Tell Them To Shut Up Before They Ruin Our Vacation

There is something tragically wrong with my family.

Actually with the kids. We are driving back from Michigan to Cincinnati and I'm in the back seat thinking about this last week together. Except for the kids, it was a fabulous family vacation.

Reminder: Marshal 16, Mimi 12 and Davis 4. Grand children.

Marshal and Mimi, if they were normal, should be awful on a family vacation. They should be moody, sullen, even angry that they were ripped from their friends, forced to travel ten hours, and then locked in a house with their parents and grand parents. Normal kids would hide in their vacation rooms, spending hours sending texts to their friends that trash the parents and grand parents who dreamed up the stupid idea of a family vacation with all its forced fun.

But these are clever kids. They tricked us by hiding their anger and resentment under a veneer of cheerful good humor, hoping to make us see their pain that way. Here's how they made our adult lives miserable. They talked and laughed with us. They hung around with us. They contributed to the conversations. They were funny. They were appropriately challenging when what the adults said didn't make sense. In other words, they talked. We are worried. This is not how it's supposed to be.

I saw Lisa Googling "Child psychiatrists" + Cincinnati, so I know she will take corrective action on Monday.

For Davis, age 4, it's normal to be talkative and happy. But even with that child there's a problem. We were on the porch one morning reviewing family history. We cried together talking about the family members who used to go on these vacations to Michigan, but who have been taken to heaven by the man in the pink nightgown. Davis came out on the porch, looked at our sad, crestfallen faces and shouted, "Let's play Wiffle ball!" Again, another abnormal child. Clearly an early sign of Asperger's.

Fifteen Minutes With Vikki

Today I decided to get a haircut. I went to the Harbour (notice the u) Barber Shop. The last customer was leaving as I arrived. Just the one barber and I were in there. She immediately introduced herself as Vikki and asked my name. That introduction took maybe 20 seconds at the most. During the 15 minutes I was in the chair I learned: 1) that Matt Lauer had an affair while he was covering the Olympics for NBC and that affair has put his marriage in jeopardy; 2) that he's like all men; 3) that his wife is gorgeous; 4) that Vikki's husband did the same thing to her 13 years ago; 5) that the cheatee was a relative of hers; 6) that her ex is a liar, cheat and bastard; 7) that she moved to Charlevoix to get away from him; 8) that she has two grown daughters, and I was shown photos; 9) that the daughters now get along OK with the father; 10) that Donald Trump's hair is not a comb-over; 11) that she knows how to do comb-over cutting; 12) that the customer before me had a comb-over and he let her cut it all off (no medical HIPAA rules must apply in the barbershop world); 13) that she knows how to do flat-top cuts. That's a lot, don't you think? And our fifteen minutes weren't up.

I rewarded her with the story about Charlie the barber in Cincinnati. Charlie was my neighborhood's master flat-top cutter in the mid-to-late 1950s. Most jocks wore flat tops then, and all us pretend jocks copied them. Business boomed for Charlie. He bought commercial property from my parents, who lived next door, and opened a bar. There was immediate trouble. People peeing, and worse, in my parents' back yard. Drunken shouting outside their bedroom window. And, of course, drunken fights.

My mother was supervisor of nursing at a local big hospital on the 3 to 11 pm shift. She arrived home one night to find Charlie lying in his parking lot, having been shot in the upper chest below a shoulder. Shot by a jealous husband or boyfriend, as I remember. Everyone begged my mother for help. She leaned over Charlie and claims she gave a moment's thought to just letting him die in payment for all the aggravation he put her through over the years. Then she says she thought, "No, I'll save his life." But she took a middle approach. She grabbed the bar rag, stuck it in the bullet hole, told one of the drunk bystanders to hold it there until the ambulance arrived, went into her place and went to bed. Charlie lived.

From "Hi, my name's Vikki, what's yours?" to "Charlie lived." - exactly 15 minutes.

Mimi Writes Even More About Charlevoix

To start the day off, our whole family went to Lake Michigan and had an awesome time. It was a great day, not too hot, not too cold. My brothers threw rocks in the water, and I read some of the third Harry Potter book. I can’t begin to explain the agony of having such an exciting book as Harry Potter, and learning that some of the pages are missing. I mean, come on! How am I supposed to find out if Griffindor won the Quiddich Cup when the pages are mysteriously gone!? Such an outrage.

Luckily, the day picked up after that when Grandma and I went into town. We walked around, and first picked up some yummy ice cream and fudge. Then Grandma got me two adorable Ugly Dolls. How can you resist the cute ugliness of them? Really. No one is immune.

