My Summer Holiday - Frozen, Fried, and Frazzled

At Christmastime in December 1975, our town became unusually cold. No, I didn't misunderstand the prompt. It's summer. The lead-up to Christmas Eve had been warm. This is common for the Southern Hemisphere, where summer falls towards the end of the year, and a traditional Christmas dinner is often an outdoor barbeque. But a cold snap can happen with our oceanic climate, especially near the coast. Unfortunately, we planned to go camping and anticipated the usual steamy December.

Our mother spent several days packing. Our entourage consisted of five children, a grandmother and my parents. Our mode of travel included a station wagon with its roof rack and a trailer canopied with sturdy canvas, all filled to capacity. My parents would take everything, including a kitchen bench, portable toilet, porta cot, and double bed. As seasoned campers, they had perfected packing and knew what necessary things to include for comfort. A camping trip is probably two-star accommodation, but we had our standards. Dad brought along a little TV to run off his car battery. He reserved this for keeping up to date with sports events - not for my favourite TV serials, more the pity.

My brother Peter and I, Lynley, worked hard in our Dad's music shop after the end of the school year. People in a frenzy to buy presents shopped to buy music gifts, appliances, or vouchers for family and friends. I wasn't banished to the back room to price mountains of records this time. My sister Katie got this job. I smiled, served, wrapped up customers' purchases, and manned the till. As did Dad and my brother. This had become a family affair, especially at such a busy time, though a family friend also helped. We sweltered as we worked. The shop door remained open for ventilation, and with no air conditioner, there was little relief from the heat. Dad treated us to a mass of fresh cherries to snack on, bought from the fruit shop three doors down, though not while we served. 

Some things I love about summer are holidays away, high temperatures, fresh cherries, time to read books, and no High School. I hate working in Dad's shop, which is way worse than school. Actually, I like school, but I hate being teased and bullied. It used to be like water off a duck's back, except not now that I'm a teenager. The kids should grow up. I'm afraid my feathers are not as oily as they used to be. The oil has migrated to my face. Pimples are the bane of my life!

The shop would be shut for three weeks from Christmas day. A busy couple of weeks leading up to Christmas had been expected and necessary for business. We looked forward to leaving for our camping trip the next day. Our out-in-the-wild destination beckoned. I couldn't wait to swim in the river, build a hut, and climb trees. The river, surrounded by shady weeping willows, lent itself to dam building, paddling on a lilo (inflated waterproof bed), and swimming. A township just a short drive away is where we stocked up with supplies we needed during our fortnight vacation. Mum knew the dairy owner, and he would swap our ice packs daily so we could keep some perishables cold in our chilly bin. Travelling to our destination took a day and a half, and we often overnighted at a motel to break our trip. We had time to complete our journey the following day and put the tents up before nightfall. We felt eager to start our adventure.

A hot, balmy wind blew that night, and we heard terrible news from Dad.

"Well, the sad thing is we may not leave tomorrow. A freak storm is predicted. It may snow. The good news is it will pass quickly. When it clears, we will leave."

The younger siblings were ecstatic. "Oh, I hope it snows!" and, "Can we make a snowman?"

Remember, I said I liked warmer weather? How could this happen in summer? At least we weren't already tenting, but it's a small comfort when you've been dreaming about camping for months. Many would be wrapt about a white Christmas for the first time since the December 1935 snowfall which had just missed Christmas. I'm not one of them.

The next day, we woke to an almost whiteout. It was freezing and snowy, but the snow quickly turned to slush. During the day, we had wind and sleet. My sisters grumbled that they couldn't build a snowman. I couldn't think of anything worse. Brrr. I started reading my holiday books. It's hard to feel positive about such a setback. Did this spell of lousy weather spell doom? We hoped the setback was temporary.

Finally, we left for the river, packed to the hilt and squashed like herrings in a can. We youngsters sang our favourite holiday song, Cliff Richard's Summer Holiday, a testament to our shared excitement and unity.

"We're all going on a summer holiday

No more working for a week or two

Fun and laughter on our summer holiday

No more worries for me or you

For a week or two

We're going where the sun shines brightly . . ."

My brother tried to drown us out with his In The Summertime, by Mungo Jerry.

"In the summertime, when the weather is high

You can stretch right up and touch the sky

When the weather's fine

You got women; you got women on your mind

Have a drink, have a drive

Go out and see what you can find . . ."

I objected. "Mum and Dad, Peter is singing a sexist song about drunk driving!"

A little sister chimed in, "What is sexist?"

Dad didn't like arguments while driving. "I wish you would all shut up."

I glowered at my brother. "This is all Peter's fault."

