It was the summer of 1984.
I was 10yrs old, dorky and clueless as I’ll ever be, and for some reason oddly passionate about The Ghostbusters film. As I am typing this I don’t even have to search the internet to let you know that their phone number was 555-2368, it’s just one of those numbers that is now burned into my memory, much like my college ID number and my Social Security number (neither of which I will be divulging at any point in time).
My brother, Adam, who was 7, was tiny, as he had almost always been during his youth. His nickname was “Mouse.” We had matching, atrocious bowl haircuts, and I had very large, square-lensed glasses. Luckily it was summer yet, or else you may have caught us in our matching blue satin baseball jackets.
No, I’m not kidding.
My parents were outside, on the driveway, talking to my grandfather as my grandmother sat in the car. She always sat in the car unless she was coming in the house for an extended period. In fact, one time grandpa stopped over and started talking to us in his loud, broken English and just went on and on. Finally, after several minutes, we asked him where grandma was.
“OUTINTHECAR!” he bellowed. Everything my grandpa said he yelled in one extended collection of sounds that in theory made up individual words. Perhaps it was a combination of his aforementioned broken English, ear damage from his years of working on the line at Oven Fresh, or maybe it was as my father had said, that grandpa thought that people could understand him better if he was loud.
I understood him clearly, but ever since I knew him he had sounded like this.
Needless to say, we all ran out of the house to find grandma patiently waiting in his truck, smiling and waving.
That was years from now, but today grandpa owned a car, quite possibly a 1983 Chrysler LeBaron that he would later “gift” to me in 1991. I say “gift” because, well, it’s the thought that counts, but suffice it to say for now that the story of that car and how it never actually ran right is for another night.
We were loading said car for our trip up to Mackinac Island that grandpa, grandma, and my Aunt Karen were taking my brother and I on. I had never been, so being kids we were all excited to check out this strange place in Michigan where cars weren’t allowed. Grandpa and grandma never had a lot of money, but they gave us everything we ever needed, wanted, and then some as we grew up. In 1984 Adam and I were the only two grandchildren, and our grandparents spoiled us accordingly.
To say my grandpa had a rough life is an understatement. To be honest, I don’t know all that much about it, other than he was born in East LA and had worked in his youth as a migrant worker. My grandmother, who was born somewhere in southern Texas near the border with Mexico, was also a migrant worker. That’s how they met. At some point grandpa got the job at Over Fresh on the production line, and they laid down roots. My grandmother eventually worked as a cook in a convent.
These jobs did not pay particularly well, but it was enough for them to buy a house, a car or truck, and begin their family. They were not wealthy, but they were proud as Hell to be able to take their only two grandchildren on vacation with them.
Our mom and dad saw us off while Adam, my aunt Karen, and I loaded into the back of the medium-sized sedan. Adam, being diminutive as he was, rode bitch with this seat on the hump. (Does everyone call the middle seat in the back “riding bitch?” or is that just a midwest or American thing?) I sat behind grandma, Karen behind Martín (grandpa), where we all remained for the duration of the trip. To my knowledge my grandmother (Elida) never drove; I don’t even know if she possessed a driver’s license. As such, grandpa drove everywhere. Then again, he was the man, so that’s just how it was with Chicanos of a certain age, right?
Now, as I said, I was only 10, so I readily admit that I really didn’t know all that much about driving cars or the fastest way to get somewhere. However, when I was six my parents literally drove my brother and I across the country to California, so I vaguely recalled hours upon hours of time spent on expressways for large swaths of time. Obviously I didn’t know that they were called expressways at six, but here we were a few years later and I clearly recognized that we weren’t on the expressway. I knew to visit our grandparents we had to take the expressway, or to get to some of the movie theaters in the area, so even at 10 I found it odd that for an extended trip up north we weren’t on a long stretch of road going fast. Mind you, this was 1984, so US 131 didn’t extend quite as far north as it does today, but it seemed like we were traveling through the middle of nowhere, which, of course, we were.
(I found out later in life that grandpa preferred the backroads and byways.)
