Family Ties Part II

Nov. 8, 2006

There was one particular vacation spot my Dad made sure to take us to every year. Some time around the end of June, Dad put on his “family man” cap and we all piled in to the station wagon. Not your typical wood paneled full-size wagon. No, Gram had a “sporty” wagon, which really should be illegal. I mean what is sporty about a station wagon? 0-60mph in the time it takes to get to the grocery store? Sometimes my aunts and cousins would go, making the trip very uncomfortable, but we still managed to get there. I remember the times we went alone the best. After the sandwiches, Nes-Quick and macaroons were packed, it was off to Deer Park Funland. Since I was a kid, the place has evolved into a decent amusement and water park, but before it was Michigan’s Adventure, it was seriously like a jumbo carnival. It had several rides, and one big roller coaster, but the best part of the entire place was the acres and acres of carnival games. Don’t be fooled, however, by the somewhat quaint description of the park. DPF was the real thing. It was the Big-Time.
The car ride was always interesting. Grandma would chain smoke, and no matter what, she inevitably dropped a cigarette on the floor of the car, causing Dad to swerve dramatically and say, EVERY time, “Jesus Christ, mother, are you trying to burn the car down?” Apparently, Gram was always trying to burn something down. She would go into the bathroom with a lit cigarette, and come out without one. We got used to following her around the house, putting out butts, picking stray smoking cigarettes off of countertops, dressers, sinks, etc. I once found a lit cigarette in the silverware drawer. I always wondered how many smokes she wasted through forgetfulness. They both smoked like fiends, Dad at least two packs a day, Gram maybe three, but Dad never forgot to put his out, making him a cigarette god in his own mind, and giving him the power to demoralize all those smokers who didn’t follow the 10 commandments of carcinogens.

As the wagon bowed right onto US 31, we said bye-bye Silver Shores trailer park, and hello to the Mecca of fun and surprises that lie ahead.
“And we’re off,” Dad would say, “Like a heard of turtles.”

Whatever the hell that meant. During the trip, Dad always had stories, and he told them, over and over again. When we were little, the stories were exciting.

“Did I ever tell you that I rescued a kid from a burning building right over there?”
Or,
“A semi truck ran into this guy’s car. I pulled him out, and his brains came right out of his head, right into my lap.”

He had a million of them. Some better than others. As I got older, I got a little smarter, and definitely a bit braver. I would ask logical and legitimate questions to try to catch him in a lie. “Logical” and “legitimate” to rational people, of course.

“So, when you rescued the kid, were the firefighters already there?” I would ask.
“Yeah, but they were too afraid the floors would give out, so they weren’t going in.” he would reply.
“But, why did they let you go in?”
“I just pushed my way through. I heard the kids screaming, so I just went in.”
“Kids? Were there more than one?’
“Uhh, yeah. There were two. I got them both out.”
“When did this happen? Were you married to Mom?”
“Jesus, Chrissy, why are you asking so many Goddamn questions?”
“I just think it’s a cool story and I want to get the details.”

Liar, liar pants on fire! It wasn’t a cool story - the story sucked. I just loved getting him to the edge of being pissed off. And, I was really good at it. Almost too good. I would ask subtle questions, so he would never realize I was making fun of him. I sometimes wonder how I managed to keep it up over the years without getting my ass kicked. Small miracles. The true key to this game was knowing when to end it, and I knew when to shut up. This was the time to shut up.
Every road trip needs music, and this one was no different.
The radio would always be tuned to some classic rock or hard rock station. Dad loved the local station, 97.5 WKLT. The moment we lost reception of that station, Dad would get pissed.
“Why the hell don’t these other piss ant towns have good radio stations? I’d kill myself if I couldn’t hear Rush.”

Wouldn’t we all?
Rush was Dad’s favorite, and it was the one group that I absolutely hated. Maybe because we would listen to them ALL THE TIME, or maybe it was because, in my opinion, they sucked.
I will say, however, that because I had such extensive knowledge of classic rock songs, I was welcomed into many groups.
The biker buddies my Dad hung out with.
“Is that Ozzy?”
I was in.
The hunting enthusiasts that my step-dad was related to.
“You know, I think Fred Bear is one of Ted Nugent’s best songs, maybe one of the best songs, ever.”
What a cool step-daughter.
The deep-rooted hippies - Grateful Dead.
The “I tried being a hippie, but liked to shower” group - Fleetwood Mac.
They loved me. To those adults, I was the coolest.

