Vacation Begins Even Before the Van Leaves the Driveway

We have become the people we swore we’d never be, sitting on a couch in late July and wondering where we will vacation, not planning it really, just wondering. As the clock ticks away on summer.

“How about Hawaii?” my wife asks.

“How about Switzerland?” I say.

That’s the level of discourse, her suggesting something sensible, then me responding with some wisecrack, as if it’s all her fault we waited forever to make summer plans, which it’s not.

“How about Yosemite?” she says.

“How about the moon?” I say.

I tell her that I would rather visit the moon in August than Yosemite, beautiful as it must be but crawling with tourists. Because gridlock in a city is bad enough. Gridlock in paradise would be worse. Not to mention the sight of Lexus drivers honking impatiently at the locals.

“Dad, there’s a spider,” the boy says, pointing at the lamp.

“Yeah, that’s a spider,” I say.

As a father, I have duties that are loosely defined. Mostly I’m responsible for handing out money. And when spiders drop by, I’m responsible for slaying them. That’s pretty much it. Money and murder.

So I check out this little spider. He’s totally relaxed, sitting cross-legged, cross-legged, cross-legged, cross-legged on the lampshade, watching the Dodger game on TV. Might even be asleep.

“That little spider’s not hurting anyone,” I say.

“He’s coming right at me!” yells the little red-haired girl.

“Me too!” yells the boy.

“He’s coming toward all of us!” my lovely and patient older daughter screams, cowering on the couch with the others.

I look at my wife. My wife looks at me. It is the kind of look hillbilly couples exchange, a look that says we’ve got to get out of here, to leave Butcher Hollow behind and make a decent life for ourselves. If only for a week or two.

“We really need a vacation,” I tell her.

“I’ll go call someone,” my wife says.

Just in case, I head off to the garage to get the car ready.

“What’re you doing, Dad?” the boy says, following me into the garage.

“Getting the car ready,” I say.

“We’re going on vacation?” he asks excitedly.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say.

“I’m gonna go pack,” he says.

Nine seconds later he is back, his suitcase packed, a fishing rod on his shoulder.

“What took so long?” I ask.

“I couldn’t find the suitcase,” he says.

This is how he always packs, in about nine seconds.

Like most males, he has no patience for packing. He’ll pull out 20 T-shirts, then wad them up like snowballs and stuff them in his suitcase, punching the last few in because the suitcase is so full of T-shirt snowballs that it won’t hold any more.

If there’s any room left, he’ll maybe throw in a sock. One sock.

“Got underwear?” I ask.

“Wearing it,” he says.

“We may be gone a week,” I say.

“Then I’m OK,” he says.

And together we get the car ready, vacuuming it first, then washing it, preparing it the way men prepare cars for summer vacation, as if we are headed off on some great wagon train adventure that will take us across thousands of miles of badlands, where bandits wait for settlers like us, settlers in Honda minivans.

“Flashlight?” I ask.

“Check,” says the boy.

“Buffalo gun?” I ask.

“Check,” says the boy.

As we work, the pre-glow of vacation begins to settle over us. The boy is learning that vacations begin even before the actual day, that they really begin during the countdown before the vacation, when this pre-glow washes over the family.

“Better check the tires,” I tell him.

“OK,” he says.

“And get some CDs,” I say.

“OK, Dad,” he says.

We had planned to go to Florida this summer to visit family. When that fell through, it left us without plans. It left us in a garage at 9 at night, not knowing where we are going, except that we are going somewhere. Because it’s important to hit the road now and then, to just get out and drive. Somewhere. Anywhere.

“And then you stop at some small town and order fried chicken,” I tell him. “And the waitress, who’s about 140, calls you ‘honey’ and serves you chicken with a little parsley on the side.

“In the city, you never get parsley anymore,” I tell the boy. “These days, you have to go to the country to get parsley.”

“Sure, Dad,” he says, as he starts to curl up in the back seat with his suitcase. It is nearly 10 now. And even exciting stories about parsley can’t keep him awake.

But the car is ready. And so are we.

“I think I found a place,” my wife says, poking her head into the garage.

“You’re the best,” I say.

“Want to know where?” she asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “Doesn’t matter at all.”

* Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.