I remember our first summer vacation

There can be no better place for a family of eight children to grow up than a small Midwest country town. Summers were filled with running in the hills, playing baseball with the neighborhood kids, or inventing games to play in Grandpa's five-acre field. Never alone, having a brother to keep one company enhanced life.  

One of the biggest challenges for our large family was economics. Dad worked two jobs to make ends meet, while Mom's hands were constantly full, keeping up with eight children—seven boys and one girl. Even the most patient mother would be hard-pressed to keep her footing in such a whirlwind of energy and mischief.

Vacations were a luxury we simply couldn't afford. Summers were spent at home; on rare occasions, we'd go camping at the local campgrounds. But there was one unforgettable exception: --------

I remember our first and only summer vacation—a road trip around Michigan.

It began when Dad's older sister, Aunt Josephine, and her husband, Uncle Leo, visited one weekend. They arrived from the city, as they often did, bringing their lively household along. That particular weekend, they had a proposal. They wanted our two families—four adults and nine kids—to pile into their minivan and embark on an adventure, driving around Michigan together. It seemed impossible, but their enthusiasm and determination convinced my parents to agree.

For us kids, Aunt Josephine and Uncle Leo were more than just relatives—they were lifelines. Each summer, they would take two or three of us to their home in the city, giving my parents a much-needed break from the chaos. Aunt Josephine, a tall and slender woman with dark hair, had a raspy voice from her unfiltered cigarettes. Despite her sharp tone, her eyes sparkled when she spoke to us, revealing her deep love and respect for my parents and us kids. A no-nonsense disciplinarian, she kept us in line, but her affection always shone through.

On the other hand, Uncle Leo was a larger-than-life figure with a gravelly voice that matched the thick cigars he smoked. He was quick to smile and full of sage advice, though he ruled with a firm hand. He had grown up in a world where children were taught to respect their elders, obey the rules, and face the consequences when they didn't. I remember one instance vividly: my cousin Bert had shirked his chores and picked on his younger brother. From somewhere deep in the house, we heard Uncle Leo's booming voice, "Bert, get your ass down here!" The sound alone froze us all in place. When Bert appeared, Uncle Leo laid down the law. A stern talking-to was followed by a grounding, but it was clear that beneath the gruffness, his discipline came from a place of love and responsibility.

June 15, 1969 marked the last day of school. As the final bell rang, we burst out of our classroom, throwing open the exit doors with uncontrollable excitement. Smiles spread across our faces as we shouted with pure joy. This wasn't just the start of summer—it was the end of elementary school for me. Next year, I'd be stepping into seventh grade, officially a junior high student. It felt like I was hitting the big leagues.

But what made this day even more special was what lay ahead: my family's very first summer vacation with Uncle Leo and Aunt Josephine—a real vacation—something I had only dreamed about. My mind raced with images of the adventures we might have as we traveled across the state. I pictured sleeping in the back of the minivan, pitching tents at campsites, and exploring new places. The thought of it all left me overwhelmed with excitement.

This summer wasn't just another break from school; it was the beginning of something extraordinary.

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On June 17, Uncle Leo, Aunt Josephine, their sons Bert and William, and their daughter Dawn arrived early at our house, ready to begin our adventure. For my siblings and me, this was monumental. Aside from a single visit to Detroit while staying at Uncle Leo's, we had never traveled anywhere. As the van pulled into the driveway, we ran out cheering, knowing this was the beginning of something new and wonderful.

Mom and Dad had spent days preparing for the trip, selecting food, clothing, camping gear, and a first-aid kit. With so many boys in the family, Mom knew the first-aid kit would be helpful. Eating at restaurants and staying in motels were luxuries we couldn't afford, but in 1969, camping was the norm for families traveling on a budget.

Early the next morning, Mom and Aunt Josephine woke us up to the smell of a hot breakfast: pancakes, bacon, and eggs. The house buzzed with excitement as we prepared to hit the road. Dad and Uncle Leo packed the gear into the back of the minivan—a white VW microbus with three bench seats in the back. Uncle Leo, ever the unsolicited leader, directed the older boys—my brothers Jim, Brian, myself, and my cousin Bert—to carry the gear from the house and lay it out on the lawn for packing.

An hour after breakfast, we were on our way. Our first stop was three hours away, on the state's east side: Port Huron. Uncle Leo assigned us our seats: he drove with Dad in the passenger seat, as was customary for men back then. Mom, Aunt Josephine, and Dawn occupied the first row of bench seats, while my cousin William, the smallest, sat on the floor between the first row and the driver's seat. The second row held my brother Jim, Bert, and me. In the back row were my brother John, our cousin Bern, and my sister Tammy.

