Branson-gate – A Wee Blether

It began as a mere suggestion at the dinner table; a harmless notion—a concept, really.

“What would you think about going with my parents to Branson?” my wife asked.

My mind raced with images. Plaid shirts. Wholesome Americans milling around buffets of creamy, bland foods. Musicals.

A wave of anxiety washed over me.

“Branson!” I said nervously, biding time to come up with a quick exit strategy. And I can’t quite explain that initial Branson aversion. I only know it’s a wholesome destination that attracts millions of visitors every year.

Come to think of it, that explains my aversion. I just don’t enjoy going where everyone else is, and my favorite vacations involve relaxing, sleeping and fishing.

The Branson Plan began taking shape: a long drive to Missouri with her parents, meet up with relatives from Iowa, paint Branson red.

OK, plaid.

It seemed fairly harmless. There would be some kind of Biblical play featuring live animals, complete with back-stage passes. Have to confess here I wasn’t feeling it.

My wife’s parents are lovely people. They provide steadfast support, unconditional love and wonderful, home-cooked meals. (They also supply me with a steady flow of material for this column.)

And when it comes to driving vast distances, they’re not like you and me. They possess Griswoldian endurance for long road trips, and they mock indulgences such as food and going to the bathroom.

My father-in-law is Clark incarnate. Epic family odysseys in various Ford station wagons are legend in our family.

“We’re not stopping!” he used to declare as he hurtled across plains, deserts and prairies, hell-bent on arrival. “You should have gone to the bathroom in Colorado!”

With the will of a coal miner, he would drive until exhaustion, then turn the wheel over to his wife so he could nap in the backseat. Two kids would scoot to the “back-back,” but the unlucky third child was sentenced to the indignity of “the hole”—the backseat floor space, where a strip of plywood bridged the hump.

“Get in the hole!” he would order. Within minutes, that third child would find him- or herself staring up at the dome light, with Dad snoring loudly above.

As it turned out, with only mild controversy, my work schedule meant that Branson was not to be—for me. And to my surprise, my father-in-law opted out as well.

“Aha!” I thought. “He’s finally getting wise!”

Nope. He had to travel for work—to Alaska.

The bug for long-term travel may not be in my blood, but our kids have the “tireless road-trip gene.” I think our 8-year-old daughter has been to Iowa with her grandparents more times than I’ve been to Biloxi.

And our 3˝-year-old son? He’s on a whole other level.

Utterly unfazed by 10 hours in the car, he burst into the immaculate chill of a Branson motel room and gushed, “Can we put our pajamas on?!”

Smiling, my wife replied, “It’s still early. We should go swimming in the pool first.”

I wasn’t there to see it, but I can imagine his face, frozen for an instant in stunned elation, incapable of grasping so much vacation goodness all at once.

Clark Griswold in the making.

Reach Tom Guarisco at [email protected].