Travel Arrangements Can Kill You

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune

June 25, 1960

   TRAVEL is a staunch ally of enlightenment--and enlightenment enriches living.  And yet I gravitate more and more to inertia.  This drift toward immobility is never more pronounced than during preparations for a vacation.  I find travel arrangements about as stimulating as Brussels sprouts or a letter from Uncle Ernest.

   It's not travel per se that's galling.  There's a thrill in heading for faraway places, shedding the familiar and becoming a vagabond.  It's implementing the venture that kills me--the details, the scheduling, the road maps and reservations, the writing to Joe and Vera that we're coming and isn't it wonderful!

   

   THE FULL impact of the labor involved in this annual flap hit me the other day when I came upon a "vacation checklist" in a trade magazine.  Its aim was to help but all I got out of the thing was frustration, rebellion and fatigue.  The whole awesome parade of preparation was therein contained--from putting a stop order on the milk to making out a will.

   What a fool I'd been to assume in past years that an oil change and grease job had readied the car for the test.  Sixteen checks should be made on the car, everything from tail-pipe to radiator.  I blushed in shame to recall having once transported my loved ones over 4,000 miles of vacation trail with questionable tires and no jack.  I found the jack in the garage on our return and was visibly shaken.

   BUT GETTING the car ready is only a starter.  There's the house to consider.  You can't simply lock it and leave it.  You must give some trustworthy neighbor a key and have him or her--usually her--take in the mail, water the plants, turn a light on at night to give the appearance of occupancy, and check for gas leaks and fires.

   If the neighbor is a real pushover she also will spray the roses and make her kids mow the lawn.  It's particularly important that the yard be cared for.  Returning to knee-high grass and sagging petunias reduces the thrill of homecoming and also your standing in the neighborhood.

   THE LONGER I studied this vacation treatise the more convinced I became that it was a committee job, with each member feeling compelled to make a contribution.  One suggestion, tossed out by a demon for detail, called for listing all items in each suitcase and fastening the list inside the lid.

   Such silliness would make our vacation a tragic farce.  It might reduce the risk of loss but would represent an expenditure of time and energy far too great for the picayune reward.  Better to leave your toothbrush in Tucson, I say, than drive yourself batty taking inventory.  When scheduled to be in Yellowstone ogling Old Faithful, my wife and I would be mired down in South Dakota pursuing a pair of socks.

   THERE IS a far easier way to prevent loss than this.  When you have everything rammed in the suitcases and are ready for the next leg of the journey, simply make a final inspection of your lodging.  If nothing is found under the bed, on or inside the dresser, in the clothes closet or bathroom, the only sane conclusion you can reach is that nothing's been forgotten.

   The plan isn't infallible.  You occasionally leave swimming suits hanging from trees or fishing rods leaning against cabins.  But you do get away early and frequently without loss of temper.

Copyright 2014 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

   

The Trial of Meeting Old Friends

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune

March 7, 1959

   PERIODICALLY you cross paths with someone you haven't seen for from 15 to 50 years.  This is supposed to be thrilling.  For many it is.  For me it isn't.  All I get out of it is new inferiority.  My old friends are so blessed with abundance that I feel like a shoe-shine boy.

   I used to dream of bumping into a former comrade selling pencils on the corner so I could pop a coin into his hat and feel superior.  The dream has turned to dust.  I'm always the guy selling the pencils.  

   These old friends of mine smoke 50 cent cigars, drive cars 40 feet long, eat as casually in swank restaurants as I eat in drug stores, and are always vacationing in Bermuda.  They have been everywhere, can talk about anything, and what they don't know is inconsequential.

   WHENEVER they come to town and phone I'm immediately apprehensive.  I lie, parry and stall, hoping to steer them from my humble refuge.  But my hard-to-impress wife, who considers friendship above crass materialism, wonders why I never ask them home to dinner.

   She says their prosperity probably is phony and if they weren't on expense accounts they'd starve.  If a friend is a friend, she says, he appreciates your hospitality and I should get over my silly complex.

   But my complex is disgustingly durable.  It applies even to relatives.  I blanch at the thought of encountering a certain cousin I haven't seen since the last war was the Spanish-American.  I recall her as a pretty girl with black curls--the great love of my childhood.

   I heard from her a while back.  She apparently has the notion that all newspaper folk are characters and she'd like to see me again.  The desire is mutual, but when we meet she'll see a tired man wearing a tired blue serge and a tired smile.  But she will be beautiful still, beautiful and radiant and charming.  My lot is to suffer invariably by comparison.

   FRIENDS who traffic in soft soap sometimes tell me they know someone who is eager to meet me and they are going to arrange it.  How about dinner two weeks from Friday?  Anyone else might feel flattered.  I feel a chill.

   Whenever such a confrontation occurs I'm at my worst.  My worst is very bad, bordering on imbecility.  Billed as the life of the party, as one who spouts witticisms like a slot machine disgorging quarters, I state the obvious about the weather and then stand mute, letting my wife carry on from there.

   If the hostess suggests bridge, and she always does, I cast a wild eye for the nearest exit.  I know my partner will be that person who wanted to meet the newspaper chap.  The next 30 minutes will seem like years to us both.

   WHILE the thought is repugnant, perhaps the "character" pose is the best defense.  It might be smart to grow sideburns three inches long, or wear a full beard and a dirty shirt, both flecked with cigar ashes, and assume an attitude of boorish indifference.

   In such a getup one could be an eccentric instead of a wet blanket, a tyrant instead of a washout.  Let someone propose bridge and you could roar, "To hell with it!  Bridge is for morons!"  This sounds autocratic enough to chill and impress even a sophisticate.

   If you had nothing to say you wouldn't have to say it.  You could take shelter in a huff or feign meditation.  Bieng a character, this would be part of your act.  If asked for an opinion--which I seldom have--you could sneer loftily and say the question was academic.

   But I'm dreaming again.  I couldn't bring it off.  I was reared in the country and the country is with me still.  I can be only myself.  It isn't enough, but it will have to do.

Copyright 2014 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.