My brother and I entertained ourselves as best we could for the hours-long drive and eventually we found ourselves in Mackinaw City, sometime in the early evening. I don’t recall if it was June or July, but it was definitely peak summer, meaning that it was also tourist season as well. Grandpa drove around from hotel to motel, searching for a place for us to stay for the night. Yes, that’s right, our grandparents had driven us all up to one of the biggest tourist destinations in Michigan without booking a room in advance in the middle of summer.
It was at this time when I learned what the glowing signs saying “No Vacancy” meant.
We drove by dozens of places, all with that glowing neon letting us know that they were full, stopping at several more that didn’t have the luminescent indicator only to find that they, too, had no rooms available.
Again, my family had taken that California trip a few years ago, so in my mind driving to a destination and staying at a hotel somewhere on the way was how vacations worked. Where were we going to sleep for the night? Did we have to drive farther away to a hotel outside of town? I mean, we were going to sleep in beds somewhere, right?
No.
No, we most certainly were not.
It was getting dark, which this far north in Michigan, meant that it was getting late as well, probably sometime close to 10 PM. Not finding a hotel room really didn’t seem to phase grandpa all that much. Worried about where we were going to spend the night, I eagerly looked out the window as we seemed to move away from the touristy areas, my brother, stuck in the middle, tried to stretch his neck enough to see out the window. There wasn’t much to see.
For a moment we seemed to be in any other nondescript residential area, but as the car drifted along the houses became less crowded. The scenery looked less familiar through my window, more alien. Was there a hotel out here? I couldn’t understand what was going on.
It was dark now, and my grandfather barked something. Discussion ensued between the three adults as my brother and I listened fervently. I tried to understand what was being said, but it all sounded unreal. That is, until the car slowed and pulled to the side of the road.
Adam and I looked at each other, surprised that what was about to happen was indeed actually happening: my grandpa had decided that since they couldn’t find a hotel/motel to stay in for the night, that we would all just spend the night in the car. Our eyes wide, my brother and I were incredulous. Surely he was joking, we weren’t really just going to sleep in the car on the side of the road, were we?
As if to answer, Martin put the car in park, shut the car off, and exited the vehicle. I gazed behind us, but Adam was too short. I watched as grandpa popped open the trunk and grabbed an armful of folded blankets. Karen let herself out of the rear, driver’s side door and made sure that Adam and I each had our pillows that we had packed for the trip, then helped my grandfather distribute the blankets to us boys and grandma
Nonplussed, grandma Diaz made herself comfortable in the passenger seat, leaning her head back between the headrest and the wall of the LeBaron. My aunt Karen had asked Adam to move over to where she had been sitting as she was going to move to the driver’s seat.
Quizzically I asked her, “where is grandpa going to sleep?”
“In the trunk,” she said.
She wasn’t joking.
Sure enough, there was grandpa with a blanket for himself in his hand. It was just a weekend trip, so we hadn’t packed a lot of stuff, but now these pieces had been interspersed on the floor of the backseat between me and my brother, and perhaps an item or two between where Karen and grandma would be sleeping in the front seat, my memory is a touch foggy on that accord, but what is clear as as day was watching through the window and the sliver of space between the car and the raised trunk as my grandfather climbed into the back while Karen lowered the trunk’s latch down as far as it would go without closing it completely. Remember, this was 1984, so the now ubiquitous trunk latch was not yet a fixture in all vehicles.
Perhaps the strangest aspect of all of this was how nonchalant he was about all of it, like sleeping in the trunk of one’s car was something that happened regularly, or that it had been something he had done more than once before. He seemed experienced about it, which may be why he was so adamant that Karen make sure that the trunk didn’t clasp and seal shut.
Maybe I was too shocked to ask then, or really, any time after that over the next 20 years or so, because I never did ask my grandfather if he had ever slept in a trunk before. Now, almost 35 years later, I’m curious and wished that I had asked.
Karen returned to the car and climbed into the front seat, all light extinguishing as she closed and locked the door. She took a moment to get herself comfortable; we could hear grandpa doing the same in the trunk for a few moments, and then everything was still.
The first night away from home on our summer trip with our grandparents we slept in the car on the side of the road somewhere near Mackinaw City.
