Holiday road

Fule for Thought

 

My parents (as you 24 readers may remember) were immigrants to Canada from Europe. Their one main drawback as parents, was that they were terrible “holidayers.”  

By this I mean, that when they did take holidays, we rarely travelled. Rather than go anywhere, most of their holidays were to DO something. As kids, my brother and I never got excited when our parents’ holidays arrived, because we knew nothing was going to happen! Their holidays were for them to get extra work done at the house. The break might be to paint the house, work on the yard/garage, or to paint the fence! They never really knew how to relax, only work.

I heard stories from my friends of far-off magical places like Disneyland … Knottsberry Farm … even B.C.! I wondered if they actually existed, or whether they were made up stories. No, the Fules were not the “holiday type.”  

I mean, we could have been, but we rarely tried. When we finally went on our first “holiday,” I was about 11. We went to Spokane via B.C., in the old 1966 Pontiac Parisienne. My dad’s idea of travelling was to drive like heck as far as possible each day, see the place, and then make plans to go on the next day. Each rare trip was a whirlwind of speeding along, not really knowing where, or why we were going there, and basically not seeing the sights, or history of the place! We did go to Spokane, but I never knew why, and I don’t remember anything about it!

We are all the products of our upbringing, and I have become a terrible traveler. No matter where my family goes, I am never comfortable there for long. Maybe it’s my Hungarian “Gypsy” background, the fact that all my relatives ran like crazy from invading armies over the decades, or that Joe Fule could not relax on holidays. As soon as we arrive somewhere, it never feels “right” and I’m already planning to go. It drives Debbie nuts, because her family always holidayed, and loved to relax.

I phoned my brother, who’s in his Mid 50’s now, as to whether he’s still like me. He was surprised at the question, and that we were the same … he ALSO couldn’t relax on holidays, and was always impatient, and never “settled.”  

He said it took him YEARS to be able to fight off that feeling of ALWAYS wanting to get to the next place, and he never returned from a holiday relaxed!

When I was 15, we travelled to Europe to visit relatives. Back then, you could smoke on a plane. My dad never admitted he was scared to fly, oh no, but he proceeded to get “bombed” and smoke for most of the flight. I was green, and grew weary of telling him that “those aren’t polar bears on the clouds … and no, that isn’t ice that the imaginary bears were on!”   

We landed at Amsterdam, and it began … drive like crazy to Germany … up at 4 a.m. … and on to the “former Yugoslavia” to visit strangers we were told were relatives! We were dragged from field to house, to field for drunken parties celebrating the return of Josef and Mary Fule!

At 15, I had been used to a fairly unaffectionate father … he loved us, but you never got a hug, and he also wasn’t able to say “I love you” to either of us teenagers. That is why on this trip, I was so shocked. I got kissed by so many men and women I never knew … I was REALLY creeped out! Relatives would ramble on in languages I didn’t understand … kiss us … drag us to a party … and on it would go! I had NO idea who was who!

Worst of all, there was no plumbing….there was an outhouse! I did not like outhouses … I was Canadian … we did not have outhouses. You had to walk past the pig pen to get there, and one day one of my relatives left the stall door unlatched. Thanks Uncle Steve (IF that was your REAL name!) I was chased by the biggest pig I had ever seen, and thankfully I was in shape, because after my sprint, I had to jump a fence! I begged my parents to finish our last two days in a motel. After seven days of washing with cold water, and sneaking to the outhouse, a bath and modern plumbing were a MUST.

Finally, the end was near! We drove madly to Amsterdam for our flight home.  Unfortunately for my brother and me, our flight home was three days later! We stayed at the Schipol Airport Hilton, and never ONCE went into Amsterdam, because MY parents were afraid to miss the flight!! We could not convince them that the schedule was fixed … the plane would NOT leave a day or two earlier! It was Hell … three days with your brother and parents, AND nothing to do! After another flight home watching the polar bears roaming the clouds, we landed. I had survived this Fule holiday!! It was to be our LAST one together as a family; no, we were not meant to holiday. On their holidays, my parents could paint anything they wanted, that was fine with me! I’d “sacrifice” a trip … just for THEM!

 

(“Fule for Thought” is a slice of life humourous column that will appear in the Strathmore Times, written by long-time resident, town councillor, high school teacher, coach, husband and father of two – Pat Fule. If you would like to get in touch with Pat, you can send him an e-mail at Pat.fule@shaw.ca)