The best day of the year, besides Christmas, was the last day of school. Just sitting there at my desk knowing I wouldn’t be returning for eighty-six days—eighty-six and a quarter if you counted being let out early—made me giddy. Of course, official policy was school ended at the usual time, 3:30, and the teachers pretended it was a day like any other. Nobody was fooled though. By one o’clock we’d be breathing the fresh air of freedom.
The next three weeks were all about anticipation: anticipation of a summer filled with swimming and water skiing and hanging out with friends, of endless games of Spud and Kick the Can. The thing I anticipated most though was the night we’d pile into the station wagon for the long drive to Lake George. But before that a series of rituals had to be performed. An inventory of summer clothes had to be taken, some had been outgrown over the winter and would have to be replaced, the rest were sorted into piles (space was limited so each of us had to choose our outfits wisely). One of my favorite rituals was the trip to the hobby shop to pick out a model, the only downside was I couldn’t touch it until a rainy day. Finally to the library to check out my allotment of summer books, which culminated in the thrilling moment when the lady at the front desk stamped “Summer Loan” in the back of each book.
The most important ritual of all though was performed by my dad the night of departure. It began the moment he stood up and excused himself from the dinner table. Embarcation was still a couple hours away but the packing ceremony was now officially underway.
Dad went about packing the way you’d expect an engineer to: logically. It took a lot of planning and precision to fit two adults, three children, two cats, and a summer’s worth of supplies into a 1965 Bel Air wagon. Items to be packed were gathered in neat piles in the front hall like soldiers lining up for a massive assault, their precise order of battle known only to my father, the Supreme Commander (think Eisenhower). As in any complex operation, unforeseen developments were bound to arise; a forgotten G.I. Joe, an overlooked book or bathing suit added to a pile at the last minute. Dad, returning from the car for the next load, would pause—“Goddammit!” he would say. But experience had taught him to allow for these little speed bumps and soon enough everything was back on schedule. The Bel Air wagon was a roomy car, especially with the back seats folded down, and Dad could have easily gotten away with simply dumping a bunch of suitcases and duffel bags in the back with us kids. But that would have been cheating. The challenge was to fit everything into the five by four by two-foot compartment below.
Before he put anything into the compartment he lined it with an old bed sheet. That way he could lift everything out in one big sack when we got to the lake. Solid stuff—cans, jars, books, toys—went in first. Everything in this bottom layer was fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, every nook and cranny filled. The remaining two-thirds of the compartment was devoted to clothes; lots and lots of clothes, mostly Mom’s. Filled to bursting, Dad would have to throw his entire weight against the compartment doors several times before he heard the click of the latch. Mom would inevitably produce one more item at that point and Dad would just as inevitably respond with a string of “Goddammit Heidi!”s before relenting and opening the compartment doors again, which would burst forth as if spring loaded. When the compartment was finally packed (“That’s it, Heidi, no more!”) a folding mattress was laid over the wagon’s hard metal bed (this was before padded dashboards and carpeted floors, everything was steel and glass and hard plastic) and pillows and blankets were then thrown on top. We were getting close now.
Now, an hour before lift off, came my favorite part of the night: The Drugging of the Cats. Mom had picked up tranquilizers from the vet earlier in the week and these were now slathered with butter and shoved down the throats of Herkimer and Lolita. They squirmed in protest and ran off to hide behind the couch or under a bed (we had to take care they didn’t get out of the house, otherwise they’d pass out under a bush somewhere and we wouldn’t find them till morning). But within forty-five minutes they offered no resistance, not so much as a meow of protest as we took turns dragging their limp bodies around the house like stuffed animals. They never seemed happier than when they were on drugs (I asked Mom if we could drug them every day but she said no), they never stopped purring, even when we held them in uncomfortable positions that would normally have earned us a scratch. Carrying Lolita, our moody Siamese, was a particular treat because she usually only let Amy pick her up.
At the appointed hour, somewhere around nine or ten o’clock, we changed into our pajamas and piled into the car. Dad shut the tailgate and we headed east for I-90.