Then, my dear Father found The Fryer. He promptly made a dinner plan that included onion rings, fried fish, cole slaw, and some apple fritters. The meal was delicious. After we ate, my dad began experimenting with The Fryer. He made doughnuts out of pancake/waffle mix, that were very good. He fried a cookie ice cream sandwich. He fried a Reese Cup (it didn’t work). My dad has always been an experimenter, and that’s cool. But, now, our house smells like we are living inside a french fry. Not my ideal scent.

Mental Health Issues Arise During Family Vacation

I have been the butt (if you’ll pardon the expression) of many jokes simply because I was determined to fix a clogged toilet. Which I did successfully. Then I became obsessed with making perfect mango lassi. Which I did successfully, only to be referred to as Mango Man.

But my obsessions are nothing compared to son-in-law Britt’s total Fry-Machine-Flip-Out (FMFO). He found a DeLonghi fry machine among the kitchen equipment here in our rental house in Charlevoix. He then started to dream about the machine and possibilities connected to it. He reminded me of the guy who lurks in the high school hall, hoping to get a look at the pretty girl from English class. One quick glance from her will fire his imagination. Let’s say this. The DeLonghi glanced at Britt.

His first idea was onion rings. We heard that for hours. Then he started to talk about fried fish. His dinner idea was forming. Fried fish and fried onion rings, with cole slaw to make sure it was a perfectly balanced meal. He was crazed. He proposed fried apple fritters for dessert. Fruit to further balance the dinner. Off to the store he went. A gallon of vegetable oil, corn meal and flour for batter, buttermilk, white fish (local) and apples.

The dinner was – to put it simply – wonderful. He earned both our respect and a rest. But by then the FMFO owned him the way heroin owns its junkies. After the dinner clean-up he fired up the fry machine again. He fried (this is not made up): some sort of donuts he created using pancake/ waffle mix and some cinnamon sugar; an ice cream sandwich that Lisa told me not to eat, after spitting her piece out in the sink; some candy bars; more apples.

Britt’s a fine man. Loving and generous. We have lost him to an addiction for which there is no known treatment. Like Borderline Personality Disorder, FMFO cannot be treated with either talk therapy or medications. Britt will now live life with his disease until he dies. The best we can do – those who love him – is search for counseling so we don’t become co-dependents to his tragic illness. How we will get through these final days is a mystery.

Oh yeah, this is supposed to be a travel blog. Overcast early with low-humidity and wonderfully sunny cloudless skies towards the end of Wednesday. A sail boat race on Lake Charlevoix took place right in front of us. The smell of frying was in the air.

Mimi Writes More About Charlevoix

To start off the day of July 6, our family (minus Grandpa and my brother Marshal) went to play tennis at a local court. Sadly, we had a very hard time finding the thing. First we asked someone at the bookstore, and thought that was the end of that. We spent a lot of time looking for the courts, and were unsuccessful. Then we went to a gas station/food market and asked where the tennis courts were. The lady’s reply was, “Right behind my store.” We forgot to ask her how far away she considered “Right behind my store” to be.

We then spent 15 minutes looking around and promptly went back to the gas station. We asked someone different where we could find the tennis courts, and finally found the place, about half a mile from the gas station. We had a good time playing tennis, and found our way home a whole lot easier than we did getting there.

Then we walked to Lake Charlevoix. This time, it was just me (I know it should be “I”, but it doesn’t sound as good), my little bother, Davis, and my parents. We continued making our humongous sand castle that has survived three days of little kids and lake water. Now, that is quality.

After naptime, we went to a different beach, Lake Michigan. This lake is more like an ocean, with big waves and deeper waters. Lake Charlevoix has virtually no waves and is very shallow, but the sand is better for building castles. I prefer Lake Michigan over Lake Charlevoix. Lake Michigan has lots of cool rocks around the shore, too. We spent most of the time playing my brothers’ favorite game, Get Mimi. Basically, they try to beat me up, but I guess you could say that they just pretend like they’re going to.

During the car ride home, Davis and Marshal were talking about how cool it would be if they had twins. They said I would have no chance when they played Get Mimi. That’s what they talked about the whole time. I guess they assumed that twins are exactly the same person, but there are two of them. It really doesn’t make sense, and is completely unrealistic. Brothers these days.

Jerry Writes More About The Family Vacation

Context counts on a family vacation. At home I would never give a thought to Sesame Street or Elmo. Too cornball. But here, far away from the tragic hipness of Cincinnati, I found myself this morning watching Elmo’s World with little 4-year-old Davis and his 16-year-old brother. I can’t give you the brother’s name for a reason that comes next. We all laughed at the same Elmo and Mr. Noodle gags.

Night before last I went up to bed at midnight. I told the 16-year-old to please, when he went up, turn out the two lights that were still on. (I’ve learned from Mimi to confess my mistakes. I badly and boldly split an infinitive there.) In that teen-age deepening male voice we all know, he said, “Shure.” Pronounced like that.