In 1969, there were no iPads, cell phones, or headsets to keep kids entertained on long trips. We invented our own games, like counting out-of-state license plates. The winner, after an hour, would get a chocolate bar. Halfway through the first game, Brian and John shouted out the same plate and car color. "John, I was first! It's mine! That makes ten cars for me!" Brian yelled. John, nicknamed "Wino" for his constant whining, protested loudly, "I saw it first!" Chaos erupted when Brian reached over the seat and cracked John on the head. John wailed, "Brian hit me!"

Mom and Aunt Josephine immediately started scolding, telling Brian not to hit and John to stop whining. Suddenly, Uncle Leo's booming voice silenced everyone: "Do you want me to pull this car over? You don't want me to pull this car over!" The van went quiet. After a few moments, Mom turned to us and asked, "Can we continue the game without fighting?" We all nodded silently, and the game resumed.

We passed the time singing songs like "Found a Peanut" and "There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly." The parents joined in, adding silly animals like aardvarks to the song. Before we knew it, three hours had flown by. "Look! Lake Huron!" Dad announced. My eyes widened in awe at seeing the sandy beach stretching into the horizon, with no land in sight. As Uncle Leo pulled into a park, excitement rushed through me.

"This looks like a perfect spot for lunch and maybe a quick dip," Uncle Leo said. After stopping, Dad opened the sliding door, and we all tumbled out, eager to race to the water. While Mom and Aunt Josephine set up the picnic table, we splashed and played in the lake. After lunch and more water fun, it was time to pack up and head to the Port Huron Lighthouse and the Blue Water Bridge connecting the U.S. to Canada.

Two hours later, we arrived at the lighthouse. From the parking lot, we could see the impressive Blue Water Bridge. The idea of being so close to another country filled me with wonder. What were Canadians like? I imagined all sorts of differences through the eyes of a curious country boy.

The lighthouse was tall, with white walls and a red roof. Inside, a spiral staircase wound its way to the top. We began climbing, but John stopped, clutching my leg and whining, "I'm scared! I'm going to fall!" I called for Mom, who gently guided him back down. At the top, a door opened onto a circular platform with a breathtaking view of the blue sky and water stretching for miles—even into Canada. It was stunning.

After an hour of exploring, we had lunch in the park and packed up for our next destination: Sleeping Bear Dunes and Lake Michigan on the state's west side, about six hours away. As night fell, Uncle Leo decided we'd camp at a rest stop. Back then, it wasn't unusual for families to sleep at rest areas during road trips.

We arrived just before dark, quickly ate dinner, and settled in for the night. With limited space in the van, Bert and William had to sleep in a tent. William, afraid of the dark, was soon tormented by Bert, who told him a bear was outside. William screamed, "Mom! Bert says there's a bear outside the tent!" Uncle Leo's gravelly voice cut through the night: "Bert, don't make me come out there!" Silence followed as Bert realized Uncle Leo was scarier than any bear. My brothers and I, sleeping in the back of the van, laughed until we cried.

We hit the road again early the following day, stopping only for bathroom breaks and lunch. By evening, we reached a campsite near Sleeping Bear Dunes. After setting up camp, we went to bed, eager to explore the dunes the next day.

Waking early, we headed to the dunes. I'd never seen so much sand—endless mounds against blue skies and Lake Michigan. We spent the day climbing and playing. At the top of a dune, Dad and I stood in awe of the view. He placed a hand on my shoulder and said, "Son, it's so peaceful up here. I've enjoyed this time with you, away from our everyday life." It was the first time he had shared his feelings so openly. As the sun set, I watched him, calm and content, his pants rolled up to his knees—a rare and endearing sight I'll never forget.

The following day, we woke and hung around the campgrounds, talking about the previous day's adventures. The Adults were sipping coffee, Uncle Leo was smoking his cigar, Aunt Josephine was looking out over the dune smoking her non-filtered cigarette, and Mom was talking and laughing with Dad. It was a perfect ending to our very first vacation.

That summer road trip remains one of the most cherished memories of my childhood. Despite the cramped quarters and occasional squabbles, we laughed, explored, and bonded in ways we never had before. With their unwavering support and love, Aunt Josephine and Uncle Leo made it possible for us to experience something extraordinary—a break from the struggles of daily life and a glimpse of adventure and connection that we would carry with us forever.  

At the time, I didn't realize how memorable that vacation would be. Spending time with my dad—laughing, running around, and watching him truly enjoy himself—was a gift I didn't fully appreciate at the moment. For a brief time, he was free from the weight of worrying about how to provide for our large family.

It was the last vacation we'd ever share. Two years later, Dad would lose his life in a car accident.

I often reflect on that trip with wonder, love, and gratitude. It wasn't just a vacation; it was a window into a side of him I didn't often see, a light, carefree, and peaceful version of him. Those memories are etched in my heart, a bittersweet reminder of the joy we shared and the father I'll always carry with me.