Before the Staycation

A few years ago, with the economy well into its downhill slide, the term 'staycation' was picked up by the media and, for better or worse, entered our national lexicon.  Wikipedia says the word was coined as early as 2003, but finally gained popularity in 2008.  Urban Dictionary defines a 'staycation' as 'A vacation spent close to home.'  And, alternately, a 'Vacation for cheap-asses.'

My abhorrence of this mashup of the English language causes me to wonder:  What did we call this notion before it came to be known as a 'staycation'?  Probably something less brief and more literate, like, 'We're not really going anywhere for vacation this year but taking some time off anyway,' or 'I can't afford Tahiti so I'm going to buy a gallon of rum and sit in the kids' sandbox all week.'

Our family went on some epic road trips when I was growing up.  As much as we looked forward to the long excursions, my parents were the true masters of small getaways close to home - or (groan), the staycation.  They had to be.  We were a family of six living on a small-town school administrator's salary, which was modest at best, plus what my Mom made at various bookkeeping jobs through the years.

When they got married, Mom and Dad purchased a tent.  It was a hefty blue canvas number, big enough to sleep six adults or a heap of kids.  I know we logged a lot of camping miles in that tent, but I have only the vaguest recollections of actually sleeping in it.  What I remember best is the camper.  The kind of camper you pull behind the car with a trailer hitch.  It was more than twenty feet long, with white paneling on the outside and brown paneling on the inside.  The brand name, Utopia, was emblazoned across the front, heralding idyllic good times to come.

I was eight or nine when my parents sprang for the camper.  It wasn't as big as the 1970's-era Bendix Life-Time motorhome my mom's parents traveled in; still it was a considerable step up from the tent.  It featured a galley kitchen with a propane stove, oven and small refrigerator, three bench seats that converted into bunks, storage bins in every nook and cranny, and a bathroom - complete with shower - that was approximately the size of a phone booth.  The camper also had an air conditioner, which made my mom happy (although we rarely used it).  Granted, things got a little cramped when all six of us were inside, but this was the height of luxury for our family.  We no longer had to sleep on the ground or worry about whether it was going to rain.

With the camper in tow behind the car, a little food in the cooler, and just a few dollars for gas and campground fees, my parents could make a mini-vacation out of any three-day holiday or run-of-the-mill weekend.  We visited nearly every state park within a three-hour radius of home.  In Southern Illinois, we made several trips to Giant City State Park, Pounds Hollow, Garden of the Gods, and Cave-In-Rock.  We crossed over into Indiana to stay at French Lick, Turkey Run, and New Harmony State Parks.  

Most of my Dad's side of the family lived an hour away.  We generally stayed with my grandparents on weekend visits, but periodically we set up our home away from home in the city park.  On these occasions, family members would sometimes bring food out on a Saturday evening, or on a Sunday afternoon when church was over, and we would gather for an impromptu potluck meal.  The grown-ups would sit talking, on folding chairs and at picnic tables, while we kids ran wild all over the place.  

Other times, we wouldn't go any farther than the local municipal park ten miles down the road from where we lived.  The point was not how far away we could get.  The point was just to feel like we were getting away.

Out of all the parks we frequented on these local jaunts, our hands-down family favorite place to camp was McCormick's Creek State Park, outside Spencer, Indiana.  It had everything my overworked parents could hope for to keep four rambunctious kids occupied:  trails to hike, caves to explore, waterfalls to splash in, horseback riding, an Olympic sized swimming pool, safe roads to ride our bikes on, and when all else failed, a huge playground.  There was a nature center with interactive exhibits, and the park rangers often hosted informative discussions of native plant and wild life in the evenings.  On autumn weekends there were horse-drawn hayrides through the park.  Roving gangs of raccoons - and a skunk, once - visited our campsite nightly to beg for scraps.  That place was a wonderland to me.  

A wonderland for cheap-asses, to be sure.  Frugal-minded as these weekend outings might have been, they afforded me a wealth of intangibles no first-class flight or five-star hotel could have done.  I gained a love and respect for the natural world, became proficient at building a roaring fire from a few twigs and a couple matches, and mastered the techniques involved in assembling the perfect s'more.  More importantly, I discovered that sometimes great adventures can be had just by walking outside the front door and taking a look around, the importance of being a patient traveler and getting along with others in close quarters, and the joy of seeking out simple pleasures, close to home.