"Be quiet, Lynley," said Mum.

We didn't get to our destination that day. It wasn't because anyone got murdered. Dad pulled over as the trailer developed a wobble. He discovered a tyre had been shredded. He didn't panic, as panic never solves anything. My brother stayed with the trailer, and we drove the rest of the way to the nearest town with trailer luggage balanced on our knees. Dad booked us into a hotel, and we unpacked the car frenetically—time being critical.

 "I'll hire a trailer to carry ours and tow it to the service station. I haven't got a spare tyre, so I hope they can fix or replace it. Make yourselves at home, family. Lynley, can you come with me, please, as I'll need your help."

That's what happens when you are the oldest and a girl. The brother is relied on first and then me. I really wouldn't have liked to wait with the trailer. Sexism for safety is okay, I suppose.

Dad hired a huge trailer. We could push our trailer up a ramp, secure it, and bring it back to the small town.

The two biggest jobs were emptying as much out of the trailer as possible and putting it in the back of the now-vacated car. Some things we put towards the back of the trailer, leaving enough room for the trailer itself. Job two, a massive feat, meant pushing and shoving our trailer up onto it. Naturally, we sweated like pigs in the heat. We tied one of Peter's tees onto its tow bar, jutting out beyond the open gate of the trailer, and secured it with reused roof rack ropes. With hazard lights on, we ambled down the road.

The people at the service station helped us. Due to the time of year, we would have to wait for a new tyre to arrive. If we bought a new wheel and tyre, it could be on by the end of the day. We could pay for the second new tyre and pick it up on our way home. We'd then have a spare. We all wanted to get to our river sooner rather than later. 

The following day, all hands busily repacked everything.

'Where's Marie's baby bath?" said Mum. We couldn't find it anywhere. It had been useful the previous year. Mum sat her in the bath near the water's edge, filled with warm water. Marie had been content to sit and watch us playing in the river, comfortable in her tiny waterhole. Mum sat and watched us all at the same time. A plastic bath gone west wasn't the end of the world. Now that three disasters had happened, we heaved sighs of relief. Maybe nothing else would go wrong?

We headed away after breakfast and arrived there after lunch. Mum rustled up sandwiches while we sorted out the tent gear. The sturdy main tent had an awning to give space and shade during the day. My brother put up his own pup tent. The girls' tent, the biggest, would sleep three girls. Another sturdy tent nearer the main tent had a high pitch and a dark green fabric roof. This tent would sleep little Marie in her cot and Grandma on a stretcher bed. We sweltered in the sun as we pitched them.

Afterwards, we four older children went off to explore. My mother finished unpacking all the kitchen gear and made up the bed in the living room tent, Marie's cot, and Grandma's bed. My Grandma took Marie for a walk around the area. Marie loves exploring. 

Dad organized the loo a distance from the tents. There were rules. All the kids and Dad had to go bush to do number ones. When it needed emptying, It was out-of-bounds. Dad wanted to discard the contents into a newly dug hole before it became too full to carry in a sanitary way. The chemical used in the toilet smelled terrible but was a tad better than the odour of the number twos it disguised. He told us this was camping in style. I guess if we were refugees on the brink of death after walking for miles, it might seem stylish.

The area near our campsite had many chopped and fallen down trees that had keeled over and become an overgrown tangle. I climbed amongst them and found a wee private hideaway at ground level. After climbing and swinging through this tangled jungle a few times, I worked out a parkour trail to take me from one side to the other in a few minutes. I ended up with several scratches before I perfected my moves. My siblings called out to play hide-and-seek. We worked out the boundaries of the game and spent some time hiding and finding among the trees and tents.

Later, we organized our sleeping bags, which meant blowing up lilos. I blew up Lara's as she is only seven. With our tent set up for three girls, we went down to the river to fill up bottles of water for the family. The sparkling water is safe for drinking, cooking, and washing. After dinner, we children took the dirty dishes down to the river to clean them. Just like at home, but the novelty value made it fun. We laughed, relaxed, and forgot the trials we had experienced thus far.

That evening, after two little girls were asleep in our tent, Grandma joined Marie, fast asleep in her cot. Mum, Dad, Peter, and I played our usual game of Euchre at the same fold-out table we used for meals. Dad had his big fold-out chair while we sat on three simple fold-outs with metal frames and fabric slung and stitched across them. After a few rounds, we went to our tents armed with small torches. We each had torches in case we got up in the night. It was my job to look after Lara if she needed help. 

