I didn’t particularly look forward to summers each year. But one of those summer days would be the annual cousin trip with Pop Pop. He chose the destination each year, factoring in time schedules and toll booth fees. Because travel with Pop meant departure by moonlight, we’d often spend the night before at his place. My cousins and I claimed our slice of the giant sectional couch to watch The Lion King on an even more giant TV. Our parents would shush us from the kitchen, reminding us of our early alarm and encouraging sleep. Unlikely.
Many of the trips were to theme parks. The one with the newest coaster, typically, and if you think Pop Pop didn’t ride along with us you’d be wrong. At least for those earlier trips. He would have outlined our days activities ALWAYS including a show. Pirates, wild west, card trick magic show. A rehearsed show with bad sound and mediocre stunts. To us kids, it seemed like an inefficient use of time when we could be getting ahead in another line. Looking back, I bet wrangling a mob of kids was exhausting and a free and air-conditioned seat was probably a crucial breather for Pop.
We always arrived at our destination with time to spare before opening, parking strategically for a quick exit and lined up at the locked entrance like an Apple store on new product launch day. One time, my grandmother had left the pre-purchased tickets for the whole family on the microwave and we didn’t realize until we were miles away. We drove all the way back, retrieved the tickets from their safe-spot—so-we-wont-forget-them, and still caught the opening of the gates. I don’t know how that is even possible because we must have been at least three hours away, but our hands were among the first to receive the black light stamp.
We were allowed to get any flavor dippin dots, the ice cream of astronauts, but otherwise our meals were already determined. I used to wonder if the splurge was because Pop Pop worked at Nasa for so many years and astronaut ice cream was too delightful to pass up.
For lunch, we’d head back to the van and gather under the shade of the raised rear door. Sometimes we’d find a picnic table close by, and we’d spread out bottles of water, Amish macaroni salads, and two family sized buckets of KFC chicken. Just the chicken, no combo nonsense, and always, always, always cold. It had to be. Pop said picnics weren’t picnics without cold fried chicken, and while I prefer it hot myself, an extra crunchy KFC drumstick is delicious at any temperature.
I remember a brave soul once suggested we wrap the chicken in foil when we buy it. Or that we could purchase the chicken when we arrived at our destination and it would still be warm at least. Pop retaliated by purchasing the chicken the day before we left and keeping it refrigerated until we left the next day. It had to be cold.
After our hour of digestion, our crew would assemble in our matching primary-colored T-shirts (for safety). Single file, we’d orderly pass our hands under the blacklight revealing the invisible stamp of re-entry. After lunch, the big kids were allowed to enjoy loop-de-loops while the little guys headed off for the swings and teacups. We’d meet up promptly at the pre-decided time and location, and plan out how to take advantage of the remaining sunlight. We strictly arrived at opening, but always left not too long after dusk; just around the time whirling glowsticks pop up from every booth.
From the car, those not passed out from the day watched fireworks and counted the mile markers to our late Cracker Barrel dinners. Some of us would sleep in the van, still full of the colonels finest and mint chocolate chip dippin dots.
We’d get to Pop’s house and carry sleeping bodies into the appropriate cars to return to our own homes, mumbling our goodbyes and dreaming of our pillows.
Those trips were huge to us kids and always included in the summer summary report schools had us write upon our returns each fall.
Every single trip with minor changes, went the same. Except the year of Tombstone Pizza.
The Year of the Tombstone Pizza, we arrived early at the theme park. So early we allowed to play in the parking lot awhile before heading to the entrance. I was not playing. I was crouched by the tires, balancing on my heels, barfing my brains out.
We blamed Pop Pop’s jolty lane changes. We blamed the smell of fertilizer lingering from recent garden restocking trips. We blamed the Tombstone Pizza from the night before. We blamed me for reading my book in a moving vehicle. Nearly an hour after we arrived I was still heaving. I expelled every bit of food in my belly and had moved onto spitting up mouthfuls of battery-acid disguised as pizza flavored bile.
Well, they did warn us, I thought in between spitting. That pizza is definitely going to be responsible for my Tombstone. What beautiful marketing. Hiding in plain view. I imagined a court room where Tombstone Pizza won the lawsuit brought against them, with a simple defense. “But we named it Tombstone!”
More vehicles began lining up and unloading, so it was time to claim our spots at the front gate. I assumed I would rest in the back seat of the van with a cracked window while the rest of the family hit the park. Maybe I would feel better when they came back for lunch. Or maybe I would tag along and sit with Grandmom, looking after jackets while everyone else rode the rides. I’d need a barf bag, I thought, especially with all the food smells we’d encounter. Actually, I’d need a barf bag in the van too. KFC and lingering fertilizer probably won’t be a scent made into a candle. My stomach felt like it was in a vice.
Instead, Pop Pop hollered for everyone to get back in the car. He said we were going home. My cousins and siblings’ collective, albeit justified, whining was cut short the moment Pop pointed his long finger in warning. We had all looked forward to this trip and we were here. At the front gate. Only to pile back into seats without even one rollercoaster or a single bumper car. Because of me. Because I was sick.
I tried to explain to Pop Pop I would rather guard the cold KFC in the hot van the entire day than be the reason our summer trip was cancelled. Those death stares were sharp. I was angry at myself too. Whatever I ate or read or did to cause this nausea fest wasn’t worth it. I pleaded with Pop and tried to convince him I would be better in no time. Maybe it would have been a more compelling argument if my skin wasn’t sticky with sweat and tinted green.
Pop Pop said he wasn’t going to make a sick girl more miserable dragging her through a hot park, or leave her to nap in the van. He said we’d plan another day, and that it was actually better that way. Pop said he was convinced it was going to rain anyway and another day would be better. Even through the tinted windows, though, there was not one cloud in sight.
We could still spot the Tower of Doom when I tried one last ditch effort. “Pop Pop,” I said. “Do you know the Trolley Problem? Like, the happiness of lots of kids is worth more than just one? I’ll be okay.” I don’t know what Pop Pop’s response was to that, not because I don’t remember, but because he made a whole bunch of squeaks and exhales and mumbles I didn’t know what his response meant even then.
I had a terrible habit of regurgitating facts I had read about in tones others identified as condescending. I never meant it that way. I assumed others would be just as delighted with my useless bits of trivia as I had been the first time I learned it.
I said I ‘had’ this terrible habit. But before I can turn my brain off for sleep at night, I still replay the conversations I had that day. I search closely, reliving mundane interactions from each perspective, looking for any chance of unintended arrogance or malice.
But yes, my Pop Pop was familiar with the Trolley Problem from what I could gather and I was out of objections. I relented and instead regurgitated more Tombstone that had been hiding deep in my belly.
We stopped at a pharmacy nearby and soon I was zonked out in a Dramamine induced rest. I was appreciative to escape the sullen faces around me and was very sorry it was my fault we were headed back.
Pop Pop pulled back up his driveway. We were all re-shuffled and packed into our respective cars in record time. Usually the stars were out when we gave Pop Pop a final hug goodbye. Instead, I apologized to him in the sunshine for the fruitless summer trip; afraid to see any disappointment in the bright daylight. He waved off my words and told me to feel better and take care and continued standing there waving until we turned out the driveway.
It meant a lot. To Pop, the trolley problem was not as simple as 7 kids VS one. It was more complicated than that. To Pop, the one was important too. Just as important.
It meant a lot that Pop Pop cared about that one. Even more than the one cared about itself.
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