37 feet of sheer agony

I look back now on a time when I loved my family, when I arranged for all of us to spend two weeks together -- the wife, the two daughters, the grandchild and even the son-in-law, who obviously wouldn’t have to worry about missing work.

It was my idea, renting a limo to drive to the airport, flying everyone to Denver, renting a 37-foot RV with a pair of SideOuts -- how cool is that? -- and arriving in time for a family reunion in Louisville, Ky. Wouldn’t the relatives be jealous?

For weeks and weeks, I went over maps, plotting the route, making campsite reservations, shopping at REI like I belonged there, buying freeze-dried Chili Mac With Beef, excited to think how thrilled the family would be when I served it as a surprise somewhere in Iowa.

We were going to roam the heartland, making a point to see the World’s Largest Prairie Dog in Kansas, my way of preparing us for the visit with the wife’s brother, while riding in style in one of the biggest RVs you can find anywhere on the road.

But something went terribly wrong, everyone now agrees -- at least those who have begun speaking to me again. The only happy moment they can remember about “Dad’s great idea” was the shopping spree at Super Wal-Mart to start the trip.

Three hours in a Super Wal-Mart might seem like a long time, but when that’s all you have to hold onto after a two-week vacation, it’s just a darn shame that more pictures weren’t taken there.

It’s easy. Type in “RV rental” on the Internet, and in seconds a rolling palace pops up, complete with couches, beds, stove, TV and refrigerator. For a little more money -- and what’s money when a family can be together -- pots, pans and linens are included. Home sweet nightmare. Total package: about $5,000.

I chose the 38-footer, finding out only a week before our summer journey that we would be shoved into a 37-footer because of a change in equipment. When you have a son-in-law, losing a foot of peace and quiet can be very disconcerting.

When we arrived, though, the thrill of adventure took over. One of the RV rental employees walked us through our new home on wheels.

“I have no idea what this button does,” he said, “but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Then he tossed me the keys, which should have prompted a citywide terror alert.

You’ve seen those monster truck shows, those big wheels just rolling over the tops of cars. Well, picture each of those cars occupied with people, screaming as they are about to be crushed by a rookie RV driver attempting his first right turn.

I was screaming too, which made it difficult to hear the GPS, which was shouting to make a U-turn as soon as possible. Given my skill level at the time and the direction we were headed, there was a better chance of hitting the Atlantic Ocean first.

We turned left, the wrong way, into a construction zone with guys waving flags, three lanes merging into one, the traffic moving herky-jerky in spurts, and I had no idea yet how to gauge how far away the cars were after looking into the side mirrors.

“I think you went the wrong way,” the wife said, and I know I did, but that was 38 years ago when I asked the girl to my right to dance instead of turning to the left. I figure we’ll get around to discussing that on visiting day at the state pen.

I can still see the look of horror on the faces of the poor people in that Honda Civic as I began to make a right turn, swinging the RV out wide, which put me in line to pancake the Honda. I recall closing my eyes, waiting to hear the sound of crunching metal. To this day, I’m shocked that I missed.

The baby was crying, upset to be hearing so many swear words before her first birthday. But that’s just the way her mother is when she gets upset at Grandpa.

Twenty minutes later, I made it to the highway, switching lanes and putting us directly in the path of a charging semi. Never saw the tanker in my side mirror, which seemed to unnerve the family. Like I was supposed to know how to drive a building down the road.

For the rest of the day, we continued in a straight line. You can’t very well stop to sightsee if you might have to back up the RV or turn around. For the next two weeks, we’d see nothing that could not be seen from the highway or a “pull-through” campsite. I can tell you they have lovely rest stops in Kansas.

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That squishy feeling

I thought there would be something romantic about camping. The crackling firewood, the kinship with nature, s’mores, maybe some neighborly chitchat.

Never met a friendly person in two weeks on the road, though, and it wasn’t like they knew I was the idiot writing sports stories on Page 2.

We stopped at a campground. There was a lake nearby but no fishing poles to rent. There was a swimming pool, but the bugs had beaten us to it. We said hello to the people who pulled in next to us; they went inside their RV. We never did see anyone cook outside.

We tried lowering the awning attached to the side of the RV but discovered it had been permanently secured so no one could use it.

We bought burgers and charcoal, but there was no grate to cover the hole at the campsite provided for barbecuing.

“It’s my vacation. I’m not cooking,” said the wife. I can’t recall either one of the daughters ever cooking, because they’ve been on vacation all their lives.

The baby was throwing up. Nebraska will do that to people. There were dead toads everywhere. And empty beer cans. You can always tell where the son-in-law has been.

