The Florida Trip

The summer before I turned 12 in September was the summer of the Florida trip. It was the last summer I lived on High Drive before my parents sold the little house where I had lived my entire life across the street from my grandma. It was the last summer where I played with my cousins in Grandma's yard, and so I really guess it was the last summer of my childhood.

Somehow, and I honestly can't remember how, my Grandma and Papa Silvey contrived a "free" vacation to Florida in return for visiting newly built condos, the sales presentation of which left all of us kids in a daycare for several hours of kiddie hell.

I only remember vague images of the rest of the trip. I can't remember how we drove down, who was in which car, or even exactly which adults accompanied us except for my mom and my grandparents. I remember my cousin Johnny watching a woman's boobs hang loose from her purple blouse as she leaned over to put her kids in their car seat when we stopped for a pee break one time. I remember us playing gymnastics on the two double beds in the motel room, trying to jump off one, flip in the air, and land on the other one. I remember having to drink water for breakfast at a Waffle House-type restaurant one morning because they were out of every drink we asked for - chocolate milk, Coke, orange or apple juice, sweet tea - all gone except for coffee for the truckers who regularly frequented the dive. And I remember visiting Thomas Edison's house of which I remember a huge, ancient tree with knotty roots filling the yard and a green indoor pool. Yet, the day care I remember quite well.

We were asked to visit the beautiful new condominium complex with all the other prospective buyers, and for this presentation, we would need to take a short trip on a chartered bus to the building site. So, my cousins and I sat near the back of the bus with my mom and grandma, while my grandpa decided to sit near the front. As we drove along, our tour guide / sales specialist enticed the audience with detailed descriptions of the amenities the condos would provide as he spoke over the hand-held, CB-like microphone. He also told sweet stories of the area and tried to engage the crowd into light-hearted banter to disguise the tension of sitting with a bus load of strangers all wrangled into a high-pressure sales pitch.

Upon finishing his speech, our guide made his first mistake.

"Can I answer any questions for you all?" he asked.

"Yes," my grandpa replied.

"Edward!" I heard my grandma's admonishing tone, but Papa didn't. Or he didn't appear to hear it.

"What type of person does it take to afford these homes? A doctor, lawyer, or Indian chief?"

My cousins and I erupted into raucous laughter, but the rest of the passengers seemed merely to shuffle in their seats and murmur in uncomfortable amusement.

"Why our homes are quite affordable, sir," the guide began his practiced reply. "May I ask where your wife is?"

"She is sitting back there. She doesn't want to sit with me," he answered. Our giggles erupted again, but I saw my grandma raise her hand quickly and then duck back into oblivion with my mom.

A few moments of polite comments and surface-level discussion of the area, then my grandpa raised his hand again.

"Do you have any flea markets in the area?" Stunned silence from the front of the bus while the back of the bus filled with scattered laughter racing up and down the tonal scales.

"I don't think I understand what you mean, Sir," came the reply from our sales associate.

Their conversation lost our interest soon when my grandpa finally took my grandma's warnings to heart and quit asking questions, so that left us kids with the task of entertaining ourselves for the rest of the ride.

"I know; let's sing songs, " I suggested, and so we began our show of trying to remember the lyrics to any pop song currently on the radio.

"Billie Jean is not my lover. She's just a girl who says that I am the one," we wailed in something close to unison until at least two of us could no longer remember the words, and then we went on to the next song begun by whomever shouted out, "I've got one. What about...?".

"Keep feeling fascinaaaaation-un. Passion burning, moving on...." Most of the time we had no real idea of whether we were singing the correct lyrics or not, but that didn't stop us. Only when there was one lone vocal left did we look for another song.

"OK. I got one. I love this song," I began. "Ebony and ivory / live together in perfect harmony / side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord, why don't we?" I sang out loud and true, but something wasn't right. My sister and I were the only ones still singing. I looked around. Julie and Kim were giggling beyond their control as Johnny pointed frantically to toward a couple of seats in front of us. His hand covered his mouth, and his eyes had grown as round as his cheeks.

I followed his pointing finger until my eyes rested on a young couple parked just two seats in front of me - a quiet. pale blonde woman holding hands with her husband, who just happened to be African-American.

I gasped, hit my sister to get her attention, and we all laughed hysterically, drawing even more attention our way than our singing had. My mother tried to hush us, but every time we looked into each other's gleaming faces, straining to hold back the laughter, the giggles erupted again.

I am quite sure everyone on that bus was quite anxious to dump us at the daycare, where we certainly received the punishment we deserved for our inconsiderate behavior on the ride over.

To be continued at the daycare from Hell....