The freeway twisted and turned, as the station wagon tried hard, but always failed, to keep up with the flow of traffic. As we turned the corner, trying hard to stay on the road, we heard a familiar sound coming from the back. The mountain of pop bottles that Gram kept in the back had tipped over, creating a sea of returnables in the “way back” of the wagon.
“God dammit, mother, why don’t you take those things back,” Dad asked.
“Why don’t you take them back? You have the car more often than I do,” she replied.

Go Gram! The conversation would have heated into a full on yelling match, had the back hatch of the station wagon stayed latched.
“What the Hell?” Dad screamed.

We were swerving, screaming like little girls when suddenly Dad slammed on the brakes, causing all of us to lunge forward. I turned around to see the pop bottles scattered around the road. Cars whizzed by us. Both tempers and fingers were raised at the sight of our presence. Dad had pulled to the side of the road. He started swearing and slamming his fist against the steering wheel; each blow brought the sound of a wussy-ass station wagon horn. The pathetic horn made his tantrum seem even more hilarious to me.

“We’ll pick them up,” my brother said, optimistically from the back seat.
“Yeah, I guess we’ll have to,” Dad said.

He got out of the car and started walking toward a Faygo bottle. He picked that one up, and grabbed another one. I kept wondering why he hadn’t grabbed a bag to put them in.
“This is going to take forever,” I muttered under my breath.

Joe had tried to go out to help, but I didn’t think it was such a good idea to have a 6-year-old running around the freeway. Anyhow, this seemed like a puzzle he needed to solve himself.
Finally, after several trips to and from the car, Dad had succeeded. He picked up every last pop bottle. He must have felt good about completing his mission, because he was in a really good mood. When he found himself back in the driver’s seat, a quiet sense of accomplishment radiating from his aura, he cranked up the radio, and guess who was playing? Dad started to bob back and fourth in his traditional car seat dancing style. “What you say about your company is what you say about society…” he sang with great joy!
Kill me now, I thought to myself. I looked out the window at the car antenna blowing in the wind.
“Just stab that into my eye,” I thought to myself.
The next few miles were pretty quiet. Sophia had fallen asleep on my lap, and she was drooling on my leg.
“Gross,” I thought.
Just when I thought I might have to throw myself from the moving vehicle to try my luck at road bowling, I heard a break in the Rush guitar solo…
“Here we are!” shouted Dad.
Everybody perked up. There it was, in all its glory - Deer Park Funland.

Where to start? Should we lunge into the rides right away or try our luck at the Skill Crane. The possibilities were endless. I felt my enthusiasm rise as we entered the gate. Perhaps the most memorable thing about Deer Park were their employees. Amusement Technicians. Entertainment Operators. Keepers of Joy. These people: The gods and goddesses of the Holy Funland. I felt myself choke up a bit, as my eyes misted over at the site of the Front Gate. Gate Carnie was a polite woman who was missing two of her teeth.
“You all look like you’re ready for some fun,” she said with her messy smile.
I wondered if missing teeth made it easier to use a straw. She could have placed the straw tip right in the center of her mouth hole. Would it be easier to drink like that? Hmm… Dad stopped us at the front of the park’s entrance, and I cringed at what was coming next. Most parents, good parents, would use this time to inform their children of the rules, go over what to do in case you get lost, hell, even give their kids an anti-drug speech. My Dad, however, used this time to let us know that he is not “made of money” and that these “damn tickets” cost so much that there would be NO concession snacks and a limited amount of gaming money.
Oh by the way, don’t talk to strangers?…nope.
“Grandma packed sandwiches and snacks, so that’s what we’re eating if you’re hungry.”
“Dad, I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” my younger sister said.
She was already doing the pee dance, and I knew that time was of the essence.
“God dammit, Sophie, you’re as bad as an old lady. Hell, you’re as bad as a baby.”
I never knew it, but apparently it is a privilege to use the restroom in some countries. Take for example, Vietnam. Dad knew this because he was in that war. Yeah right. He once told me that when he was over in ‘Nam, he watched the Vietnamese soldiers torture his best friend. I asked my Grandma about that a few weeks later; if she was worried about him, if he ever wrote, etc.
“He never went to ‘Nam. I don’t know why he tells you kids that stuff.”
But, like I said, in Vietnam, you are only able to use the bathroom two times per day. It teaches people “self-control,” mind over matter, shit like that.

“Chrissy, can you take her?”
“Yeah, sure. C’mon Soph, let’s go.”