The next morning my brother and I were awakened to the creaking sound of the trunk opening as my grandfather rose as if some creature from a sarcophagus. We stirred, still half asleep, as he reclaimed his position in the driver’s seat. Grandma was already awake as well, but I saw only the back of her head. Karen helped to place our things back into the trunk before returning to her seat behind granddad, Adam dazed and slightly confused in the middle. I nodded in and out of consciousness as the car moved along, having only vague recollections of the Mackinac Bridge as we crossed over it on a dreary, cloud-filled morning.
As tourists began to leave their overnight lodgings the search for a room began anew in St. Ignace. The particulars are lost to the fog of time, but it wasn’t long before a hotel was secured for that evening, breakfast was had, and before we knew it we were on a ferry from the Upper Peninsula (U.P.) toward Mackinac Island, the memory of sleeping in the car overnight tucked away into a cabinet in the brain to be taken out again once we were home and regaled to friends and family during stories of nostalgic mirth.
Or shared over the internet for all to enjoy.
For those of you unfamiliar with Mackinac Island in northern Michigan I’ll explain it as thus: it is a tourist trap for people from all over the midwest, but predominantly people from the Lower Peninsula (L.P.). Most every Michigan family goes there at some point in time in their life to enjoy horses, bicycles, and overpriced fudge.
Why the two former? Motorized vehicles are not, in theory, allowed upon the island. Of course, there are a few, all of which I believe are emergency vehicles. Other than those few, the only way to get around the island with speed typically relies upon old-fashioned horsepower or legpower.
My grandmother was always a rotund woman, since as far back as I could remember her. I’m not throwing stones, I am a large, and often, rotund man myself. I note such because there was no way I could envision her even attempting to ride a bicycle, as wonderful of a sight that may have been to 10-year-old Michael.
As such, we found ourselves at one of the many commercial horse stables on the island. I mentioned previously that Adam was a small mouse of a child, and this played into the fact that he was often too short or too tiny to do a lot of the fun things one does as a kid. If there was a stand anywhere that said you had to be “this” tall to do anything you could be assured that Adam did not meet that requirement.
The same was true of the horse stables: Adam was not big enough to be allowed his own horse. My grandfather was renting a horse-drawn buggy for himself and my grandmother, so Adam would be joining them.
Me, on the other hand, I had never been small for my age. I may not have been the tallest kid in my class growing up, but I was often in the top two or three in grade school.
And though I was not always the tallest, I was most often the biggest, not always fat, but yes, sometimes that too.
I’m a large person, sometimes larger than at other times, but always big.
This is as true now as it was then, so yes, I was plenty big enough to get my own horse. Karen was given one as well. After receiving some brief instruction as to the commands the horses knew, my grandparents and Adam took off in their buggy, shortly thereafter followed by Karen, and then me.
Now, the fact that Adam was small meant that he was not the one that was supposed to be steering the horse. (Is that what’s called? Driving the horse? Directing the horse? I admit, my knowledge of equine guidance is minimal). And of course you know that if you had a doting grandfather like ours that the very second we were out of view of the stables that grandpa Diaz immediately and literally handed the reins of their horse to a slight, seven-year-old boy.
If this was any other story you might think that I was just being heavy on the foreshadowing there and that some imminent danger was awaiting my grandparents and brother.
Nope.
This isn’t that kind of story. To be completely honest, things went absolutely swimmingly for them and my brother created a lifelong and treasured memory about the time he drove a horse buggy all around Mackinac Island.
I wish that Karen and I could say the same.
Our trip started out well enough, the buggy in the lead followed by Karen and me. Trotting along on the paved roads was wonderful, though being that high on the horse one had to watch for tree limbs a bit more than either of us realized. It was really quite fun and the beginnings of a similarly created treasured memory for myself.
Only, about a half mile, perhaps maybe a mile, into the ride my Aunt’s horse decided that she had been ridden far enough and that it was going to turn around right now. My horse seemed very keen on doing exactly what Karen’s horse did, so when hers turned around mine turned and literally followed tail. Adam and my grandparents kept along on their course, looking back at us as we tried to gain control of our horses. Karen fought to pull the reins to turn the horse’s head, but the more she did this the more that the horse fought. After a couple of bucks Karen wisely decided to stop fighting and concede the battle lost.
