It was 1980 something and our ancient powder blue Ford
Grenada lurched along the highway with Grandpa Turner’s pop-up camper
clattering along behind us. The wilds of
Vermont in our rearview mirror, we sailed down 93 toward Boston, and the Cape
beyond. Dark clouds on the horizon morphed
into wave upon wave of severe thunderstorms with blinding rain and howling
winds. It was a family travel nightmare if ever one was conceived. An overmatched old car full of young family
being chased by a restless pop-up camper. Whipped by the winds our trailer
flicked the edges of the highway, like the tail of some angry cat. The chain that anchored it to us clinked and
clanked against the hollow metal of the trailer’s tow arm. Pressed to the steering wheel and laser
focused on captaining our calamity train through the storm my father was
blissfully unaware that the pop up camper door was open and our camping gear
was jumping ship into the New Hampshire countryside. It was vacation time, and we were headed to
the Cape. Minus some cooking gear.
