One sultry day in July, 1969 my father brought home a shiny new Chevy Impala. The car had black vinyl seats, a white vinyl roof and, most importantly it was the first car we ever had that sported “factory air conditioning.”
My younger brother and I were awestruck at our good fortune and my mother, who hated Florida and hated the heat, was impressed. My surly 16 year old sister, who hated everything, especially her younger brothers, was unimpressed. “It’s about time,” she said and went inside to chain smoke in the bathroom.
Dad ignored her. “You know what this means?” he said looking at Mom.
“Road trip!” she said.
Dad made plans to spend a long weekend at a resort right on the Gulf in Naples managed by a friend of his who had promised him a free weekend room during the slow season. On Friday morning my brother and I climbed into the back seat, Dad took the wheel and Mom rode shotgun. My middle sister, who absolutely refused to accompany us, was sent to spend the weekend with my older sister and her husband. Mom gave them the resort’s phone number and we were off.
As we crossed Alligator Alley my brother and I amused ourselves by counting the roadkill and my parents, shivering slightly from the Chevy’s air conditioner, told themselves repeatedly that “this is the life.”
Dad’s friend met us at the resort and apologetically said that they had unexpectedly sold out for the weekend but that he had, at his expense, booked us a room at the resort next door and within an hour we had checked in and the four of us were on the beach. It never occurred to my parents to tell either of my sisters of the change of venue.
Early Saturday morning there was a minor crisis at home so my older sister called the original resort to talk to my Mom and was told we had never checked in. After several frantic calls to the Florida Highway Patrol yielded no information my sisters decided that the four of us had joined the road kill on Alligator Alley. Not knowing what else to do the two of them, plus my older sister’s husband and infant son, piled into their bright yellow VW bug and headed to Naples.
As my sisters were heading west my mom remembered that she had not given them our new phone number and called my sister’s house, but of course no one was there to answer; after making repeated unanswered phone calls my mother decided that both her daughters were dead so we should probably head home.
As we were packing up the Impala my mother noticed a yellow VW bug drive by. Even in 1969 yellow VW bugs were not common so my father jumped in the Impala and gave chase and returned soon after with the rest of the family.
It was a happy reunion and since we were all in Naples anyway, Dad decided we should make a weekend of it so he booked another room for my sisters and we all headed to the beach.
On the beach my middle sister helped my brother and me dig two big holes and then she buried each of us up to our necks; this was a game we had loved our entire lives and we were honored at the attention she had granted us.
My mother looked over at us. “Why are you burying your brothers?” she asked absently.
“I thought this was why we came to Naples,” said my sister.