Impossible, on the cusp of another summer long weekend, to not reflect on the joys of a family holiday.
While spending time on a day-to -day basis with your adult children - all the while congratulating yourself they are not total ashats - there is something about vacationing together that holds special appeal and provokes lovely memories.
Everyone, probably, has an acquaintance or two of a certain age who is eager to gush: Oh, we just took all the kids and the grandkids on a Disney cruise and an overnight stay at a secluded cove where the dolphins speak passable French.
My advice? Unfriend those people on Facebook.
We’ve certainly had our share of interesting holidays.
In the early years we tried camping. But that’s not so relaxing with two kids, under four, under foot.
He’s too close to the fire pit. She’s picking up the axe again. Get them away from the road. And that’s all before you get to the crowded beach with its water and undertow.
Even professionals can’t helicopter that fast. Camping with kids is a bloody insurance nightmare.
Mr. DeMeer’s family used to camp, many decades ago.
Imagine eight children and two adults in a Suburban travelling to some remote spot that is half a kilometre away from bathrooms or running water.
A holiday for the original Mrs. DeMeer meant performing the same cooking, laundry and child minding services that were always expected of her (the laundry included cloth diapers) in an environment that could charitably be compared to a developing nation.
Mr. DeMeer Senior read magazines, fished, and occasionally yelled at someone. After all, he worked hard the rest of the year and deserved a break.
For a few summers one of our favorite destinations was Six Flags Darien Lake in upstate New York. Only about three hours from our home, it was a first class amusement park that offered RV and hotel accommodations. The cost included the price of park admission and all rides.
We could stand that for three days at the most.
At the time Darien Lake boasted the third largest Ferris wheel in the world. That’s way too big for a small town girl with an aversion to heights.
One afternoon, while Dad was shepherding the young spawn around the kiddie section, it took all my courage to get on that Ferris wheel.
It’s often easier to face a fear when you are by yourself - when there is no one to either mock or play into your discomfort.’
Things were okay until the ride stopped with my little bucket swinging right at the top. The park-goers on the ground looked like so many beetles and then - unbelievably - five of those beetles were familiar. They were DeMeer bugs, craning their necks to the sky.
Madly, and seemingly pointlessly, I waved and called to them.
Yes, they heard that.
My heart swelled with love and wonder at that mystic maternal connection. From 50 metres in the air and above the noise of the music and crowds, they heard me… screaming GET ME DOWN FROM HERE.
Eventually we settled into a cottaging routine. Cottage is a verb now. Did you know?
For 15 years we travelled at least once every summer to Balsam Lake Villa Cottages in central Ontario. It’s a beautiful, small, somewhat rustic resort, and a bit exclusive.
That is, the same families, sometimes multiple generations, go there to play each year. Everyone has their allotted weeks and sometimes it is necessary to wait for a cottager to die before a reservation becomes available.
We were lucky in that respect, but during our third summer catastrophe struck.
Balsam Lake is famous for its fishing, and there are few people as passionate about the pursuit as the boys.
Never get in between a DeMeer and a large mouth bass, and no one gets hurt.
To the point - we were on the dock one afternoon, sunning and slipping in and out of the water.
The middle son - who rightly should have been named 911 - was fishing several metres away when a large raft holding at least half-a-dozen giggling girls drifted into view.
They paddled with their hands, splashed each other and made considerable noise.
911 glowered.
His dad asked him to move a bit, so the girls had room to frolic, but the stubborn child shook his head.
After all, he insisted, he was there first and anyways they were scaring the bass.
We eventually coaxed him along the dock by moving his tackle box, but it wasn’t enough.
One wild cast and all of a sudden prepubescent princesses were shrieking and tumbling out of that deflating raft like passengers being tossed off the Titanic’s boat deck into the North Atlantic.
Mr DeMeer grabbed my arm and pulled us both away from the scene, trying to fade us into the background.
He whispered: This might get us kicked out of here.
I shot back: This might get us sued.
It smoothed out in the end. We bought a lot of other people’s beer that trip.
And it leaves me wishing to go back to those times of family holidays, just for two more weeks.