Something about the travelling and the fresh air made us sleep well. When I opened my eyes, it was still early. I snuggled in my sleeping bag and listened. The gentle rippling of water over river stones soothed. At the same time, the raspy, fluty warbling of the magpies, crowing to greet the day, reminded me of other camping holidays. I thought about the dam we'd built to make a swimming hole.

We'd stay with Grandma while Mum and Dad went into the township to stock up and leave some icepacks at the Dairy. I wondered what frozen food they'd buy to keep everything cold in the chiller. Ice cream for later? We only used evaporated, canned milk for camping. Many staples of dehydrated or canned food had been brought along, including some vegetables and fruit from our garden—as much as can be eaten while fresh.

I heard a faint splat on the roof of our tent. A bird poop? Then I listened to another . . . and another. Oh, no! It's raining. Would it ruin the day? If we were wet in the river anyway, would it matter? The critical thing would be the temperature. Hot and rainy is okay. 

In time, we all awoke and trooped into the main tent for breakfast. Dad tried to listen to his transistor radio, but the reception wasn't good.

"Mum, Marie, and I will go into town soon, and I'll find out the forecast. It feels cold, so stay in this tent, or your own, and play games or read. Grandma will be in charge. Listen to her."

"And don't touch the ceilings of your tent, girls. We don't know how long the rain will last, and we don't want it leaking," warned Mum.

This happened one other year. I visualized the three of us huddled in our sleeping bags in the centre, surrounded by containers catching drips and the not-soothing serenade as they fell. Surface tension is responsible. When you touch the inner walls of a tent, water droplets lose it and seep through the fabric. I had studied the phenomenon and knew to be careful.

"Maybe Lara and Katie should stay in this tent," I said, imagining the worst. 

"Great idea. You two stay here with Grandma."

I planned to go, snuggle in my sleeping bag, and read to the sound of raindrops - but not on my head.

When Mum and Dad returned, they brought hot pies for lunch. What a treat. I can forgive them for forgetting ice cream. 

Dad announced, "After lunch, Mum, Peter, Lynley, and I will dig trenches and channels around the outside edges to drain water away. We will roll all the ground sheets away from the sides so they won't get wet. This will stop the tents from getting flooded. The forecast is for steady rain for a couple of days. Peter can sleep in the back of the station wagon."

"Aw," said Katie, "We want to swim."

"Who will watch you?" said Peter. "Just stand outside in your bathing suit and get soaked!" 

Half of us worked hard. The other four stayed dry inside, playing Happy Families and Ludo. At that stage, it seemed like an adventure. We didn't let this spell of lousy weather dampen our spirits. Despite the ominous weather, we were determined to make the most of our holiday. 

Later in the day, Mum and Dad deepened the trenches and channelled the water further away. Dad didn't do barbeque on his portable outside. Mum cooked the vegetables and sausages on the little gas cooker inside. The atmosphere became clammy with wet clothes hanging around, our body heat, and the dinner cooking. At least we weren't cold, for now.

By the afternoon of the following day, it still rained, and temperatures plummeted. The main tent had water trickling in. Lara had started numerous leaks in our tent and moved into the tent with Grandma and Marie. Marie developed a cold. We made trips to the toilet or the bush, fetched water from the river, and our clothes became wetter and wetter. You can only hang so much around a tent while other damp washing piles up. Mum and we five children became stir-crazy. Dad told us he had something to do in town but didn't tell us what. 

When he returned, he made another announcement. "The good news is we have somewhere dry to stay—the local motor camp. The bad news is I have booked a cabin with two small bedrooms. Peter will still have to sleep in the car."

"That's great," said Peter with a huge grin.

"The motorcamp is packed this time of the year. We're lucky to have their last cabin for up to a week. The other bad thing is we will still have to walk to a communal kitchen and bathroom."

"What about our tents? Do we have to pull them down?" I asked. This would have been abysmal news.

Dad laughed. "No. The tents will be left here to dry. Anything loose can be stored in the trailer and parked at the motorcamp. Mum will have their laundry to get everything washed and dry."

"Thanks, what a relief," said Mum.

Within another day, the rain stopped, leaving everything soaked. Staying at the motorcamp became the highlight of our holiday. We enjoyed the company of other children, the playground, and the less primitive living arrangements. An enormous extended Greek family had two girl cousins named Palesa (pronounced 'paletza'), and Katie and I got on well with them. We invited them to our campsite near the river when we left after four days. To our delight, the whole family came to see us one day. They made the dam higher, and we had a great time. It became scorching. Ideal for water play. We all applied sunscreen, as did Dad. He must have forgotten his feet. The top of them burnt into huge blisters. Poor Dad. He couldn't wear shoes for weeks. We went home with a healthy colour on us. A reminder of our eventful summer holiday.