Aug. 6, 1997
I had the chance to spend a weekend at Lake Rayburn at a friend's vacation cottage recently, and the experience brought to mind vivid memories of my childhood family-vacation trips to that same lake.
After all these years, I still find it amazing that National Lampoon chose the Griswolds, rather than the Mundys, to do their "Vacation" movies about.
I have always admired my parents, not only for their courage in springing five young 'uns on the world, but also for their infinite patience in managing to manage us without spending thousands of dollars a year on antacids.
One trip in particular that I recall would've sent me over the edge in a heartbeat.
For starters, remember that my folks, at the time, were typical blue-collar Deer Parkers. Dad worked in one of the ship-channel chemical plants, where one's status is reflected not by his job, but by his expertise in the outdoors — hunting, fishing and the like. Consequently, the Old Man sank several thousand into things like a monster canvas tent, a nice boat, camping supplies out the wazoo and enough fishing gear to feed a small community.
This particular trip, if I recall right, was made sometime in 1969 or 1970. Mike was still a toddler, Danny and Charlie were just "learning" to fish, and Jeff and myself were diligently learning the nuances of our first rods and reels.
The trip began the same way most of our trips began at the time, with Dad hitching the boat to his 1965 Impala, loading everyone in, unloading everyone and un-hitching the boat so he could get to the trunk and get Mikey's diapers out. Jeff and I always put the diapers in the trunk with the thought that if there were no diapers available, MIkey wouldn't need to be changed before we got to the lake.
There was, as always, the intermediate disaster. After a quick stop at one of those bait shops somewhere along Highway 59, Dad got back in the car and admonished the four of us in the back seat to "make sure our doors were locked." He then sped out of the parking lot.
Charlie's door, of course, wasn't locked, and the quick acceleration jerked the door open and spilled Charlie onto the highway. Mom screamed, but Charlie hit the ground running and caught back up to us by the time Dad screeched to a stop.
The first night at camp with five small boys, as might be expected, was mass confusion, but we managed to make it through the night with the only disaster being a German Shepherd from a neighborhing campsite chasing Charlie through the trees for a bit. The dog managed to escape without serious injury after we pried Charlie's teeth off his tail.
At sunrise, we towed the boat to the launch ramp and got it into the water. After only four more hours — changing Mikey once, making sure everyone had their life preservers, prying a lure out of Charlie's hand, getting hamburgers for everyone — our day's fishing expedition was ready to begin.
The Old Man motored to a nice, secluded spot on the lake, surrounded by shady trees, the waters peaceful, clear and calm. "The guy at the ramp said the bass are running here," he winked at Jeff and me. "We ought to catch a bunch of 'em here."
Mikey, it turned out, had an admirable and useful talent for catching the minnows swimming around in the bait-bucket and supplying them to waiting hooks. Of course, he had to kiss them first and tell them to "Go cash fiks," but his heart was that of a true sportsman.
The fishing advice my Dad had received proved sound. The bass were running. We'd no more than baited hooks and put them into the water before Charlie's line jerked and out of the boat he went, following his flying cane-pole. Mom and Dad managed to rescue him (we lost the pole), and Mom supplied her pole for him to use, keeping afirm grip on him the rest of the day.
That small disaster notwithstanding, however, we reeled 'em in left and right. Of course, when I say "we," I generally mean we, the family.
Dad, sitting on the prow, was reeling them in just as fast as he could get 'em off the hook, re-bait, and get a line into the water. Danny was so busy Mom had to get a grip on him too. Mikey started crying because his lips were starting to taste like fish. Charlie bagged 'em left and right.
On our side of the boat, Jeff was equally busy reeling them in. Sitting next to him, I forlornly watched the debacle for two hours, with nary a nibble on my line.
At length, being the older and bigger, I made him switch places with me, sure that my little spot of water was cursed. He tossed in his line without any bait on the hook, and immediately pulled in a perch. I dipped my struggling little minnow into the water and watched as four different fish swam up to it, took a sniff, and swam away.
You'll notice that during my most
recent trip to Rayburn, I said nothing whatsoever about going fishing.