Postcards From a Family on the Edge

Postcards from a family car trip:

Dear Grandma,

How are you? I am fine. We’re on our way up to this really neat lake for our summer vacation.

I am in our minivan next to my brother. He smells like a brother. Have you ever had a brother? Did he smell? I can hear his brain through his headphones.

Did I tell you that we brought the dog? He’s on my lap and licking my knee over and over.

Mom gave him some special pills so he wouldn’t breathe too much and get all slobbery. Mom says if you don’t give a dog some medication, he might get car sick. I think this is going to be a real fun trip.

My dad’s paying me a buck to write you this postcard. I hope you liked it. Was it worth a buck?

(The little girl)

Dear Grandma,

This is your grandson from California writing you. Dad’s paying us to write you, but I would anyway. I hope you’ll remember that around Christmas.

We just stopped at this AM/PM for lunch. You can get a lot of great food at an AM/PM, hot dogs and stuff. My mom wanted to know why we couldn’t stop at a real, actual restaurant, and my dad said this is a real restaurant.

“I read about this in the Michelin Guide,” he told her. “We’re lucky to get in.”

It’s going to be really fun, this car trip. We’re going to this lake called Nacimiento. Dad says it’s a Spanish word meaning “50% mark-up.”

When we get to the lake, we’re going to rent a boat, and I’m going to wake board. There’s also a county fair up there. Dad says if we’re really good, he’ll take us to a monster truck rally.

“Dad, that would be like a dream come true for me,” my big sister told him.

This might be our best vacation ever.

(The boy)

Dear Grandma,

I can’t believe they’re making me go on this trip with them. First, Mom gets pregnant and now this? I’m in college now, and they still make me go on these trips.

“Hey, let’s bring the dog this time,” my dad says, and my mom says, “Sure, that’d be fun.” Like we don’t have enough drool in our car already.

Today, we stopped at this horrible place for lunch. It was a gas station where they served hot dogs. That’s where he took us to eat, to a gas station.

“It’ll leave us more money for boat rentals,” he said. “Besides, they have really good food.”

“Hey, Dad, remember I’m a vegetarian now,” I reminded him.

“We’ll get you a nice hot dog bun,” he says.

“That’s not lunch,” I say.

“Well, we’ll get you two then,” he says, handing me a dollar.

Oh my God. I can so not wait for school to start again.

Grandma, is there any way you could have me rescued? Seriously, send in those Army Rangers or something? I would, like, pay you?

Dad says we are going to this great little lake that’s sort of remote. Isn’t that how every bad movie starts? I’ll bet there’s a new strain of encephalitis just waiting to be discovered. Or a chipmunk with rabies living in the kitchen cupboard. “Hey look, kids, a chipmunk,” my dad will say, and the next thing you know we’ll all be totally dead. I swear, that’s how things go with us.

Hope you are fine. I also hope you never have to go on a car trip like this one. Seriously.

(Lovely and impatient older daughter)

Dear Mom,

Just a quick note from the edge of paradise. We’re taking the kids up the interstate to this lake north of Los Angeles. It’s about a day’s drive. You wouldn’t believe how excited they all are.

For lunch, I took them to this little spot off the Golden State Freeway. It wasn’t fancy, but it was the first meal we’ve had together all summer. The kids really seemed to like it.

Our friends Bob and Lynda have a place up there. I don’t know exactly where we are going. The map’s a little fuzzy. I hope we make it up there before dark. You know how Dad used to read AAA maps and swear about the tiny type? That’s me now.

I remember those car trips we took with Dad up to Wisconsin 30 years ago. Those were the best.

I’ll bet the kids remember this forever.

(Dad)

Dear Grandma,

We are so lost. Seriously. Lost.

I’m writing this note on my brother’s arm in case they don’t find us in time. Maybe this way people can piece together what happened.

I think we stopped for gas and Dad took a wrong turn. Far as I can tell, we’re on this logging trail somewhere in the Sierras. Either that or western Canada.

The dog is sick, and my little sister is crying. About an hour ago, Mom and Dad quit speaking to each other. Forever.

“I think it’s right up here,” my dad says as my mom rolls her eyes. You should see how red his neck is getting. The dog is on his lap, helping him drive.

“Mom, give him a sedative or something,” I told her, but I think she already ate all the doggy sedatives herself.

According to Dad, there’s nothing to worry about. He says he’s been on dates worse than this. I don’t know if he means with Mom or someone else.

My dad says he will stop to ask for directions as soon as he sees someone “without apparent chromosome damage.” Lots of luck, I say.

Oh my God, I think we’re back in the same place we were an hour ago. Dad seems to be driving in giant circles. Oh my God.

“I know it’s right up here,” he keeps muttering.

Ground Control to Major Tom. Ground control to Major Tom. Major Tom, please turn that minivan around right now.

Help!

(The lovely and impatient older daughter)

Chris Erskine’s column is published Wednesdays. He can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.