I was putting some liquid gold into my gas tank the other day, trying not to watch the numbers as they rotated with lightning speed on the pump.
Just about the time I was thinking about complaining, I noticed a Greyhound sized motor home with a jeep attached to the tow bar pulling up to the diesel pumps. The driver began filling up and I wondered how he could fill that machine and still afford to go on vacation.
But the price of gasoline has always been relative and always a major consideration when planning a vacation. I remember one year when mom announced we were going to visit relatives in Saskatchewan. We were all amazed that she had somehow been able to talk dad into making such a trek.
There was lot of preparation involved prior to the journey. Dad made a roof top carrier that was affixed to the roof of the ’56 Chevy with straps and suction cups and hooks to hold the tarp. The old canvas tent and tent poles were kept up top, along with a gas can and anything else that could get wet if it had to. Finally, the trunk was loaded to capacity, the canvas water bag was draped over the airplane hood ornament, six of us piled in and off we went.
I used to watch dad continuously watching the oil and water gauges, pessimistically expecting some disaster to bring the old Chevy to a stop. Every once in awhile he would yell at everyone to be quiet as he had detected a rattle or felt a shimmy and would need silence to see where it was coming from. I always felt like we were in a submarine waiting for the depth charges to hit the hull.
Once we left B.C. the campsites changed dramatically. Often they were the corner of a farmer’s field with an outhouse, a swing and a see-saw but always a flat spot to put the tent. There were no Tim Hortons or McDonalds along the way, just cold chicken in the cooler, ham sandwiches and Kool-Aid.
The seating arrangements changed as we got tired of each other and being in the middle of the back seat was just plain punishment. When you started out, the excitement was high, but by the third day, when your brothers and sisters were just sweaty, pushy travelling companions, you realized why this wasn’t a regular event.
There was the occasional reprieve when we stopped by a lake or river and went in for a cool dip, but not for too long, as dad had a schedule and knew where he wanted to be before dark. There was no GPS but the old map was clearly marked for each day and we knew when we were to get to our destination.
Once we arrived there were plenty of new cousins to meet, aunts and uncles who had only been names were now actual people, and the days were full of lunches and dinners and playing well into the dark.
Too soon it was time to cram back into the sweat box for the journey home.
Dad didn’t carry credit cards and on the way home the discussion was often about limiting the food purchase to make sure we had gas money. Remember, no bank machines.
I hope that guy with the motor home can afford as great a vacation as we had. At least that’s what McGregor says.
