Memory Bank (continued part 4)

My favorite times when traveling with my dad during our longer trips to the Outer Banks were when we would arrive at the campground. There were strict rules of propriety for those of us not in the driver’s seat; no one was allowed to leave the campsite until the trailer was firmly propped into place on the cement slab. My dad had to back up our comically long trailer onto a thin strip of cement surrounded by nothing but sand. The scruffy dune covered landscape offered little to those who dared bring a trailer nearly the length of the slab. One false move in either direction would lead us to a catastrophic place of being stuck in the sand. My sister, Mom, Grandma and me would get out of the car as my dad carefully used two large mirrors bolted on the side of our station wagon to maneuver his way onto the slab. He literally had to inch the trailer in sharp right angles backing up our parade float until he reached the very edge of the slab. As he made several attempts to get the trailer into position we could hear a string of swear words coming from inside the driver’s seat from my dad. Most was garbled by wind and distance but faint grumblings of the most offensive language made its way to our ears as Grandma winced at her son’s verbiage. Kim and I laughed, hiding our faces from Mom and Dad’s view, knowing we would be chastised with a deathly look if caught. It was such stereo typical family moment for us as we heard our dad yell obscenities as my mom desperately tried to direct him onto our new home for the next couple of weeks. Entire comic movies are made by such events, and I knew why even as a kid. Once the trailer was put into place, jacks had to be set up, leveling had to be acquired and the car had to be detached along with the giant side mirrors bolted to our station wagons sides, he used for driving. The check list of what we had to accomplish was long and involved and there was o leaving until all the work was done. We each had a set of jobs and we set about the work of setting up camp. The last thing that needed to be done before we could shower off the long car ride was to lower and brace the canopy over the patio area of our campsite. Once that was accomplished the unpacking portion of the trip began as chairs were moved outside in order for us to get to our bunks. Mom would head to the kitchen area and start setting up her organized station where she would have to produce meals from a miniature model of what we had at home.
My dad to his credit took our last trip there when I was 16 and my sister was 18. He was surrounded by his mother, his wife and his teenage daughters. The amount of estrogen in that small place was palpable. The only other male was the dog, who stuck to my dad, I think of fearful of all the females in close proximity. As my sister and I had grown into young women our packing became a greater ordeal than the trip itself. As small children we had been limited to beer boxes my dad had gotten from a store. These boxes had flip tops and we were told to pack only what fit into these boxes that would allow the lids to be closed tight. I didn’t need much when I was little so packing light was fine by me, but as a young woman, I had a blow drier, curling iron, make-up, hair products, multiple bathing suits and enough clothes to change outfits at least three times a day. The skill set my sister I had to acquire was to squeeze as many outfits into these small boxes as possible. I could fold clothes into tiny little packages no bigger than a can of spam. Shoes were bent and tightly shoved into the sides and I insisted on extra bags or containers for make-up and accessories. At first Dad balked at the idea of more stuff going into the already cramped quarters, but eventually he caved like a house of cards knowing the trip would be miserable if he forced us to leave all of our accoutrement at home. Nothing made my dad more miserable than having to listen to the incessant bickering, bitching and whining of teenage girls. While we had learned which buttons to push in order to maintain our femininity, my dad learned which rules to fully enforce in order to maintain his personal peace and quiet. My father having worked for an entire year just to get these two weeks off in the summer was not about to throw away his sanity on a blow drier.