I guess I should finish the entry I started Thursday before I was so rudely interrupted by my vacation. Before I do that I have a public service announcement: If you have not seen The Dark Knight, go now. See it. Now!
Now, back to family vacations.
I still cannot remember what specific family vacation I wanted to write about. So I think I will just throw out random bits and pieces of family vacations that I can remember. First, I have to give you some general “Coats Family Travel” rules.
There were 5 of us: my parents, older brother, younger sister, and myself. Rule number one of “Coats Family Travel” stemmed from us three kids’ fighting tendencies. Rule # 1: When we’re in Moulton, sit down and be quiet. Why? Because the Sherriff in Moulton hated kids. If he saw us acting up in the car, he would arrest us all. Yes, we believed this. It worked for many more years than it should have. Moulton’s city limits grew with every trip we took. Eventually it stretched from Muscle Shoals to Cullman. (Not familiar with the area? Here’s the map.)
Rule # 2: Sleeping position was determined by age. We spent many miles sleeping. This meant one of us lay in the back window, one in the seat, and one in the floor board. This meant my brother got the seat, I was in the window, and my sister (the youngest) was in the floor. This lasted until a good hard break check, which sent us all crashing into the floor. When this happened, I was glad to be in the window.
Rule #3: Don’t let Scott read in the car. Every trip I wanted to read. Every trip my mom reminded me that I get car sick. Every trip I got car sick. Don’t let Scott read in the car. I can tell you from experience, Chewy Sweet Tarts are much better going down.
We travelled a lot in my childhood. A lot of it was because of my Dad’s work. For the first 8-9 years of my life he worked in the electrical supply business. When he became a salesman, many of his clients were working on the Alabama Gulf Coast. My brother and I would ride along with him once in a while. One specific memory I have is riding to Mobile sitting on a 5 gallon bucket in the back of a cargo van on a trip to deliver material. On another trip we went down to attend the Shrimp Festival with one of his customers, Sonny. (I don’t even remember his last name. I was only 7 or 8 years old.) We stayed at Sonny’s house for the weekend. At the end of the weekend I announced to my family that I was staying. I planned to live with Sonny for a while and help him work on the boat he was restoring. Sonny agreed. My parents did not. I cried most of the way home.
A few years later he moved over to the contracting side of the business. For the first 5 years or so, all of his work was on the Gulf Coast. He would stay there during the week and come home on the weekends. Several times a year, we would ride down to visit him. Once in a while we flew down to visit him in Destin, FL. My dad’s boss was part owner of a small plane, so he flew us down there from time to time. On one occasion my mom. Brother, sister, and I were flying down to Destin. Half-way through the flight the plane dropped about 100 feet. In a large plane you would barely feel it, but in a small 6 seater you feel every foot. My brother and I loved it! We whooped and hollered (that’s a great phrase) and asked for more. When I looked at my mom, she was as white as a sheet; clutching the seat with one hand and my sister with the other.
We took vacations, too. Because my dad worked on the coast, we often went to Nashville or Atlanta. I remember visiting The Hermitage, Opryland, Six Flags, and more Braves games than I can count. These were the good old days. We sat anywhere we wanted along with 1,000 other people littered throughout Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. The Braves were horrible, but the atmosphere was great!
Over the years and the miles we had our share of adventures. There was the time an old lady ran us over into the median on I-65. We spun around 3-4 times before we stopped on the left shoulder. It was a miracle we didn’t flip or end up in oncoming traffic. We were once rear-ended as we drove slowly past a wreck on US 98 in Fort Walton Beach. The Toyota truck that hit us was totaled. Our Lincoln Mark V had one small dent in the trunk lid. The notorious “Pancake Incident” deserves its own entry, so I won’t share it just yet. The first time I heard my dad use the “F” word was in downtown Montgomery when an 18 wheeler almost forced us into the concrete highway divider.
Even today there are certain words the evoke memories, good and bad, from our travels. The Sand Dollar, The Lighthouse, flounder, The Sherriff in Moulton, Mrs. Jones & Mrs. Non-Jones, “Hey Bill,” Billy Bob Bobo. Each one whether a person, a place, a phrase, or a figment of my mom’s imagination, is a part of our family story. They are each a part of who we all grew to be.
I miss those family trips. Not every moment was pleasant. Not every memory is happy. But I miss them just the same. I think that’s one reason I enjoy the travelling I do for work. Every road is part of my story. On each highway a memory rides right beside me. Travelling those same roads gives me a chance to relive those memories. I’m glad I get to relive them all. Except, maybe, the Chewy Sweet Tarts. You don’t ever want to relive those.
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