I insisted no one use the toilet inside the RV because a blinking light indicated it was close to backing up.

It was my oldest daughter who was the first to figure out why there were so many dead toads in the road -- squishing one as she walked in the dark to the campground’s outhouse. It would not be the last time she’d go screaming into the night on this trip.

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No toilet or shower

WE began Day 2 with an attempt to dump the black water. That’s why the son-in-law was on the trip. He pulled a lever, which resulted in spillage. And here’s a hint for you: If you really do want to make contact with the folks in the next campsite, try spillage. I was pretty sure the stench would go away in time, but I thought it best we go away first.

I have to hand it to the son-in-law; he’s fast, catching up to the RV before we made it to the open road.

We needed gas. It seemed like we always needed gas. We were getting nine miles to the gallon, and as one daughter continued to say, “We could have flown to Europe for what this is costing us.”

I don’t recall, though, her making any financial contribution to this trip.

We made it to Omaha -- well, a campground outside Omaha, because we would never dare take the RV into Omaha. No grate on the barbecue pit. No trees. Omaha was as hot as hell, or hell is Omaha.

We tried using the levelers, pushing the controls back and forth, which raised one end of the RV while dropping the other. Never could balance the darn thing. The RV rocked back and forth, and from the outside someone might have thought Granny and Grandpa were having a good time inside. I’m glad someone got a thrill.

I believe it was also on Day 2 when the grumbling began. Besides not letting anyone use the toilet, I made the RV shower off limits. We were adding water to the tank every day, but another blinking light suggested we were on the verge of being empty. I allowed the baby to be given a bath because I’m just nice like that -- no matter what you might hear from the family.

The TV wouldn’t turn on while the RV engine was running. There were apparently no radio stations in Nebraska. No one could lie on the back bed while the RV was moving because of the way it rocked back and forth. Everyone was supposed to stay seated with seat belts on, which made it no different than a car. I know this, because everyone in the family repeatedly pointed it out.

I figured everyone could use a treat, so after another night of charcoal-cooked hamburgers, I brought out the Jiffy Pop. It melted over the open fire.

The next day we arrived in Iowa, and the toad-killer started throwing up. The toilet remained off limits. She also said something about diarrhea, which was too bad, but the toilet still remained off limits. It was only 100 to 200 yards to the outhouse.

It began raining. I felt bad for the toad-killer making that 100- to 200-yard trek to the outhouse every few minutes.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I got sick. Then the wife got sick. Together, we began to make that walk to the outhouse.

I don’t recall holding hands, but I do remember standing in front of the outhouse -- the rain falling in buckets, the wife doubled over -- and thinking we both could use a vacation.

We got three rooms at a Holiday Inn somewhere in Iowa. No one wanted to leave the hotel. I think it was the toilets.

About 400 miles into the 2,400-mile trip, the same song began to pop up on a daily basis, “Bad Day.” You know, “ ‘Cause you had a bad day, you’re taking one down ... you work on a smile, and you go for a ride....” It became our RV anthem, that, and “Can we please stop now and get out of this thing.”

It was on to Chicago, which meant stopping to see relatives, and everyone was already queasy.

We were served charcoal-cooked hamburgers. It was the Fourth of July, and the wife’s brother began shooting off fireworks within feet of the RV. But no one in the family seemed too concerned about the RV going up in flames.

When we arrived in Louisville, we took three rooms for three nights at a Marriott Residence Inn. The baby and I went swimming and discussed the future of the Dodgers as well as the Angels. She’s a very good listener, and nothing like her mother.

We returned to the hotel, where I walked in to find everyone gathered in a back bedroom plotting an overthrow. They said they could not get back into that RV. We still had half the trip to go.

They took a cab to the airport the next morning after I purchased tickets for the two daughters, the son-in-law and the baby. The son-in-law left behind a case of cold beer, making it clear how badly he wanted to leave.

The wife agreed to stay and finish the trip. She’s now referred to in the family as “the saint.”

We spent a good deal of time together in Kansas, noting that the highway sign at Exit 144 indicated there were “0” attractions. About the only things you see in Kansas are the “adult stores” every few exits. And here I was stuck with a saint.

We pulled into Denver, the two weeks complete, calling ahead for a cab so we could get to the airport as quickly as we could.

“Howdy, folks,” the cabdriver said. “I’m about to run out of gas. If you don’t mind, we’ll have to stop.”

A few minutes later, he made the wrong turn, into a construction zone with guys waving flags, three lanes merging into one, the traffic moving herky-jerky in spurts, and I laughed.

I just knew that if I hung in there, this vacation would turn out to be fun.

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t.j.simers@latimes.com