1967: A Bollerud Vacation
When my Dad married my Stepmom in 1967, we were the first Brady Bunch. He had four kids, she had two. We even had a maid. Of course this was Ft. Bliss, El Paso--anyone could get a maid for about a dollar a day, practically.
The first thing my parents did was realize the car situation wasn't going to work. My Mom's White 1965 Plymouth Fury III although had a cool name and great fins was too small. Likewise, my Dad's 1966 Black Batmobile Buick suddenly became obsolete for the same reason. And my Dad's beloved classic Edsel bought on a tipsy whim that he was going to fix it up was still on cinderblocks in the driveway. My strongest Brady Bunch memory was the summer of 1968 when Dad piled Mom, and us six kids in his new, first on the block, wood-paneled station wagon.
That station wagon made him feel like head wagon-master, now able to carry his brood cross-country. And so we set off to our first adventure west from El Paso to my Dad's family in Durham, California. Grandpa Bollerud said hello and not much else that I remember except "Good meal, Mother" which he said to his wife, Grandmother Bollerud who was nice enough but served us mushy summer squash--ick. The real fun started when we got to explore his farm: Playing with the shy barn kittens, feeding the pigs corn and sneaking to the farm next door to collect almonds from their orchard--eventhough we got in trouble for it.
Our next stop was Wisconsin to Great Aunt Irene's which, I don't remember how many days the whole trek took but I do remember it took three of them just to get across Texas. Three days of baloney sandwiches on Rainbo bread out of the ice cooler. Three days of "Are we out of Texas yet?" And of course three days of "DO I HAVE TO PULL OVER THIS CAR?" We ate at a restaurant once, my brother Peter threw up three times and my Mom dissevered if she left the back window down long enough us wild monkeys in the back got oddly quiet and slept for hours.
Great Aunt Irene's house was in Madison.--lots of green, lots and lots of cows. She was a grand old lady with a grand white Victorian house that sat right next door to an equally white and beautiful white steepled church. Her white linened dining room table sat twelve and had shiny, shiny silverware. We stopped in for breakfast as I recall: Rice Crispies with fresh raspberries. Mom and Dad both gave us their best scary stare relegated for such occasions so the six of us sat still, chewed with our mouth closed and marched in formation out the door better than the Van Trapp children even.
My Mom's parents were the crowning jewel of kid fun. They lived in Canton, Ohio. Sure their well-water smelled like rotten eggs, but if you held your nose you could still taste the lime Koolaide. Grandpa Miliney was a depression man, a trader of all jacks, jump ropes and lard cans of outdated candy! He had woods in his backyard, a real playhouse that had every Barbie known to man plus musty-smelling basement full of old toys, books, and other kid goodies. Grandma was full of hugs, food and trips to her Pentecostal church to have Jesus scared into us. No outfit for church? No problem. Grandpa was there with a new outfit for everyone.
The last day was the funnest because Grandpa took us to this magical fair where they stamped your hand and all you had to do is show it to any vendor or carney and you could have unlimited stuff! Unlimited corn dogs, cotton candy, popcorn, snow cones and ice cream! Now this was all great until I got on those unlimited rides--my six year old stomach revolted--but I still had a smile on my face.
I don't remember the ride home, as most anticlimactic events are lost to memory but that summer vacation sticks out as one of my fondest because we seemed like a family--like the Brady Bunch would show on TV a year later. When we got home that changed. My Dad was sent to Vietnam and my Mom went back to work. Funny, after all those years it has never occurred to me until now that I never asked myself, how come Mike and Carol Brady never had to do that?
The first thing my parents did was realize the car situation wasn't going to work. My Mom's White 1965 Plymouth Fury III although had a cool name and great fins was too small. Likewise, my Dad's 1966 Black Batmobile Buick suddenly became obsolete for the same reason. And my Dad's beloved classic Edsel bought on a tipsy whim that he was going to fix it up was still on cinderblocks in the driveway. My strongest Brady Bunch memory was the summer of 1968 when Dad piled Mom, and us six kids in his new, first on the block, wood-paneled station wagon.
That station wagon made him feel like head wagon-master, now able to carry his brood cross-country. And so we set off to our first adventure west from El Paso to my Dad's family in Durham, California. Grandpa Bollerud said hello and not much else that I remember except "Good meal, Mother" which he said to his wife, Grandmother Bollerud who was nice enough but served us mushy summer squash--ick. The real fun started when we got to explore his farm: Playing with the shy barn kittens, feeding the pigs corn and sneaking to the farm next door to collect almonds from their orchard--eventhough we got in trouble for it.
Our next stop was Wisconsin to Great Aunt Irene's which, I don't remember how many days the whole trek took but I do remember it took three of them just to get across Texas. Three days of baloney sandwiches on Rainbo bread out of the ice cooler. Three days of "Are we out of Texas yet?" And of course three days of "DO I HAVE TO PULL OVER THIS CAR?" We ate at a restaurant once, my brother Peter threw up three times and my Mom dissevered if she left the back window down long enough us wild monkeys in the back got oddly quiet and slept for hours.
Great Aunt Irene's house was in Madison.--lots of green, lots and lots of cows. She was a grand old lady with a grand white Victorian house that sat right next door to an equally white and beautiful white steepled church. Her white linened dining room table sat twelve and had shiny, shiny silverware. We stopped in for breakfast as I recall: Rice Crispies with fresh raspberries. Mom and Dad both gave us their best scary stare relegated for such occasions so the six of us sat still, chewed with our mouth closed and marched in formation out the door better than the Van Trapp children even.
My Mom's parents were the crowning jewel of kid fun. They lived in Canton, Ohio. Sure their well-water smelled like rotten eggs, but if you held your nose you could still taste the lime Koolaide. Grandpa Miliney was a depression man, a trader of all jacks, jump ropes and lard cans of outdated candy! He had woods in his backyard, a real playhouse that had every Barbie known to man plus musty-smelling basement full of old toys, books, and other kid goodies. Grandma was full of hugs, food and trips to her Pentecostal church to have Jesus scared into us. No outfit for church? No problem. Grandpa was there with a new outfit for everyone.
The last day was the funnest because Grandpa took us to this magical fair where they stamped your hand and all you had to do is show it to any vendor or carney and you could have unlimited stuff! Unlimited corn dogs, cotton candy, popcorn, snow cones and ice cream! Now this was all great until I got on those unlimited rides--my six year old stomach revolted--but I still had a smile on my face.
I don't remember the ride home, as most anticlimactic events are lost to memory but that summer vacation sticks out as one of my fondest because we seemed like a family--like the Brady Bunch would show on TV a year later. When we got home that changed. My Dad was sent to Vietnam and my Mom went back to work. Funny, after all those years it has never occurred to me until now that I never asked myself, how come Mike and Carol Brady never had to do that?
Labels: Christine Bollerud
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