Our adventure had begun. The air smelled of cotton candy and overworked toilets.
We wandered around, a group so visibly dysfunctional that even I realized we put the “trash” in “white trash.” I wondered what other families thought. A small man, mid-30s, walking around an amusement park in the middle of summer wearing jeans, a black t-shirt and a fringe leather biker jacket. In tow, he had his elderly, chain-smoking mother, and four small, reasonably clean kids. His hands were dirty, his teeth were rotting, and his hair was long. One picture of this group was worth a million confused words.
Gram was a thrill seeker from way back, and she lived for the roller coaster. Every year, I tried to muster up the courage to go on it with her, and every year, I failed. It was pathetic. I would get to the front of the line, ready to go, but never manage to get in the cart. Then, I would wait, while my 60-year-old Gram went whizzing by, alone. Her thinning hair blowing in the wind. This year was going to be different. I had convinced myself that I would get in. Gram and I left the group to tackle the coaster, and I heard Dad yell, “Don’t chicken out, Chrissy!”
“Oh, I won’t,” I thought. “Not this time.”
My heart was pounding. What was I so afraid of? The coaster operating Carnie was a bit scary. His tattoos were dark and sinister looking, except for the naked woman on his arm who was apparently named Betty.
“All he has to do is push a button,” I said to myself.
The moment of truth was rapidly approaching. “Just get in. Just get in. Just get in,” I chanted, “You can do this.”

It was our turn. The cart rolled up, and Gram jumped in. I hesitated, momentarily, but somehow, managed to get my trembling legs into the cart. I sat down, and put on the belt.
“You made it,” Gram said.
I didn’t respond. I just sat there, concentrating on my breathing, trying to think about nothing, while my mind raced. I wondered if there were construction carnies that had built the coaster. An assistant coaster Carnie came by to check everyone’s belts, and pull down the bars. “He didn’t even check my belt,” I thought. “Why didn’t he check my belt? He just glanced at it.” That man was not well qualified for his important duty. What if someone fell out on his watch? Sure, he would be fired, of course, but didn’t it bother him that he would have been responsible for the death, preventable death, of a complete stranger? An amusement park and carnival goer literally put their lives into the hands of people who have no idea the true importance of their jobs. They are the firefighters of Funland. Why don’t they understand this awesome responsibility? Would it help if we gave them a holiday? “National Carnies Day.”
Before I could shout to the attendant, the ride began. I clutched the bar with all of my strength. “Oh God, I don’t want to die,” I thought.
We began the ascent. Climbing, higher and higher to the top of the first drop. The suspense was lethal. My hands couldn’t possibly have gripped the silver bar any harder, when, suddenly, we dropped.
“AAAAHHHH! Oh no, I want to get off. No, no, no, no. Gram, make it stop, make them stop.”
The coaster twisted, violently to the right, then left, and then we were dropping again.
Suddenly, I realized my screams of panic had evolved into laughter and excitement. This was great. Tattoo Carnie knew what he was doing after all!

I had done it. I had popped my roller coaster cherry, and I felt like a rock star.
“I want to go again! I want to go again!” I exclaimed, jumping around like a, well, like an 11 year old.
We did everything. The swinging pirate ship, Ferris Wheel, the Tilt-a-Whirl, which should be called, “Tilt-a-Hurl,” in my opinion. We were warriors. The island of Carnival games didn’t stand a chance, and Dad even gave up a bit more of his “hard earned money” that doesn’t “grow on trees” than we expected.
The sun was setting as we sat at the picnic table, eating bologna sandwiches and reflecting on the wonderful day. I didn’t want it to end. “Family Dad” was fun. A little intense, kind of rude, and a total weirdo… but what Dad isn’t at some point? I had conquered the coaster, and I couldn’t help but think about the next time I would be able to ride one. I looked at my siblings who shared in my satisfaction of the day, and I smiled. We packed up our picnic and began the long walk to the parking lot. There was a silent sadness in our walk, a depression in our stride. We exited the gate, and I turned back to have one last look. I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Now you know why I love the roller coaster,” Gram whispered, “There aren’t many feelings like that, huh?”

I got into the car. The lights of the traffic blurred as they passed. I closed my eyes, trying to remember the way my stomach felt when the cart dropped. There really aren’t many feelings like that. Sophia was sleeping in my lap again, drooling like a St. Bernard, but I didn’t mind. “What a great day,” I thought.
“Did I ever tell you guys about the tornado that picked my car up, turned it around and set it down? Ever so gently, we were in the air, and ever so gently, we were on the ground….”