It’s about five hundred miles from Cleveland to Hague, the little town on the northern end of Lake George where we spent our summers. The trip took close to nine hours if there wasn’t a lot of traffic but of course there was always a lot of traffic on Fourth of July weekend, which is why Dad insisted on driving at night. The other reason was it meant we kids would be asleep most of the way and not jumping around, driving Mom and Dad crazy. At least that’s the way my brother explained it to me, implying of course that it was me who was the problem, not he or Amy. Between playing with the drugged cats and knowing we would soon be swimming in Lake George, we didn’t get a lot of sleep the first couple hours. It wasn’t until we reached the vast, featureless landscape of western New York State—sleep-inducing even in daylight—that our eyelids started drooping like the cats’. I would wake from time to time and spoon with Herkimer or Lolita, that is if they hadn’t already slid to the floor—oblivious and purring—through a gap between the door and the mattress. Sometimes, when we pulled into one of the many service stations along the New York Thruway, I would wake to the ding of the bell and the light of the flourescents moving across my eyelids. I would hear my father say “Fill ‘er up” and the sound of gasoline whooshing into the tank below me. Gas tanks were big back then (and gas was thirty cents a gallon), so it took a while to fill them. Fine by me—who didn’t love the smell of gasoline? Sometimes Mom or Dad would get out to use the bathroom and I would say, in my groggy voice, “Can I come?” and they would say “Go back to sleep.” And I would.
Most of what I remember are the sounds and smells of the trip. The hum of the tires on concrete, the click-click-click of the turn signal when we passed another car, the low murmur of my parents talking. I couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying but I always knew when my father was asking Mom to pour him a cup of coffee because what followed was a series of noises heard only on our trips to Lake George. First came the sound of the thermos case being unzipped. Inside were two large thermoses filled with coffee. One, the one with the plaid pattern on it, was Mom’s coffee, which had cream and sugar in it; the other thermos, which had a shiny, corrugated surface, almost like a tin roof, was Dad’s. Black, no sugar. I knew when Mom was serving Dad because whenever she drew his thermos out of the case its raised ridges made a “zip” sound as they brushed against the teeth of the zipper. Soon the smell of coffee would fill the car. Then another sound, the low click of the cigarette lighter being pushed into the dashboard, then another when it popped out, its coils red hot. The sweet smell of cigarette smoke would then mingle with the aroma of strong coffee. Feeling warm inside, I would sink back into sleep.
An hour before we reached our destination we left the interstate and turned onto 9N, the twisty two-lane that ran the length of the lake—thirty-two miles. It was dawn and we were all wide awake. At the southern end was Lake George Village with its wax museums, penny arcades, cotton candy and—best of all— “spin art.” We loved Lake George Village. Mom and Dad hated it. Sitting in bumper to bumper traffic, their bloodshot eyes deeply circled, they would grumble about what a cesspool this end of the lake had become (as far as we knew it had always been a cesspool and that was fine with us). On the way out of town we would pass through an enormous campground that straddled both sides of the road. Sometimes the campfire smoke was so thick Dad had to turn on the headlights. And here, right on cue, Dad would refer to the place as “The Canvas Ghetto,” Mom would laugh grimly, and we would too, though none of us got the joke.
The motels and “resorts” became more rundown the further north we went. They had weird names like The Uncas Inn and The Viking Motor Lodge. We asked Mom and Dad who Uncas was and they would shrug and say “an Indian.” One place had a minature rollercoaster out front with an “Out of Order” sign permanently affixed to it, another had a waterless swimming pool with a broken diving board. The Viking Motor Lodge was the best though because it had a twenty-foot tall Viking standing in the parking lot with a huge club that seemed poised to crush the first car that crossed his path. I’m not sure why it had a club, perhaps its creator had confused Vikings with cavemen, but between the club and the helmet with the horns sticking out of it the guy looked pretty fearsome. He was also completely dilapidated. Most of the paint had flaked off years ago and before long one of the horns on his helmet had gone missing. We started talking about the Viking miles before we got to him, taking bets on what he had lost over the winter. One year it was that big club, and the arm along with it. The next summer we were shocked to see the Viking’s head had fallen off and lay partially crumbled at his feet. His face remained defiant though, as if to say “I don’t care if I lost my arm and my head, you still can’t park here!” My parents were appalled that no one had even bothered to clean it up but my brother spoke for all of us in the back when he said “Neat-o!” Finally, all that remained were the Viking’s feet. They stuck around for a couple more years, then they too were gone. We were sorry to see the Viking go.
