A Station Wagon Vacation.
When I was in Middle School—known as Jr. High School in Kansas—our family went on a station wagon vacation to Colorado. One evening we were on a highway heading east from Central City toward who-knows-where when Dad said, “Patty, would you clean my glasses?” And a minute or two later, “Um, I don’t think this map is working.” Mom sighed and said, “Ok Frank, let’s just find a place to sleep.”
We pulled in the drive to a sad little chalk-white motel with a flickering neon sign and turquoise shutters bordering the windows. While Dad was in the office registering, Mom said, “Sorry kids. I thought we’d be back in Colorado Springs or Denver by now.” And optimistically after a pause, “The sign says there’s a pool here.”
The pool could have been a redeeming feature for me. As a kid, I was a pretty accomplished swimmer and if there was water around, I swam in it.
Revelation.
I discovered the pool wasn’t heated and since we were above the 8,000-foot altitude line, it was chilly at night. Actually, it was cold. Yet the swimmer in me called loudly. In the room, I pulled on my speedos, grabbed a towel, and went outside. I shivered a bit and jumped in. WOW—it was COLD! The underwater pool lights were tinted blue. (They made the pool look refreshing during the day, but at night with the ambient temperature in the”will-cause-shrinkage range,” I was sure the pool was fed by glacial runoff.)
I paddled around for a while, jumped out, grabbed a towel, and went exploring. There was a cinderblock building near the motel’s office. The sign over the door read, “Comfort Facilities.” I walked in. Oh, sure. restrooms. But, wait …
What’s This?
I found a small room with vending machines. Hmm. Worth exploring. At that point in my life I was always hungry. Not because I was actually hungry, but because I simply liked to eat. As a preteen, I’d started reading cookbooks, but that’s a story for another day.
As I looked around the room, my eyes zoomed in on a machine the likes of which I’d never seen before. It was about the size of a floor-standing Coke machine. But the contraption didn’t dispense sodas. It delivered, in eight ounce paper cups, HOT SOUP. And, for just 15-cents a cup. I did some quick math: 0.53-cents an ounce. What a deal!
I Headed Back to Our Room.
I didn’t have 15-cents in my speedos, but I had some change in my wallet. I must have looked anxious as I walked into our room. Mom said, “Was the water too cold? Are you ok, honey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Need some change. I found vending machines.” Dad sort of grunted in an oh-good-God sort of way.
The Miracle.
There were three choices: Mushroom, Chicken, and Beef. I dropped in a dime and a nickel and pressed Chicken. The machine began to growl and groan. A paper cup dropped down a chute and landed, with a hollow thump, on a grate. After a bit more grumbling, the beast started filling the cup with a hot yellow liquid that smelled like—of all things—chicken. Toward the end of the process the machine dropped a surprise in my cup. A suprise I’ve never forgotten: a little puff of dried parsley and whiff of black pepper. Wow. Culinary excellence in presentation. I pulled a small white envelope marked STIR STICK from a slot on the side of the machine and walked back to an iron table and chair by the pool to savor my purchase.
It Was Good.
It wasn’t really soup or broth. It was powdered bullion in very hot water. It was tasty and comforting on that dark, cold, summer night in the Rocky Mountains. The rehydrated parsley was key to the taste and fragrance and I’ve always been a fan of extra black pepper.
We stayed at that chalk-white motel with the turquoise shutters for a couple of days. While Dad was getting the “map to work,” mom collected rocks from the mountainside and put them in the back of the station wagon.
“Patty, there are signs all around here that say you can’t take rocks. These are protected lands.”
“Oh, Frank. Think how nice they’ll look in my rose garden.”
Heading home.
Finally, we drove the 600 miles from there to back home—with what turned out to be a nearly axel-breaking load of stones, rock fragments, and petrifited wood stolen from a National Park. Mom had hidden our vacation contraband under blankets and towels in the back of the station wagon. (Yep, if we’d been pulled over, state police wouldn’t have had a clue.)
The rocks and stones were planted in Mom’s rose garden as planned. The pieces of petrified wood were put in the side yard where her daffodils, crocus, tulips, and treasured redbud tree blossomed in the springtime.
A couple of years later my parents divorced. Dad went off to live somewhere with his new squeeze. Mom and my sister Sandi moved back to Council Grove, Kansas where multiple generations of our family had been born and raised.
I was working as a radio DJ for KFH FM at the time—my mom arranged for me to rent a second-floor room for $40 a month in the house next door to ours. The windows in that room looked out over what—until recently—had been our home. Those windows provided a splendid view of the rose garden, the side yard, and the flowers and rocks that Mom had adored. Much of the time, I kept the blinds drawn.
Heading out.
Six months later, I packed my three pieces of brand-new, Christmas-present, hard-side, olive-green Sampsonite luggage and TWA flew me to New York City. I never saw those rocks or flowers again, but I’ve never forgotten that station wagon vacation and I still have a fondness for chicken bullion in a paper cup … with a pinch of dried parsley and a bit of black pepper.
