Family Vacations

It's funny.

I've spent the past week in a city I've never been to, in a state I haven't visited for at least eight years. Though I do enjoy the white sand beaches, the sunsets, the seafood, the Key Lime pie, I don't really care about Southwest Florida. I don't particularly have any special memories from our past vacations there.

Mystic Seaport, Connecticut

So I found it pretty strange when I teared up as we were driving away from the airport last week. I sat in the backseat, watching the sun-streaked sky as the palm trees flew past, thinking about the differences between Florida and the north. The tropical plants, the flowers, the fruit trees, the palms. The low buildings, painted mostly in shades of tan except for the occasional pop of color: teal, lemon, purple, brick red, aqua. Flat, straight roads that dead-end at the beach. Sand everywhere. I looked up at the sky, excited to be starting another family vacation, and I was suddenly struck with a sense of Dad's presence, there with us. Despite the fact that I have no memories of him in that place.

I know, it's cliche: "I felt him there, watching over me." I always thought this was a cliche because I've never felt it, not once, since he died. Dad is dead and Dad is gone. That's always how I've felt. He's not forgotten, but he's gone. I thought that people were making it up, that they half-convinced themselves they "felt" their dead loved one, when really they were just sad or nostalgic or wistful.

Chimney Rock, North Carolina

But I really did get the strongest sense, just for a moment, that Dad was with us, too. That he was setting out with us on a brand new family vacation--just like he always had. I could so easily imagine him in the driver's seat, wearing his clip-on sunglasses and a sun hat. He and Jason would talk about making a tee time; Mom and I would point out the outlet mall--"We're going there!" Mom and Dad would harmlessly bicker about what lane to be in, how to operate the rental car. Us kids would look at each other and roll our eyes; silent, annoyed. Then someone would mention the story about the giant meatball, or how excited they are to go sailing, and we'd all laugh it off. Vacation!

At first I wondered why I felt him so strongly in a strange place, but then I understood. I have many memories of Dad at home, good memories. But the best memories, I've realized, are tied to the family vacations we took over the years. Those trips--to Florida or Tennessee or California or wherever--were the times when our family was closest and when Dad was only ours.

On vacation, he wasn't Dr. Brown. He didn't have to answer to all of his other responsibilities. No phone calls or trips to the emergency room or office hours or dictation to do. On vacation, he was just Dad--goofy and funny and kind and enthusiastic. He was the guy who dragged us to museums and historical forts and retired battleships. He was the guy who threatened to just turn the van around and go home if we didn't stop complaining!

San Diego, California

On vacation, Dad was relaxed, he got enough sleep, he ate well. He was goofy. He wore fannypacks (in the 90s) and loud golf shirts (always). He wore high socks. He made us try interesting new restaurants wherever we were. He laughed so much and told corny jokes. He snored less. He slathered on sunscreen and wore dorky wide-brim hats. He read every single piece of information at museums. He braved active volcanoes and crash-landed planes and waterfalls...on putt-putt courses across the country. (Putt-putt is a Brown Family Vacation tradition. It's right up there with Breyer's ice cream and fighting when we get too hungry.)

Vacation is the place--or the state of being--where I feel closest to my memories of Dad. The memories of Dad and the rest of my family on vacation are just so much more intense--purified of everyday concerns and work and deadlines and homework. With all that removed, we were just family. Enjoying the sights around the country, experiencing new things, getting on each other's nerves, laughing together. And Dad was--and still is--an integral part of that.

Bar Harbor, Maine

On this trip, I felt closer and further from Dad than ever. All week I was reminded of great vacation memories of my dad. We told Kelly, Chris' girlfriend, the classic story of Dad and the Soapy Pancakes. I thought of the random organ concert that he took us to at Balboa Park in San Diego. I laughed thinking of that time we tried to teach Dad how to play Mao, and he was so confused that he refused to speak, even when we told him he could. On Thursday, I walked into this tourist shop and found a whole line of Hawaiian/tropical golf shirts that my Dad would totally have worn. It felt like walking into his closet.

But this time, he's not here. There are things I know he would have loved, like our catamaran cruise, the seafood restaurant, the sunset on the beach. There are things he wouldn't have chosen--mainly the alcohol and the severe sunburn. (Sorry, Dad!) He would have loved to have been at Teddy Collins' wedding. It's sad that he wasn't there, but it's also okay. I thought at first that it wouldn't feel like a proper family vacation without him, but I was wrong.

I was wrong because it was an absolutely wonderful week. I was wrong because life always moves forward. I was wrong because I still have a wonderful family that I love being around. We can still laugh and play and talk and vacation. Even without Dad. It's not the same, but it's enough.