The last obstacle between us and Hague was Tongue Mountain, the road over which was steep and winding and kind of scary, especially after we learned that the “tongue” referred to was the tongue of a rattlesnake. Indeed, Tongue Mountain was said to be a haven for rattlers, who purportedly sunned themselves on its granite outcroppings and slept between the cracks in the stone. There weren’t a lot of sunny spots where we were though, they were over on the eastern slope of the mountain, which overlooked the lake, whereas the road ran through a dark pine forest. I used to imagine tumbling out of the car on a sharp curve and rolling down into those dark woods. I imagined the stillness that would follow when the tumbling stopped and how I would lie there on a soft bed of pine needles and look and listen, but it would be so dark and quiet it would be as if I’d died or slipped into a dream. Then I would hear the rattles and feel the slithering bodies engulf me. I don’t know where I came up with that image but it stuck with me and any time we crossed Tongue Mountain I had to work hard to force it from my mind. Look straight ahead, I would tell myself, focus on the road.
The road held its own terrors—real ones. Number one was brake failure for the north side of the mountain was very steep and every year we heard stories about some poor soul who burned out his brakes and went hurtling over a cliff. Most involved drunken teenagers taking the hairpin turn at the bottom of the mountain too fast and flying off the giant cliff known as Deer Leap. When not killing teenagers, Deer Leap was a scenic turnoff where tourists, having survived the white knuckle ride over the mountain, were rewarded with a spectacular view of the lake. I would picture that car full of teenagers hurtling into space, nose down, starting to pinwheel. It was a long way down so they would have time enough to realize what was happening and get a scream or two out before landing—roof down—on the water and sinking to the bottom of the lake (or, in winter, splatting on the ice). When the “Trucks use lower gear” sign appeared Dad popped the transmission into second and we all held our breath until we were past Deer Leap.
When the little lake cottages began popping up we knew we were less than a half hour away. The excitement spiked when we passed through downtown Hague—two bars and a gas station—and by the time we reached Indian Kettles Lodge, a mere five hundred feet before our mailbox, we were bouncing off the walls. Before we even turned down the steep driveway we were jockeying for position at the door. Mom and Dad tried to slow us down—the only thing they were excited about was getting into bed—but we blew past them, heading straight for the lake. It was usually dead calm at that hour and shockingly cold when you stuck your toes in it. We stood there on the granite shore, the water lapping at our feet, staring out at Anthony’s Nose, the mountain that rose out of the water on the opposite shore. A mile away, its mirror image stretched before us like a visual echo.
Around now, as the adrenaline wore off, I’d begin to feel the effects of a fitful night’s sleep. Turning back to the house I could see Mom and Dad in there opening doors and windows, taking sheets off furniture, trying to banish the smell of mothballs and mouse poop. John was already down on the dock inspecting Gampa’s aluminum fishing boat, Amy was asking if she could call her friends (“It’s way too early!” Mom would say). The drugs worn off, Lolita and Herkimer were tottering about unsteadily. I bent down to pet Lolita but got a hiss; she was already on the prowl for chipmunks.
Back up at the house, standing on the porch, still in my pajamas, I thought of that perfect moment, somewhere around Buffalo—the warm weight of a cat asleep on my belly, the reassuring smell of Dad’s cigarette, the hum of the tires in my ears. I wished I was back there.
A thought, like a dark cloud, passed over my mind: only sixty-four days till school starts again.