Summer Road Trip to Paradise

When I was a kid growing up in Montreal, someone’s idea of a good time was to drive about 300 miles to the beaches of #Old Orchard Beach Maine. After toiling through a long-frozen winter, something about this ordeal appealed to Montrealers. Looking back, it had all the makings of a latter-day horror movie.

Around the middle of July, our family of four kids ranging in age from 12 to 5 was informed of the upcoming adventure. The drive would take two days. The six of us would cram into my dad’s big black Chevrolet. We would travel across Quebec’s Eastern Townships, cross the border to Vermont’s Green Mountains, and traverse the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Here we would break up the trip by staying in some wooden cabins near “*Six-Gun City, New Hampshire USA” before sliding down to the oceanside Old Orchard Maine beach town.

While we were cautioned to keep quiet about the holiday, the news of our departure must have slipped out. The day we were to leave, I went out to discover that my grandmother Clara had taken a taxi to our home and climbed into the car. All 250 lbs. of her substantial presence was now firmly planted in the centre of the back bench seat of the vehicle. Clara was not budging. In the ensuing negotiation with my Mom, Clara was heard to say, “the only way to get me out of the car is to drag me out”, a spectacle she sensed was sure to impress the neighbours in our upscale neighborhood.

By background, I would note that Clara was not to be trifled with. She was fully capable of creating a scene of operatic proportions. It was rumoured that as a child in Romania, she had been #kidnapped by gypsies who found her so impossible that “they had given her back without a ransom”. This might have been a fable, but witnessing her impossible behaviour on many occasions, no-one was entirely sure.

Eventually, when my dad arrived home in midmorning, he negotiated a truce, which is to say that Clara got her way and would be joining us for our upcoming adventure. Valises stuffed into the back, we all clambered into the car. I was seated on a pillow wedged between my parents on the front seat. My 12-year-old brother Phil seated on one side of Clara and the two girls, Candy and “Fufu” (sister Tina May) crammed on the other end of the bench. Fortunately, there were no seatbelts to interfere with the seating arrangement.

The children’s whining began after about 20 minutes into the trip. “How long does this trip take?” How long do we have to stay in the car?” “I’m hot”. “Candy is leaning on me.” We had still not left Montreal Island yet, one of a cavalcade of cars streaming across the old Jacques Cartier Bridge onto the two-lane highway that crossed through all the little towns of the Eastern Townships.

At one point, the traffic poking along on the outskirts of the town of Granby, Quebec Dad told Philip my hyperactive 12-year-old brother to get out and jog along behind the car for a mile or so to “let off some steam” and give everyone a little more space in the backseat. Not sure of how this was going to work out, I was relieved when Dad eventually slowed and allowed Phil to clamber back in.

A family trip of this nature had a certain cadence. If the parents could get through, the first couple of hours of whining, fighting and complaining, the kids would fall into a stupor, waking for the adventure of crossing the US border and staying semi-comatose until we reached the first overnight motel stop.

The trick, my dad had concluded was to promise that we would stop for ice cream a couple of hours after leaving Montreal. And so it was after several rounds of promising to buy ice cream interspersed with threats of “That’s it! You’re not getting any ice cream” that we arrived at the roadside ice cream stand, where each of us could pick from one of three flavours, vanilla, strawberry or chocolate, served of course on a vanilla cone.

Back in the car, after quickly gobbling her double scoop cone down, Clara set her sights on mine. Sitting right behind me, she started badgering me – “Bobby, let me have a taste.” I was trying to ignore her. Having decided to see if I could make my portion last the duration of the trip, the ice cream was now dripping down the cone over my hands. Still determined, I ignored the pleas from the backseat, until Clara urged one last “Let me have it!!”, which I did.

Turning around, I threw the ice cream. Hitting Clara square in the forehead, the ice cream stuck for a few seconds and then fell into the cleavage of her substantial bosom. I watched in awe as the ice cream disappeared into the abyss leaving only the cone balanced between her breasts held in by her festive sun dress.

Clara, in a state of shock, peered down at the cone balanced on the fleshy shelf of her chest. Wide eyed, the children remained speechless, convinced that I would be murdered or at best tossed out of the moving vehicle. Then, to her credit, Clara burst out with peals of laughter, the cone bouncing up and down now stuck to her heaving bosom. Still behind the wheel, my dad laughed so hard that there were tears in his eyes, stopped the car and offered first Kleenex, then a towel wetted down with canteen water.

Clara toweled off and galumphed back into the car. Only 24 hours left to go, the trip resumed with a few more adventures along the way. For the record, Clara never harassed me over treats ever again.