Originally published: . Volume 10, No. 7. Source pages: 2.
Growing up in a newspaper family, the vacation week was preceded by a manic––even more than usual––effort to produce what we called, “The Farm Edition.” My father would send me out to take photos and gather the soft news from around the rural life setting of Red River Parish. I’d find out which livestock farmer had a new prize bull (and take a picture), how the cotton fields were holding up to the drought (and take a picture), and which vermin had found their way into the corn crops (and take a picture).
This filled up the back of the paper so that right before we took off for vacation, my parents would write up the hard news for the front page. The back-shop, a production team composed of two great young fellows named Johnnie and KP, would run the press and get the paper to the post office across the street when the deadline arrived.
Mom and Dad were free for seven days, unheard of the rest of the year for publishers of a small weekly. So, after this mad-dash, frazzled sprint to produce the Farm Edition, my Dad piled us in the car for a mad-dash, frazzled sprint to some beach where we fought sand, surf, and sunburn until we returned home to recover.
When I was 11, my father got it into his head to see Hemingway’s home. So this time he piled us (four kids and mom) into his new Buick Skylark and we drove from Coushatta, Louisiana, to Key West, Florida.
My father was a drive-a-holic, and could put 100,000 miles on a car in one year. But obviously ignoring the fact that time passes faster for adults than children, he set out on a four-day round trip of 2,600 miles to Key West.
I remember the Banyan trees, eating lobster for the first time, and driving along the Keys. I remember the salt scented air, the warm beach sands and how the road through Florida narrowed until the land dropped away to nothing but the endless turquoise ocean on both sides.
Mostly, however, I remember the eternity of staring out a car window for mile after mile, after mile, after mile, and hour after hour, after hour. (Surely this is what they do to you in Hell.)
The trip to the Keys was my last. The next year I put my 12-year-old foot down and refused ever again to go on another family vacation. My vehemence seemed to break open the groupthink and my older sister, a very accommodating, sweet, and cooperative sort, amazingly broke ranks too. My younger brothers joined the revolt. I think my father would have exercised his authority except for the fact that my mother amazed us all and agreed, announcing that she would instead spend her time, by herself, fishing for Bream in Black Lake.
Psychological science tells us we like to be busy. We’ll try and stay busy, even if we don’t really have anything to do. That’s the hard part about summer vacation.
In their research, “Idleness Aversion and the Need for Justifiable Busyness,” Hsee and his colleagues point out that people dread idleness, and people who are busy are happier than people who are idle. So, even a specious justification can motivate people to be busy, they found. This idea is contained in the adage about work expanding to fill the time allotted, even if it is meaningless.
For me, summer might be a time to stop some of the busyness, lay back a little, do a few reruns, and try some mindfulness. One good thing about the summer––the legislature goes home and stops, at least for a time, making new laws and dreaming up things for the rest of us to have to do. I don’t have to worry that they’ll pass a law that says I have to drive four days, in order to spend three days on vacation, at least not right now.
This article is part of a historical newspaper archive. Read the original issue for its original layout, photographs and graphics.