It was August of 1931 and a hot, muggy day in Chicago. My dad was on vacation, not out of work because of the Great Depression but on a real ”two- weeks-with-pay” vacation. The five of us children were on vacation, too, and all hoping for a summer trip.
Often during his vacations we drove to St. Joseph, Mich., and camped on some land Dad owned.
As we grew older, and Dad more adventuresome, we drove to Wisconsin and stayed in a cabin with no plumbing, no electricity and no running water (We pumped water from a well). There was also no one within shouting distance on either side.
But this year Dad had said, ”Money`s tight. We`re staying home.”
Wrapped in gloom and depression I was lying on my bed in an upstairs bedroom. In the next room my parents were rehashing the cancelled trip.
Then I heard Dad say, ”Oh, let`s go. It`ll do us good.”
I listened for a minute and heard the large old leather suitcase being pulled from the closet shelf.
I leaped off the bed and took the stairs in jumps of twos and threes shouting, ”We`re going to Wisconsin!”
Besides the two adults and five children in my family, there was a very large dog. We never went anywhere without the dog.
Our car was a black seven-passenger touring car with two jump seats that folded against the front seat. One jump seat was assigned as the dog`s space. She rarely used it. She liked to share the other folding seat, rest her head on the window ledge and let her long ears blow in the wind-at 35 miles an hour.
It`s a mystery where things were stowed for the trip. Dad had an expandable wooden ”fence” he put on the edge of the car`s running board. This created a space about 6 feet long and 8 inches wide that was packed solid with our gear.
On every trip Mom carried a small first-aid kit and Dad always warned us, ”If it looks as though there might be an accident, cover your face and duck down.” Naturally, being normal red-blooded pains-in-the-neck, if another car came within 30 feet, one of us would scream, ”Cover your face,” and Dad would groan.
We lived just outside Chicago, and the cabin was in Tomahawk, Wis., a distance of about 350 miles. It was a two-day trip, and there were no motels, no restaurants and no camp grounds.
Along the way we stopped at country schools to stretch our legs, eat lunch or just run around. The schools were empty for the summer. When Dad pulled up in front, out we poured. We swung on the swings, pumped clear water from the hand pumps, used the outhouses and piled back into the car.
There was no radio, so we sang. We knew the words to every song from Dad`s childhood on down. When we stopped for the night Dad pitched a tent at the side of the road and each of us stuffed a long, denim bag with leaves-our sleeping pads. Mom cooked over a portable camp stove, and we each had a tin plate and cup.
For the five kids and the dog it was heaven. Years later my sister asked Mom how she stood it. All she said was, ”It was a change.”
