The very best part about summer vacation was our two-week vacation to Wisconsin. Dad only got two weeks paid vacation all year and the trip to Hansen's Hideaway on Thunder Lake was how we spent it each year. Mom and Dad were both traditionalists, so we went to the same place every year. While we were up there, Dad would make reservations for the same two-week period for the following year. This made it possible for us to get the same cabin each year. It goes without saying that we each had the same bedroom every year.

Check-in time was noon on Saturday and it was a fourteen-hour trip from Pomona to the lake. Each year, then, Dad would get home from work and pack the trunk and the roof rack. After supper, he would take a nap and wake up in time for us to leave promptly at 10 p.m. Then, we would take off and he would drive all night. Mom didn't know how to drive, so her job was keeping him awake. At least Ross had a driver's license now and could help out. Dad, however, would seldom give up the wheel. Even if he did, he couldn't rest because he was so afraid that Ross would drive too fast or miss a turnoff. Therefore, the Stanton boys were expected to sleep through the night. Ross and Gary had no problem since they could lean against the doors. I, however, was a different story. I had to sit upright with my feet on top of or straddling that hump. Heaven help me if I were to doze off and list either to port or starboard. If my head so much as touched one of my brothers, an elbow was sure to come whistling my way.

Mom and Dad invariably turned the radio dial to 720, which was WGN in Chicago to listen to music written for insomniacs. It amazed me that I somehow couldn't fall asleep listening to that junk - try as I might. I also was amazed that the music didn't put Dad into a coma, either. (When we would go for a ride on a summer evening after supper, they would listen to WGN then, as well. It wasn't any better at that hour of the day. I wondered if they really liked that stuff or whether they just listened to it to torture me.)

WGN, Dad would say, was a clear channel station. I guess that meant that people should be able to pick up the signal for hundreds of miles. The Ford's radio presented a problem, though. The only thing it picked up clearly was static. By about 3 a.m. each year, WGN would begin to "slowly fade into the west." Then, by about 3:05 a.m. each year, Dad would wake us all up with a familiar litany. "Goddamnit. I bet that stinking radio was made in Japan." This was always Mom's cue to start turning the dial in an attempt to find a station that would be acceptable to the master. Unfortunately, Wisconsin didn't have a lot of radio stations. Most of the ones they did have could only operate from sunrise to sunset. The few stations that our radio could pick up after dark were invariably polka stations.

I never minded polka music. At least it was lively, which was more than could be said for the music being played on WGN. Dad would have preferred almost anything else, but noise was noise.

Eventually, night would turn into day and we would all be ready for breakfast. My parents didn't believe, though, in stopping when you were hungry. We stopped when we got to the restaurant that we always patronized whether we were hungry or not. We had stopped at The Patio every year since Dad had decided that packing a picnic basket took up too much room in the trunk.

This year, I was the first one to enter the restaurant. I headed for a table and sat down. Ross and Gary were right behind me. Mom and Dad were still outside. As I got up to go to the restroom, I figured that they must have been getting out the money.

Whenever we went on vacation, Dad always divided all of our money. He didn't believe in banks. Carrying a checkbook was out of the question. Each of us, then, got several twenty-dollar bills. We were instructed to put them between our socks and our feet. Once, Gary tried to put the money inside his shoe and got scolded for his efforts. The only way Dad was satisfied was if we took off our socks, stuck the money in them and then put them back on. Of course, we needed to keep our shoes on as well. Dad lived in constant fear that a gang of highwaymen would descend upon us and that the only way we would be able to salvage our money (and, therefore, our vacation) was to hide the money in such a devious manner. I often wondered why any self-respecting criminal would target an ugly, 1951 Ford but I always had the good sense to keep my opinion to myself.

When I returned from the restroom, I momentarily panicked. The table, which I had chosen, was empty. In fact, there was nobody in that entire section of the restaurant. For a moment, I thought that they had left me. A shrill whistle brought me back to my senses. Turning in the direction of the sound, I saw all of them sitting at a table on the other side of the restaurant. As I hurried toward them, I couldn't help noticing that all of the tables on this side of the restaurant were also empty. As I took my place, Dad calmly told me that "this is the table we sat at last year."