Every August, my parents would load the family into our 67 Ford station wagon, and drive for an hour, heading to the Cape. My siblings and I would wrestle and fight over who got stuck in the middle seat. Each of us dreaded the camel seat because the raised “bump” on the floor covered a spare tire and forced little legs to bend up. The unlucky sucker,usually my sister,would complain about the uncomfortable position. Unable to hold a yoga pose, the camel rider’s endurance would eventually break down.
Her err, to place one piggy toe on the left or right side of the “hump”, created a carnival domino effect. First her little foot would be stomped or kicked by the territorial sibling, sitting next to her. Then, as the back seat became more boisterous, my father would stop the car in the breakdown lane, make all the clowns get out and run around the car, to reassign their seats. The noisiest clown was ordered to sit directly behind him. That allowed my father to keep control of the traveling carnival.
With the skill of a circus contortionist, he’d stretch his long arm behind his back hunting for the trouble makers knobby knee,while holding the steering wheel with his other hand.At some point, he’d hold his stretched hand still, like a Grey Heron poised in shallow bay water, waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting minnow. The noisy clown would giggle in anticipation. What followed was the echo of a little girl’s “OW” and finally, obedience would be restored to the traveling show.
Routinely, I got to play the noisy clown every summer. Over time, I became an expert at dodging the contortionist and escaping his pinch. But before I became a professional escape artist, my side show was clumsy. In the early years, I’d throw my legs over my sister’s lap, positioned on top of the camel’s hump. My frustrated father struggled to steer with one hand while “hunting” with his other. My sister pushed on my legs, and commanded me like a dog trainer: “OFF!” I stubbornly refused and treated her like a mosquito by swatting her repeatedly. The contortionist, now swearing softly under his breath, was getting ready to switch roles. This meant it was curtain time.
He became the Ring Leader Top Hat once he cracked his whip and roared, like Tony the Tiger, “I’m going to pull over”. That announcement made all the clowns freeze. Slowly, I removed my legs; my mother scolded me with; “Why can’t you be more like your sister!” and the camel rider delivered a strong elbow to my right rib, without getting caught. We were one happy family, a dysfunctional circus caravan, on the road to summer vacation.
By the time we’d reached the Cape Cod Canal, the traffic came to a complete stop. We’d move like snails for at least four miles and for a five year old with ADHD, who didn’t take her Ritalin that morning, this part of the excursion was excruciating for me; more painful than delivering a 15 pound infant, with a head larger than a basketball. We’d sit …and sit….and sit…. and I’d repeat over and over; “Are we there yet?”
Dad would roll down his window, light his Cuban cigar and blow white rings into the air. After a few puffs, Dad would flick the ashes out the window and the summer breeze would catch it, sending gray dust in my direction. The more I complained, the more he would flick. My reaction to the black ash, landing on my lap, amused my father. He would flick, I would hiss, he would chuckle, look at me through the car’s rear view mirror and make funny faces which got me more upset. I hissed, my mother ordered him to stop and he ignored both of us. He just smiled, tilted his head up to face the car roof and blew white cigar rings to bug my mother and I. We would hiss, he chuckled, continued to puff, smile and flick with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. The pattern of puff and flick repeated itself as we crawled like six snails stuffed into a small disfigured shell with a hump. We did eventually make it to sand dunes and salt air but looking back, I have to marvel how a precocious, hyperactive kid like me made it there alive!
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