The station wagon was packed to the roof. Dad had been out there since 6 AM, playing Tetris with suitcases, coolers, and that fold-up lawn chair nobody could bear to leave behind. Mom sat in the passenger seat with a paper map spread across her lap like a tablecloth. And you? You were wedged in the backseat between your siblings, already sweating, wondering how many hours of “Are we there yet?” stretched ahead.
This was summer vacation. No reservations at a mega-resort. No fast passes. No apps telling you wait times for rides. Just a family, a car, and the open road leading somewhere that probably didn’t have air conditioning.
The Art of the Family Road Trip
Getting there was half the adventure. Sometimes it felt like more than half.
Dad had a system. Leave before dawn to “beat the traffic.” This meant everyone stumbled into the car half-asleep, still in pajamas, clutching pillows that smelled like home. The headlights cut through the darkness as suburbs gave way to farmland. By the time the sun came up, you were already a state away.
The backseat was a battlefield of invisible borders. “Stay on your side” was repeated roughly every fifteen minutes. Someone always had their elbow in someone else’s ribs. The middle seat was considered punishment, reserved for whoever had caused trouble the day before.
Entertainment came from whatever you could see out the window. License plate games. Counting cows. Spotting VW Beetles and yelling “Slug bug!” while punching your brother. Billboard reading became a competitive sport. You knew every Burma-Shave sign by heart and waited for them like old friends.
The car had no air conditioning. Just those little triangle windows that you could angle to catch a breeze. Everyone had sweaty legs stuck to vinyl seats. Dad’s arm hung out the window, getting progressively more sunburned throughout the day.
Pit stops happened at gas stations that actually had attendants. A guy in a uniform would pump your gas, check the oil, and wash the windshield. If you were lucky, Mom would spring for glass bottles of Coke from the vending machine. The cold glass felt like heaven against your forehead.
Lake Cabins and the Simple Life
The destination was often a cabin by a lake. Nothing fancy. Usually just one big room with a kitchen corner and a screened porch that faced the water. The mattresses were lumpy. The place smelled like pine and old campfires. It was perfect.
Days started with the screen door slamming. You’d be out before breakfast, running barefoot across dewy grass toward the dock. The morning lake was still as glass. By 8 AM, you were already in the water, teeth chattering, too stubborn to admit it was freezing.
Hours disappeared without anyone noticing. You caught minnows in mason jars. Built elaborate sand structures at the water’s edge. Took the rowboat out with strict instructions not to go past the point. Came back when the dinner bell rang, sunburned and waterlogged and completely happy.
Fishing with Dad meant sitting in companionable silence, watching a bobber float on the surface. He’d show you how to bait a hook with patience you rarely saw from him at home. The fish you caught were tiny and thrown back. It didn’t matter. The catching wasn’t really the point.
Nights brought fireflies and mosquito bites. The grown-ups played cards on the porch while kids caught lightning bugs in jars, punching holes in the lids so they could breathe. Someone always had a transistor radio playing softly. The lake lapped against the shore like a heartbeat.
No television. No phone. If someone needed to reach you, they didn’t. And somehow the world kept turning anyway.
National Parks Without the Crowds
Back then, you could actually see the Grand Canyon. Not just the backs of heads belonging to thousands of tourists with selfie sticks. Just the canyon itself, stretching out impossibly wide, making everyone go quiet for once.
National parks were different creatures in those days. Sure, they were popular. But “popular” meant you might have to wait ten minutes to get a parking spot. Rangers actually had time to answer questions. You could sit at an overlook for an hour and never feel rushed.
Yellowstone meant watching Old Faithful erupt without jockeying for position in a crowd three hundred deep. Yosemite meant hiking trails where you might not see another family all day. The Smoky Mountains meant winding roads with pull-offs where Dad would stop so everyone could stretch their legs and admire the view.
Campgrounds were first-come, first-served. You’d pull in, find a spot, and set up the tent while it was still light. The canvas tents took forever to pitch. Dad would hammer stakes while muttering under his breath. Kids were assigned jobs. Gather firewood. Unroll sleeping bags. Find the flashlight because someone already lost it.
