SYNDICATED COLUMNIST
You probably crave a break from my patented “sour grapes” routine, but we must face facts: spring break (a.k.a. Easter break, a.k.a. mid-term break, a.k.a. “unwind, rejuvenate, have fun, but don’t forget how oppressed you are, students”) is not the same for every family.
When I was in elementary school, spring break meant making an extra day trip visit to my grandmother, tagging along to another antique shop with my mother or stocking up on books at the library.
High school? My job at the convenience market left little flexibility for long trips.
As a cash-strapped college student, spring break was usually nothing more exotic than helping my parents with their cattle or organizing my comic book collection.
I am writing these words during the much-ballyhooed Spring Break 2024. There’s no shortage of work at my farmers cooperative day job. My wife the college biology teacher is striving to stay ahead on her lesson plans. Our son the engineering student is doing homework, reading a 1950s joke book and taking care of errands. Life is good.
I know, I know. Red-blooded Americans have a time-honored obligation to make Memories That Will Last A Lifetime, or in the case of the rowdier college students, Memories That Will Hopefully Resurface After the Brain Swelling From Tumbling From the Fourth Floor Motel Balcony Subsides.
(Stay-at-home sticks-inthe- mud have the advantage of INSTANT memories. “Remember you promised to rearrange the garage.” “Remember your demonic cousins are coming to spend the week.” “Remember bragging you could clean out the septic tank cheaper and better yourself.”) Yes, you’re practically a traitor to your species if you don’t load up the family chariot and spend 500 miles of Quality Time with your Loved Ones. And by Quality Time, I mean time spent transfixed by top-ofthe- line earbuds, smartphones and video games.
Don’t fall back on retro bonding rituals, as they are now both outdated and dangerous. (“Let’s see how many state license plates we can recognize. Wait – that bozo is from a … red state! Trevor, you watch for the highway patrol. Amber, you watch for the next ravine…”) I know we’re all supposed to do our part to boost the economy in resort towns, but society sends us such mixed signals. Your neighbors want you to take your Christmas decorations down by New Year’s Day, but their insufferable elitism goads you to keep those January credit card bills overflowing into April and May!
“G’wan – you deserve it!,” blare the travel articles. Sure, reading only two grade levels below “cave drawing” is quite an exhausting task that demands copious amounts of R&R. (“*Grunt.* Remedial Walking and Chewing Gum at the Same Time isn’t leaving much time for beer pong.”) Since at least the time of the 1960 movie “Where The Boys Are,” it has been an essential Rite of Passage to head for the beach or some other fun-filled destination long before the vernal equinox. Essential Rites of Passage are vastly overrated. Folks, I have missed so many essential Rites of Passage, it’s a wonder my baby teeth haven’t grown back in.
But you do you.
If basking in the sun or making a whirlwind tour of quaint festivals is your late-winter thing, go for it.
Maybe I’ll be more adventurous for summer vacation.
“Never mind wet T-shirt contests. How far away from my septic tank is it???” Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”