When I came down in the morning, not only were those two lights still on, but there were two more on as well. He would be crushed if I said which 16-year-old he is although he is the only 16-year-old with us and if you read another posting here you’ll know his name, but really, do you care?

Mimi is right about the differences between the two lakes. Lake Charlevoix, though large, is quiet. Lake Michigan, a few minutes away on the other side of town, is more ocean-like. It’s nice to sit on the beach and just enjoy the sound of water rolling in. The town is in between the two lakes.

There is a library here that any big city would die to have. It’s new since our last visit. A converted school. Even private study rooms for video conferences and stuff. Very busy.

Finally, a few words about my obsessions. On day one here I became obsessed with solving a clogged toilet problem, even though the problem really belongs to the owner. It’s solved. Now I am obsessed with making perfect mango lassi for everyone. If I’m successful, their lives will be changed forever.

Grand Daughter Mimi Writes About Charlevoix

Right now we are on a nice family vacation in Charlevoix, Michigan. There were supposed to be 12 people going on this trip, but now there are only seven. So sad. But now we have this big house all to ourselves. Trust me, it’s never boring when Grandma and Grandpa come. We just hang around all day and sit on the porch. Or go to the beach that’s two blocks away. Or read. Or cook. Or listen to Grandpa talk about dumb or inappropriate stuff. Usually it’s funny, but even if it isn’t, at least one person thinks it is.

The drive up wasn’t too bad, but granted my family has gone on some very long drives this year. Add the fact that we can magically make a 10 hour drive 13, and it wasn’t very good for the drivers.

Since we have been here, it’s been pretty great. Besides the fact that the master bedroom’s ceiling fan looks like it’s about to fall out, and that this house has some ancient plumbing. One of the three toilets in this house, all of which have issues, is seriously clogged. Grandpa spends a lot, and I mean a lot, of time trying to fix it. So far, Toilet: 1, Grandpa: 0. I really don’t understand why he’s the one who is trying to make this stupid thing work. Grandpa, who practically barfs when he sees that kind of stuff, is trying to fix that darn toilet.

The showers are no better! None of them works, either. Except for the one outside, which sounds like a waterfall is flooding the kitchen, and the bathtub inside the Problematic Potty Place works, but no one dares step inside there.

But the beds are comfortable, and our family loves each other, so I can’t really complain.

Jerry Writes About Charlevoix

We are on a family vacation in Charlevoix, Michigan. Not an adventure journey. No danger, unless you call an Egg McMuffin dangerous, and many would.

Robin and I, along with daughter Lisa, her husband Britt and their three children are in a beautiful rented home for a week. Kids are Marshal, age 16. Mimi, 12, Davis, 4.

Staying at Chip Terrill’s house. You can see it here: www.snn.com We’ve been in this house before – five years ago. Been in Charlevoix many, many times. The house looks out at Lake Charlevoix. It’s quite large. More than big enough for the seven of us.

It takes about eight hours of safe, non-stop driving to get here from Cincinnati. But McMuffin, Subway, bathroom and gasoline stops easily turn that travel time into ten hours. Be warned: it’s a boring, seemingly endless drive.

Arriving in very early July – we got here on the 3^rd – can be risky. That’s the front of the “season” in Northern Michigan and it’s often too cold for comfort. Not this year. This year it was too hot for comfort both Saturday and Sunday. Mid-August hot. But great for the beach which is just two blocks from our front door. One person in the family is thermostatically challenged, and the heat is a real problem for that person who will not be named here unless Mimi decides to say in her entry in this blog.

We eat on the porch. We play on the substantial lawn. We all read books. A true family vacation. Today, the 5^th of July, was overcast and rainy. But the temperature dropped ten degrees and now feels more Michigan-like. The thermostatically challenged person is still a sweatball, even at the lower temperatures.

The only real complaint I have, other than the terror we all feel every time we flush the one low-flow toilet here (There are three more), is that there’s no WiFi in this house. For example, this evening I composed a long email on my laptop only to remember it can’t be sent until the morning from the downtown coffee shop or from the library.

Finally, let me tell you our about conversation at dinner last night. Someone said, “I think he’s a, quote, famous person.” So then we talked about the fact that most of us use verbal quotes that way. We put the word quote in front of another word we’d put quotes on both sides of if we were writing. But when we say the word, rather than write the quotation marks, we almost never close our spoken quotes. As in, “I think he’s a, quote, famous, unquote, person.”

Think about what that means. Every word we speak after first saying “quote” is part of an endlessly long open quotation. I’m certain many of us go to our deaths without ever closing a quote that was verbally opened perhaps decades before. Then someone at last night's dinner said the Executor of an estate could close a quote, post-mortem. Others argued that only if the deceased had signed a Quote Closure Codicil to a Will could the Executor close quotes for a dead person. Don't die with your precious words all caught in an open quote. Close now.