Dinner was hot dogs charred over the fire, served on white bread because someone forgot the buns. S’mores for dessert, with marshmallows that either caught fire or stayed cold in the middle. There was no in-between. Everyone smelled like woodsmoke for days afterward.
You’d fall asleep in your sleeping bag, looking up through the tent flap at more stars than you ever saw at home. The sounds of the forest kept you company. Owls. Crickets. Your sister snoring softly three feet away.
The Beach Before It Got Complicated
Beach vacations meant piling into a rented cottage a block from the shore. The floors were sandy no matter how much everyone swept. The furniture was mismatched and slightly damp. Salt air came through every window.
Mornings started with the walk to the beach, arms loaded with towels, chairs, and that old metal cooler that weighed a thousand pounds. You’d stake out a spot before the sun got too brutal. Plant the umbrella. Lay out the blankets. Claim your territory for the day.
The ocean was entertainment enough. Boogie boards if you were lucky. More often, you just bodysurfed the waves until your arms gave out. Built sandcastles with moats that actually filled with water when the tide came in. Dug holes deep enough to stand in. Collected shells in your beach bucket until it was too heavy to carry.
Mom sat under the umbrella with a paperback novel and a can of Tab. She only got up to reapply Coppertone to everyone’s shoulders. That coconut smell still takes you right back.
Lunch was sandy sandwiches from the cooler. Bologna and cheese on white bread, slightly warm, gritty between your teeth. Nobody complained. You were too busy watching the waves.
Boardwalks came alive at night. Miniature golf with windmills. Arcade games that cost a dime. Salt water taffy pulled in shop windows. Rides that spun and tilted while lights flashed and music blared. Your sticky fingers clutching tickets won from Skee-Ball. The sound of the ocean always there underneath everything.
Visiting Relatives You’d Almost Forgotten
Sometimes summer vacation meant going to see family. Grandparents in another state. Aunts and uncles you only saw once a year. Cousins who were strangers for the first hour and best friends by dinner.
These trips smelled like Grandma’s house. You know the one. Moth balls and lemon furniture polish and something baking in the oven. Plastic on the couch that stuck to the back of your legs. Candy dishes filled with those strawberry hard candies in the crinkly wrappers.
Grandpa would take you into his workshop and show you projects. Let you hold tools. Tell stories about the old days that seemed impossibly long ago. He moved slower than your dad. Had patience for things that didn’t seem to matter.
Meals were enormous. Grandma cooked like she was feeding an army, and everyone ate until their buttons strained. Fried chicken. Mashed potatoes. Green beans from the garden. Pies cooling on the counter. Food made with time and love and recipes passed down from people you’d never meet.
Cousins meant built-in playmates for a week. You’d run wild through backyards and nearby woods. Make up games with complicated rules. Fight and make up three times before sunset. Promise to write letters when you got home. Maybe even do it once or twice.
What Made It All Special
There were no thousand-dollar tickets. No carefully planned itineraries. No lines stretching for hours. No pressure to see everything, do everything, photograph everything.
Summer vacation was simply time. Time with your family, for better or worse. Time to be bored enough to get creative. Time to explore places that weren’t designed to separate you from your money. Time to just be a kid.
The memories weren’t manufactured by marketing departments. They happened naturally, in the space between one small adventure and the next. A fish that got away. A sunset that made everyone stop talking. A moment when the whole family laughed at the same thing.
You didn’t realize it then. How could you? You were just a kid in the backseat, counting down miles, wishing the trip would end so you could get there already.
But looking back now, you understand something important. The trip itself was the destination. Every sticky mile. Every sibling squabble. Every roadside diner and lumpy mattress and cold morning lake.
That station wagon carried more than luggage. It carried a family through summers that would never come again. And somewhere deep in your memory, you can still feel the vinyl seat against the back of your legs, still smell the Coppertone, still hear your father saying those magic words.
“We’re here.”