquit. The same ocean, different states and different memories. Connecticut was when I was very young. From the time my parent first adopted me to about 10 and then it was Maine for a few years. I even remember Wildwood, NJ being in there for a season with a rented house. There was New York and Lake George. New Hampshire and Lake Winnipesaukee. Always by the water, in motels and rented cottages. Just me an my parents.
The trip always started the same. My parents learned early on I would ask questions endlessly if allowed to do so. Taking a trip with a non-stop chatterbox especially a long trip as in 4 or 5 hours, would drive any normal person over the edge. So after our first outing my parents found it better for their nerves to keep me up very late the night before we set out on our vacation. Then we would leave early. I would curl up in the back seat amongst my pillows, blankies and stuffies and we would set off for our high adventure.
The back seat of our car became my traveling room. This was the days before seatbelts or carseats. Children rode unfettered in the back seat or the front seat. In the arms of an adult or stretched out asleep. I was a sleeper. Suitcases on the floor so if I rolled off the seat I wouldn't fall to the floor, I would just roll onto the suitcases with the front seat stopping me from going any further. I would sleep for the majority of the trip. In fact for most of my life I have been able to sleep almost anywhere due to that early training. Lulled by the sound of the tires on the road, by the passing of other cars and trucks I would sleep from state to state and wake up amazed if not somewhat bewildered that we were no longer at home.
Our cars where always big and we always had them for 10 years. I don't know why 10 years but I do know why there were big. Other than the fact that those were the days of outrageous consumerism my dad was 6 foot 5 inches tall. He only bought cars that could accommodate his size plus his hat. He was an executive in a small but rapidly growing company. He wore suits, ties, dress shoes and a hat. He shaved with shaving soap and a brush, wore Old Spice and his hair never touch his collar. The only time he wore short sleeve shirts and shorts was on vacation. His skin was as milky white as mine and we both burned to a glorious red if left out in the sun too long.
My poor mother's job was to attend to our needs. Vacations were never vacations for her. If we rented a cottage she cooked and cleaned there instead of home. My father could not boil water for the life of him. She reminded us to cover up in the sun, although she was a sun worshiper and never burned she was anchored with two pale lilies with fair complexions. Motels meant going out to dinner which I am afraid my father was not a big fan of. He liked meat, potatoes and a veggie. Never an adventurous eater he was well into his 50's (and we had been to Maine for several years) before he discovered he liked lobster. He yardstick by which he measured all restaurants was mashed potatoes. He would always ordered them and if he found them lacking we would never return to that restaurant. He was a world traveler and always came home a few pounds lighter than when he left because he found it hard to adapt to any cuisine but my mother's cooking.
Our vacations are just hazy memories and this weekend some of the earliest rose from the dust of my somewhat cluttered mind. Don and I visited Mystic Seaport. The last time I had been there (or Don for that matter) was some 50+ years ago. I vaguely remember the ship the Charles W. Morgan which is now undercover in a large plastic and wooden structure undergoing a major renovation. Instead of walking onto deck of the ship as it laid moored in the water, you have walk up 3 flights of stairs (did I mention I don't like heights?) to walk upon its deck as it sits upon land in it's protected cocoon. As you climb the stairs you can see into the very bowels of the ship. It's planking mostly stripped away and its very skeleton exposed to the world with modern day tools and equipment laying about ready for the skilled hands of the carpenters and craftsmen to bring it back to life.
It is a very different place now then it was back when I was a child. Motels, hotels and restaurants surround the area. There are buildings brought in from Mystic itself and other places. Repurposed and renovated to give you the feel of a New England seaside town. But it lacks something in my adult eyes that I saw there as a child. I am not sure what it is, maybe nothing more than an elusive dream. We see things so differently when young.
Don't get me wrong. I loved going there and feeling those lovely memories of childhood. Almost feeling once again what it was like to walk with my parents by my side. We can't go back in time but we can relish what we had and knew and hold those precious things in our hearts. We lose so many memories, times like this are like fireworks in the night, bright and beautiful for a moment and then gone. We think we will remember but we don't. Life moves on and we get caught in it's flow. Memories on top of memories, burying each other until some are lost forever.
It was a good weekend. I have come to the realization I don't have to remember everything. Memories are not all we are made of. We live each day and that is the wonder of it. Carpe Diem....seize the day not the memory of it, but the moment of it.
