When I was growing up, we took a two-week vacation every summer. We drove to a national park – a different one each year – and camped out along the way. Camp areas were free then, but there were often no amenities – no laundry facilities, most with no bathrooms (you could find an outhouse every few campsites), and no covered area in which to gather on rainy days. Usually one night each week we’d spend the night at a motel – just to shower, do laundry, and eat in a restaurant. Those were the nights I liked the best. I did not really enjoy camping – too many bugs – bees gathered especially when mom cooked bacon for breakfast. And I hated the cold. I tend to be a warm-blooded person and the cold really got to me.
After driving all day and seeing the sights along the way, late each afternoon we’d search for a campground, select our camp site, and begin our setup. Camping areas being what they were in those years, my dad and brothers would pitch the tent and gather wood to build a fire; mom and I would get out the cooking supplies and fix dinner. Dinner always tasted wonderful, especially since everything was cooked over the fire. Most campgrounds had grills over a small pit, but sometimes we just had to cook over an open wood fire.
Laundry was a difficult challenge, especially at campgrounds with no running water. In the morning, we’d use water from the river or nearby creek, heat it over the fire, wash and rinse essential items (mostly underwear), and then squeeze each item to remove as much moisture as we could. The boys would ensure the fire was completely out and then we’d get in the car to continue our journey. As soon as we got onto the open highway, mom would give each of us a piece of underwear. We’d each roll down our window slightly, insert the item in the window with most of the item hanging on the outside, and quickly roll up the window. As we drove along, the laundry would flutter in the breeze as we drove down the road. Dad would tell us when we were coming to a town, and then we’d bring all the laundry inside the car. (We certainly didn’t want the townspeople to think we were backwoods hicks.) If the laundry was dry, great. If not, out the window it would go again once we got through town. I found it rather amusing at the time, and I do to this day, but my older brother was always horrified to see his tighty whities fluttering in the breeze as we drove across the miles. It’s a sight not soon forgotten, so if you remember driving along the highways in the 1950’s and saw a car with laundry flapping from the windows, you probably saw my family on vacation!
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