Life in the slow lane

My father sucked at vacations. 

He was good at some things like do it yourself home repairs. Securing free horse manure for our garden. Merging into traffic. And drawing upon all his certified public accounting abilities to deny Uncle Sam any unnecessary taxes. 

In fact, I have come to believe, and with very good reason, that he had side gigs, and offered his book cooking services to many low level NYC wise guys.

You'd think that a man who smoked his first cigarette at 9 years old, worked since he was 14 years old and spent a year of his life unfairly incarcerated by the US Army, would have been clued in to vacationing and taking it easy for one week a year. 

He did NOT.

I was reminded of his poor leisure choices from the picture above. It shows the rising water levels in California due to this year's bountiful rain. All 31.89 inches of it. Syracuse can have 31.89 inches of precipitation (snow) in less than 24 hours, should anyone require comparison.

That's a row of houseboats down the middle of the lake. I have no idea why they are aligned like that. Such conformity seems to go against the notion of having a houseboat and going where ever the wind blows you. I know, because one year the old man rented a houseboat and we all went upstate to spend a bucolic week on the St. Lawrence Waterway in closed, cramped and quarreling quarters.

My landlubbing Bronx-born father knew nothing of houseboats. 

Which was inversely proportionate to what he knew about torturing his kids and issuing a good challenge that would "build character." 

Between lugging all the Siegel accoutrement onto the tiny boat ("We don't need the 30 footer, the 20 footer is so much cheaper"), docking the boat, fueling the boat, and generally being on the boat for one week with the people who drove you meshugge the other 51 weeks of the year, it was a "vacation" that left a mark.

Having failed the northern territory, we embarked on a similar excursion towards Miami the following year. This time in a Winnebago, a land houseboat ("We don't need the 30 footer, the 20 footer is so much cheaper"). To make matters worse, we dragged along our dog, a full size German Shepherd, and my grandfather, who often lit one cigarette with the remaining amber from the previous cigarette.

To make matters even more miserable, this journey occurred in August. You don't want to be in Florida in the middle of August. Or, any other time of year. If the sun doesn't sting your eyes, the smoke from the burning books will.

Finally, because the Law of Threes, applies, and because my father was an absolute glutton for punishment and self abuse (the man was a survivorphile and did three stints with Outward Bound), there was Yellowstone. 

In 1984, he called me up and said, "meet me in Jackson Hole. Your brother and me are coming out there and we'll backpack for a week on the backside of the Grand Tetons." 

It rained. We slept on mud. We carried 75 lbs. packs. And ate MRE's ("Herman's Sporting Goods had some tasty looking freeze dried food, but the Army Navy Surplus Store was so much cheaper.")

I'm going on vacation in less than a month. It will be my first vacation in the last 8 years. The most difficult 8 years of my life. Which have necessitated draining the last few drops of character that were left in the tank.

Ms. Muse and I will be relaxing in the Caribbean. Instead of putting work into the vacation, unlike my father, we put our work into the planning the vacation. 

"We don't need the beach cottage with the plunge pool and the outdoor shower, but we booked it anyway!"

Serenity, now!