Vacation and family time

My brother stood next to me crying and I insecurely grasped $25 as we watched the silver '84 Chevy Caprice Classic station wagon disappear over a Nebraska hill. Surrounded by corn and stranded at a gas station, our parents had had enough of our bickering.

I pondered a Greyhound trip home, leaving my brother to discover his own fate. Our predicament was all his fault, though--he had crossed the sacred imaginary line of all road trips that preserves ample leg room. I, in turn, repelled this encroachment, delivering a justified kick to the shin. A scuffle ensued and my dad stopped us where we now stood and left us there with all the money in his wallet. The terror of being seven years old standing with your five-year-old brother at a Nebraska gas station cannot be described. Relief filled me upon seeing the family fun-mobile rise over the hill to pick up the scared youngsters. This tough love ended our backseat territorial bickering and made for a peaceful trip home. Those few moments bring laughter to me every time I ponder them. That memory constitutes one of many I recall as summer fun of days gone by.

The question arises this time of year as advertisements promise quality internships and jobs for the coming summer: "What are you doing this summer?" My immediate response consists of working and maybe summer academia. I neglect, however, to mention possibly the most important aspect of the summer intermission: family. Growing up with three brothers--I'm the second oldest--and two teachers for parents, our summers entailed long road trips throughout Canada and the United States. In all, we trekked through 47 states and seven provinces while driving two station wagons and two suburbans to their deaths. It seemed that my education-focused parents managed to work as many historical battlefields, national parks and other places of social significance into the itineraries as possible.

Although I learned a great deal and gained a perspective I felt few fellow grade-school classmates attained from their trips to resorts, cruises or Wisconsin cabins, I forged bonds with my family that can never break. It was not what we saw that built these ties but what we did expectedly and unexpectedly that formed cherished memories.

My brothers and I are too old and "mature" now to attempt to create the type of memories that only youth allows. The youngest no longer drives an imaginary garbage truck, which he left in Cooperstown, N.Y., and forced us to retrieve at a park after we left the city. Another brother is no longer stupid enough to stick his finger in a fire hydrant and get it caught for two hours as waitresses in a Jackson Hole restaurant served him milk and the town's police officers and the fire department debated how to free him from his predicament. My older brother no longer memorizes Trivial Pursuit cards while ignoring the scenery. There are no more strollers to evict my toddler brothers from, to rest my lazy self during a day at Disney World.

After first grade, we visited Plymouth Rock where I learned--contrary to my teacher's history lessons--the pilgrims did not celebrate Thanksgiving their first year in America. This incensed me, as it would most six-year-olds who learn of deception from a trusted authority figure. For the rest of the summer, my mother pleaded with me to return to school, but I refused--what else would they lie to me about?

Obviously I returned to school, but only after my mother told me that Illinois law required her incarceration if I did not enter second grade. Ah, the lamentations aging brings upon us all. Responsibilities multiply, fun seems to dissipate and family time decreases. Never again will I experience a great family summer expedition across the continent, but the memories will remain to bind my family as we wander separate paths.

Kevin Ogorzalek is a Trinity sophomore.