I tried to regain control of my horse as well, and actually got it turned back in the direction of the buggy for a scant few seconds. I shouted to my aunt in victory, having made the horse yield to my wishes before my horse also “noped” out of that and started to buck in disagreement. Though I was a young boy yet I realized quickly that being thrown from a horse and potentially trampled seemed like a far worse way to spend a vacation than sleeping in the back of a car on a side street, so I had better quit while I was ahead. I immediately stopped resisting and soon my horse was again behind Karen’s as they both slowly trotted directly back to the stables from where we had rented them.
There my aunt explained what had happened and was given the option of receiving two new horses or a refund. At this point we had no idea where on the island the rest of our family was nor if they would be heading back immediately after our horses had declared mutiny. Erring on the side of caution my aunt accepted the refund and we waited for my brother and grandparents to return.
Mind you, I was 10 at the time, but to me it felt like we waited approximately 5,000 years for them to return, but my recollection might be slightly skewed.
Eventually, of course, they did in fact return, and I got to hear all about the awesome time Adam had as he piloted (see? Still no idea what the proper term is) the buggy all the way around the island, including the awesome cliffs they saw, and I’m sure a dozen other awesome things that I have subsequently blocked from my memory all these decades later. You know what we did? We stood at a stable and smelled horse shit.
Let me be clear on something: I am sure I had a wonderful and awesome time on this trip with my aunt, grandparents, and brother. I really don’t remember anything all that bad about it, but when I think back on it, these two stories are the two that always come to mind first: sleeping in the car on the side of the road, and the horses that wouldn’t listen to us.
This is the shit that I remember.
Children suck, and yes, I am including myself.
Why don’t I remember more about that trip? I have no idea.
None.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
I remember small snippets of things.
For example, while riding the ferry over from St. Ignace I remember either my aunt or my grandpa pointing out some of the test supports for the bridge. I am showing my ignorance here, which I could probably resolve with a quick Wiki or Google search, but there are these massive concrete columns in the water away from the land of the U.P. I think I remember that they were test supports for the bridge, but now a piece of my brain is telling me that maybe these were where they were initially going to construct the bridge crossing but then decided to place the bridge where it is now. Regardless, I distinctly remember being told that in those concrete pilings there were men buried there, trapped in the concrete, victims of a construction accident.
I suppose I should look to see someday if that is true; regardless, it’s a memory I have.
I also remember stopping by a farmers market on the return home and being perplexed as my grandpa was enjoying a plum, but spitting violently out of his window. The reason? He didn’t like the skin on plums.
Now, I know my own biology and about 20 years or so ago I discovered that I was allergic to stone fruit. This sucked, because plums are my absolute favorite fruit of all time, so much so that I can feel the words of William Carlos Williams “This Is Just To Say” in my bones. After discovering my allergy, I couldn’t have them anymore. Now, as I look back in hindsight I wonder if my grandfather was allergic as well, thus why he spat out the skins. He passed a long time ago, otherwise I’d ask him now.
Remember how I said at the beginning of this story we didn’t know all that much about my grandfather’s past? Well, the only other thing I remember from this trip was my grandpa talking while some other conversation was going on, but he started going on about this story about him being locked in someone’s bathroom and that he had to knock the window out to get out of there and run away. I remember my aunt and I asking him what he was talking about, wondering if he had been abducted or something as a child, but again, my memory from then is a haze. I remember him dropping the topic and moving on to something else, but I don’t recall ever getting a definitive answer (perhaps my aunts remember and can elaborate).
And that’s really about it.
I remember driving home in the summer sun, of being happy to run to the backyard to see our mom and dad again, and then waiting for grandpa, grandpa, and Aunt Karen to leave before telling our dad about how we had spent the night in the car that first night.
“What?” my dad asked incredulously. He laughed, like such stories about his father were hardly new. I’m pretty sure my dad called him later to ask him about this and grandpa was just very matter-of-fact about it all.
Again, I don’t remember much else, but in my heart I know that it was a good trip and that I was blessed to have grandparents, and an aunt, that clearly loved us so dearly. I may not remember what they wished that I remember, but these memories are cherished no less.
Originally written and published on Facebook in September of 2020
© 2024 Michael A. Diaz